by Jill Mansell
‘I don’t mean it?’ Miles met the challenge with a teasing smile. ‘Just watch me.’
‘You should be a poker player. Bluff, bluff and bluff again.’
‘Okay, let’s get this straight. Would you like me better if Daisy was off the scene? Would you relax a bit more and stop being so suspicious of everything I do and everything I say?’
Oh, handy, thought Miranda, that’s me, the world’s greatest expert when it comes to figuring out men and their motives.
But since she couldn’t think of a single sensible reply, she shrugged and said carelessly, ‘Yes thanks, that’d be great.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow night.’ Miles slid his fingers through her feathery fringe, tinged aubergine by the orange glow of the streetlamp above them.
‘I’ll tell her, and I’ll ring you on Saturday morning to let you know it’s sorted.’
‘Fine,’ said Miranda. Since it wasn’t going to happen, why not play along for the hell of it? ‘So when will I see you, on Saturday afternoon?’
Miles, she noticed, was trying not to smile at this. From the look of things she’d made a bit of a faux pas.
‘You’re not a Grand Prix groupie, are you?’ Miles said sympathetically. ‘I’d love to see you then, but I’m going to be pretty much tied up for the next three days, what with Silverstone…practice sessions…qualifying laps on Saturday, the big race on Sunday…I’m sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I know it’s a bore, but it pays the rent.’
‘Honestly,’ Miranda sighed, ‘talk about inconvenient. Couldn’t you have a word with them, get them to postpone the Grand Prix?’
‘Ah, you see, you can’t wait to seduce me now, can you?’ Miles broke into a grin. ‘Have to, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re no fun,’ said Miranda.
‘I am, actually. Lots of fun.’ Leaning closer, Miles murmured in her ear, ‘As you’ll have the chance to find out on Monday night.’
***
Feeling like a secret agent trapped in enemy territory, Miranda didn’t breathe a word to anyone about Miles on Friday, though inwardly it was hard to think of anything but him. Her brain buzzed with all the old unanswerable questions…does he mean it?…is he actually going to finish with Daisy Schofield?…will he really phone up tomorrow or is this all some big awful joke?
It was hopeless. There was nothing she could do but wait.
‘What are you doing this Sunday?’ Bev asked the question in loose-end fashion as they were closing up.
Miranda thought fast, keen to come up with something in which Bev would have no interest whatsoever.
‘Digging up Florence’s garden,’ she said with enthusiasm. ‘Replanting shrubs, dismantling the rockery, putting in a lily pond…feel like giving me a hand?’
Bev shuddered. Earth, compost, worms and those awful scuttly things that shot out from under stones when you were least expecting it. Not, of course, that she’d ever done any gardening herself, but she’d once accidentally watched a program on the subject and it had happened to Alan Titchmarsh.
‘Ugh, no thanks.’
***
By seven thirty that evening, Miranda had the house to herself. Like a well-organized bigamist, Fenn had dropped her home from work and promptly ushered Chloe on to the still-warm passenger seat she had just vacated.
‘I’ll be back before eleven,’ Chloe promised. She eyed Miranda’s pallor and fidgeting fingers with concern. ‘Are you okay?’
Chloe wouldn’t lecture, but she might tell Fenn. Miranda said brightly, ‘Fine. Brilliant. Just going to have a bath.’
Out of the bath and dressed for comfort in her old pink brushed-cotton nightdress with the spaced-out baby elephant on the front, Miranda found Florence about to leave the house as well.
‘We’re off to the theatre.’ She gave Miranda a saucy wink and patted Tom’s hand as he maneuvered her chair towards the front door. ‘Don’t wait up.’
Not even a gripping episode of Coronation Street could hold Miranda’s attention. She hated not being able to do anything but sit there helplessly and wait. And why was she even bothering, for heaven’s sake? Nothing was going to happen. She’d probably never hear from Miles Harper again.
Oh God, it still felt like waiting seventy-two hours for a kettle to boil.
Eight o’clock. Daisy’s plane would be landing at Heathrow now. Daisy, all glossy and groomed and ready for the photographers—flash—would throw herself into Miles’s arms—flash flash flash—and Miles would remember that this was his girlfriend, not that funny little blue-haired creature he’d been amusing himself with for the last few days, the one who swept up hair for a living and had the gall to sneer at his fridge.
Her stomach in knots, Miranda picked up her almost-empty bottle of Coke. In mid-swig when the doorbell rang, she spluttered and clunked her teeth painfully against the thick glass.
No.
Not Miles, surely?
It couldn’t be.
It wasn’t, of course. Having stumbled off the sofa, banged her hip on the edge of the bookcase and hurtled through to the hall, Miranda could have wept with disappointment when she yanked open the front door.
Oh great, perfect, this was all she needed. Danny Thanks-but-no-thanks Delancey, what an absolute treat.
‘Miranda.’ As Danny’s gaze travelled swiftly over her nightie she could tell he was dying to make some smart remark about it. ‘Time we were friends again, don’t you think?’
He was smiling at her. In that okay-you-made-a-prat-of-yourself-but-I-forgive-you kind of way that was so infuriating it made you want to spit. Miranda, who had found herself on the receiving end of this kind of smile quite often over the years, said stiffly, ‘I don’t know what you mean. I’m fine.’
Unable to resist it—surprise surprise—Danny nodded at the chubby animal slumped across her chest.
‘Unlike your elephant. I’d give the RSPCA a ring if I were you.’
Her expression bland, Miranda said, ‘I’d forgotten how funny you are.’
‘Can I come in?’
She tried to hide one furry slipper behind the other. ‘Actually, I was just on my way out.’
‘When I phoned earlier, Florence said you weren’t doing anything this evening.’
Exasperated, Miranda recalled hearing the phone ring while she had been wallowing upstairs in the bath. When she’d asked Florence who it was—in case by some miracle it had been Miles—Florence had said ‘Some poor fellow with a stammer trying to sell me a c-c-c-c-conservatory.’
‘Don’t be like this.’ When she didn’t speak, Danny shook his head. ‘There’s really no need to be embarrassed about what happened the other week. Can’t we just forget it and start again?’
Great idea, except some things were harder to forget than others. Particularly when they’d been tattooed on to your brain with what felt like a road-drill.
‘Look, I’m not embarrassed about that,’ Miranda lied. ‘But I’m not actually in the mood for socializing tonight. It’s been a long day, I’m tired, I—’
‘You’re tired because you’re depressed. I spoke to Florence last week as well,’ Danny announced matter-of-factly. ‘And she told me everything. So now I’m here and we’re going to get this sorted out.’ As he spoke, he pried Miranda’s hand from the door frame and took it firmly in his own. ‘No more arguments, okay? I’m in charge now. I’m going to take you out,’ he shot her a warning look, ‘and cheer you up if it kills me.’
Miranda went along with it in the end because basically there was nothing decent on TV, an evening out might distract her from thinking nonstop about Miles and…well, what the hell, it was easier to make up with Danny than spend the rest of her life in an unflattering sulk with him.
And really, now that she had the Miles thing to occupy her—even if the sensible part o
f her brain told her that nothing would ever come of it—the embarrassing episode with Danny no longer seemed to matter quite so much.
Upstairs, Miranda changed out of her nightie and slippers into a pale-grey shirt and old black jeans. By making as little effort as possible, she hoped to reassure Danny that he was quite safe, she wasn’t planning to leap on him crying, ‘Take me, take me now!’
No make-up, no perfume either. With only a few precious drops of Eau d’Issey left in the bottle, she was saving them for a more enthralling occasion than this.
If Danny noticed the lack of effort she had gone to on his behalf, he kept it to himself.
They drove to a pub in Shepherd’s Bush and found a free table outside in the garden.
‘White wine?’ said Danny.
‘Orange juice.’ Miranda let him know that contrary to recent appearances she wasn’t a complete lush.
It was a family-orientated pub. While Danny was inside getting the drinks, she watched a group of children hurtle one after the other down the slide. When one of them skidded off the end, kicking up the dry bark put down to cushion heavy landings, dust flew into Miranda’s eyes and she wiped them on the sleeve of her shirt. Just as well she hadn’t bothered with mascara.
‘Here.’ Danny, back from the bar, handed her a clean handkerchief and gave her arm a brief squeeze. ‘You think it’s never going to happen to you, don’t you?’
Puzzled, Miranda said, ‘What?’
‘But it will, you know. One day.’ He nodded at the children leaping and yelling around them.
Was he reassuring her that one day she would have children?
‘I just got dust in my eye,’ protested Miranda.
Danny nodded, humoring her.
‘Okay, but listen to me anyway. The thing with Greg…he was a louse. It’s bound to hurt. But one day you’ll meet someone else, someone you can trust. You’ve got a lot going for you, seriously. You’re brave and kind-hearted, beautiful, funny…’
‘Just not quite beautiful and funny enough for some people.’
Unable to resist the dig, Miranda nevertheless regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.
Danny gave her a pained look.
‘Let me explain about that. When you and I were in the car outside your house, you’d had a hell of a day. You were drunk as a skunk and miserable. That’s why I didn’t take you up on your…er, offer, and that’s the one and only reason, I promise you.’ He leaned closer, his dark eyes serious. ‘If the circumstances had been different, if it had been any other time, I’d have been more than happy to go along with it.’
Go along with it?
‘Well, thank you, that’s really generous of you.’ Miranda winced. Once again her attempt at sarcasm had failed miserably. Instead she sounded whiny and self-pitying.
Danny said kindly, ‘You leapt to the wrong conclusion.’
Oh right, thought Miranda, that would be the old I-wouldn’t-touch-you-with-a-bargepole-but-don’t-take-it-personally conclusion, would it? Well that was a comforting thing to know.
‘I mean it,’ Danny went on. ‘Any other time. You’d been hurt by Greg. You’re still hurt.’ He shrugged, to show he understood. ‘These things take a while, they’re bound to. But, say, in the future, when you’re over him…well,’ this time he smiled, ‘if you asked me again then, I wouldn’t say no.’
Hey, Mr Romantic! Am I really hearing this?
Miranda gazed blankly at him, trying to figure out what it was she felt like. Then it came to her. Like a six-year-old endlessly nagging her parents for a puppy and being fobbed off with ‘Not now darling, maybe next year.’
Her whole body tingled with indignation. This was outrageous. What a nerve. Talk about patronizing. Did he seriously think this was making her feel better?
A consolation bonk in the year 2011, Miranda marveled. I must make a note of it in my diary.
Honestly, he was lucky there were innocent children about. Otherwise she’d be tempted to rip his eyebrows off.
Chapter 46
Miranda heaved a sigh and took a swallow of orange juice, wishing it was wine. Danny’s infuriating remarks had really got to her, but at the same time she knew that—in his own way—he was actually trying to help. He wanted to make her feel better, to boost her poor battered confidence. It wasn’t his fault he’d got hold of completely the wrong end of the stick.
‘You don’t understand.’ She made an effort to be patient. ‘I’m not upset about Greg, or about you. I’m perfectly happy, I promise.’
In reply, Danny glanced at the handkerchief screwed up in her fist.
‘I had dust in my eye!’ She hurled it back at him. ‘For pity’s sake, Danny, I’m happy! Why can’t you believe me?’
‘Fine, fine.’ He made calm-down movements with his hands.
A woman at an adjoining table whispered excitedly to her husband, ‘Ooh, lovers’ tiff.’
‘He’s not my lover.’ Miranda swiveled round, keen to put the couple straight on the matter. ‘I do have a lover, but he’s not with me tonight, and to tell you the truth, he’s a damn sight better-looking than this one here.’
The couple looked startled.
‘Miranda, stop it.’ Danny sounded reproachful rather than offended. ‘No need to get carried away.’
‘I’m not, I’m just stating a fact.’ Miranda’s smile was triumphant. ‘You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m a sad old spinster with no one in her life, but actually you couldn’t be more wrong. I do have a boyfriend, as it happens, and he’s crazy about me, so there!’
Oh dear, a bit juvenile, that last bit, the kind of playground riposte that usually accompanied sticking your tongue out and going naa naa na-na naa.
Danny clearly thought so too.
‘You don’t have a boyfriend,’ he said slowly, as if breaking this news to a particularly dim psychiatric patient.
‘I do.’
‘Miranda—’
‘I’m seeing Miles Harper.’ Having blurted the words out without thinking, Miranda spun round in horror to see if the couple at the next table had overheard. Phew, they’d gone, scuttled out in a hurry by the look of things, without even finishing their drinks.
Oh well, she’d started so she may as well finish. Anything, anything, Miranda thought wildly, to wipe that irritating, pseudo-sympathetic look off Danny’s face.
It did. He started to laugh instead.
‘I am.’ Heroically suppressing the urge to scream, she lowered her voice. ‘I couldn’t say anything before because obviously it’s a bit of a delicate situation. But it’s true, Danny, I swear it is. He came into the salon and kissed me in front of everyone. Then he took me out that night and the next day we went to Wimbledon…and every spare moment since then, we’ve been together…He’s brilliant, and it isn’t just a fling, either. He’s serious!’
Oh well, a bit of embroidering the facts never did any harm, did it?
‘Funny, I haven’t seen any mention of this in the papers,’ said Danny.
‘I told you.’ Miranda spoke with pride. ‘It’s a delicate situation.’
‘Yet you went to Wimbledon together, you say?’
‘Nobody recognized him. He was in disguise.’
‘Centre Court seats, I hope.’ Danny’s tone was dry. ‘Nothing but the best for Miles Harper.’
‘He could have got tickets, just like that.’ Miranda couldn’t resist bragging. ‘But we didn’t, we queued up overnight. Slept in a tent on the pavement.’ She gave him a knowing smirk. ‘It’s more fun that way.’
‘I see.’ Danny nodded thoughtfully. ‘And did Daisy Schofield sleep in the tent with you?’
‘She’s been away in Australia. Coming back tonight, actually. He’s finishing with her.’ Miranda began to feel light-headed. It was su
ch a relief, being able to tell someone at last. Like magic, all her doubts were swept away on a tide of utter certainty. Now that she’d confided in Danny it had to happen, it just had to.
Danny picked up his pint glass, stalling for time. He wanted a drink but knew the lager was lukewarm. Miranda, her eyes bright and a triumphant smile on her face, was watching him, waiting for some form of reaction. How much of this story had she made up, for heaven’s sake? Ten per cent fact and ninety per cent fantasy at a rough guess. She couldn’t, surely, have fabricated the whole thing.
‘You still don’t believe me, do you?’ Miranda demanded.
Danny wondered uncomfortably if she believed it herself. He looked down, watching the condensation from his glass drip on to the knee of his jeans.
‘I’m just surprised Florence didn’t mention it on the phone.’
‘Florence doesn’t know. I haven’t told her.’ Miranda shrugged. ‘I haven’t told anyone.’
Highly likely. But something to be grateful for, Danny decided. At least she had the sense to keep her mad delusions to herself.
He sighed, still struggling to figure out which part of this bizarre story might conceivably be true. At a guess, she had had a one-night stand with Miles Harper and conjured up the rest of the fantasy to assuage her guilt.
He looked at Miranda.
‘Have you slept with him?’
‘What do you think?’ There was no hesitation; her smile was smug. ‘Be honest, Danny. Given the chance, wouldn’t you?’
So that was it, she had slept with Miles Harper. Danny looked away, wishing with all his heart she hadn’t.
‘And he’s telling Daisy Schofield tonight that it’s all over between them? He’s giving her up for you?’ Danny wondered if Miranda actually believed this would happen. When she nodded he said, ‘So we can expect a red-hot press release to be put out sometime tomorrow?’
In it up to her neck by now, Miranda shrugged and nodded again.
‘Maybe. I don’t know much about press releases.’