by Jill Mansell
‘She doesn’t want to see you,’ Bev replied firmly. Typical, this had to happen just when Fenn had popped out for ten minutes.
‘You think I’m a journalist, don’t you? I’m not a journalist.’
This, of course, was exactly the kind of thing a journalist would say.
‘Please,’ said the journalist.
In return, Bev gave him one of her best frosty glares—the one that went so well with her perfectly applied frosted-beige lipstick.
‘Uh…no.’
He began to lose patience.
‘Jesus, who do you think you are?’
‘Me?’ said Bev. ‘I’m the person telling you that if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here before I—’
‘AAARGHH!’
A shrill scream from the back of the salon made everyone jump and stopped Bev in her tracks. All eyes swiveled in the direction of the screamer—a salon regular, the pampered young wife of a newspaper baron.
‘I don’t believe it! I said a quarter of an inch above my eyebrows and you’ve taken off at least half an inch! What are you, a complete IMBECILE?’
The woman was one of Corinne’s clients. With Corinne away, Lucy was cutting her hair for the first time. As Lucy reddened, the woman drummed her high heels against the black marble floor and shrieked, ‘You’ve wrecked it, you’ve totally wrecked my hair…you do realize I’ll have to cancel my holiday now, I can’t be seen out with a fringe like this. Jesus, you’ve ruined my life—hey, you!’ She jabbed a finger in Miranda’s direction. ‘Get me my bag, this minute.’
Miranda, who had been cutting up squares of foil, obediently hastened to the desk and located the bag—Hermès, naturally. Returning and handing it over to the woman, who immediately yanked out a bottle of Valium, tipped half a dozen tablets into her hand and downed them in one, she said, ‘Your hair’s great, it suits you like that. Makes you look younger.’
‘Oh, don’t give me that! How gullible do you think I am? Look at it, look at it, she’s wrecked my fringe!’
‘I’m not just saying it to make you feel better. It’s the truth,’ said Miranda.
‘Oh well, if it’s the truth you’re so keen on, you won’t mind me telling you that you’re not looking so hot yourself. Face like a wet weekend, that’s what you’ve got,’ jeered the blonde. ‘Not exactly the cheeriest little soul in Santa’s grotto, are you? Christ, I’ve seen happier-looking bloodhounds. What happened—boyfriend dump you, did he? Can’t say I’m surprised.’
The whole salon held its breath. There was the kind of appalled silence that might follow someone accidentally breaking wind in front of the Queen. Everyone waited for Miranda’s reaction and wondered what form it would take. Would she scream back at the woman, perhaps? Burst into tears and run out of the shop? Or—hopefully—pin her back in her chair, grab the nearest pair of scissors and reduce her whole head to stubble?
The journalist, granite-jawed with outrage, made a move towards them. It was Bev’s turn to put out an arm and hiss, ‘Don’t you dare.’
Miranda, to everyone’s astonishment, simply rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. The woman promptly burst into noisy tears and buried her face in Miranda’s front.
‘What’s really the matter?’ said Miranda.
‘Oh God, everything!’ the woman sobbed. ‘The children’s nanny handed in her notice this morning…my teeth need rebleaching and my dentist’s gone off to bloody Florida for a month…my cellulite’s back…my whole life’s falling to pieces.’
‘Come on, it isn’t really.’ Miranda’s tone was gentle. ‘You’ll get through this, you know you will. Shall we find you a cab?’
The woman nodded like a small child.
‘Sorry I shouted.’
‘Doesn’t matter. But I meant it when I said your fringe was fine.’
Disentangling herself from the woman’s arms clamped around her waist, Miranda signalled across the salon at Bev to flag down the first available cab.
‘Thanks.’ The woman sniffed dolefully. ‘And I meant it when I said you looked miserable. You’ve always been so cheerful before.’
‘We do our best.’ Miranda helped her into her jacket.
‘What happened then? Did your boyfriend dump you?’
Behind the desk, Bev flinched.
Miranda hesitated, then nodded.
‘Something like that.’
Fenn returned as Miranda was helping her into a waiting cab.
‘She’s a good girl, this one. You look after her,’ the woman told Fenn.
Mystified, he said, ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right person here?’
Back in the salon, Bev gave Miranda a hug.
‘That spoilt, selfish bitch—you should have shoved a water nozzle down her throat and drowned her! I don’t know how you managed to stay so calm.’
Miranda knew, but it was too hard to try and explain. Bev would only think she was weird if she told her that, basically, she couldn’t be bothered to lose her temper, she had enough to be upset about already. A handful of insults flung by a grown woman in the grip of a toddlerish tantrum were nothing in comparison with the misery she was already carrying like a ton weight around her neck.
Besides, in a funny kind of way, it was almost a comfort to know that—for whatever reason—other people were miserable too.
Even if in this case it had less to do with grief and rather more to do with off-white teeth and cellulite.
‘What did she say?’ Fenn demanded. ‘Something about you and Miles?’
‘Sshhh.’ Bev gave him an are-you-mad? look and rolled her eyes expressively in the direction of the intruder she hadn’t yet managed to get rid of. ‘He’s a reporter.’
‘I’m not,’ the intruder repeated wearily. ‘Miranda, will you please tell this surly woman that I am not a reporter?’
Miranda looked up, noticing him for the first time. Oh, the relief…
‘Johnnie.’
Bev’s head jerked from one to the other. Johnnie? Who was Johnnie? And how dare he come into a top Knightsbridge hair salon wearing truly horrible corduroy trousers, a sweater with holes in both elbows and muddy brogues?
Glancing at her watch, Miranda said, ‘Fenn, okay if I take my lunch break now?’
Fenn had already recognized Johnnie from the swimming pool incident at Tabitha Lester’s house. He nodded, then, to maintain some semblance of normality, added, ‘Be back by one.’
‘Who is he?’ demanded Bev as the door swung shut behind them. As far as she was concerned, the man was rude, scruffy and ignorant, and she couldn’t imagine for the life of her how Miranda knew him.
‘Miles Harper’s best friend.’ Fenn’s tone was laconic. ‘He head-butts watermelons in his spare time.’
With a dismissive sniff, Bev retorted, ‘Why am I not surprised?’
Chapter 51
Miranda’s composure crumbled the moment they were out of the salon.
‘Oh, Johnnie.’ She looked up at him, tears sliding down her cheeks, and he put his arms around her, enveloping her in a massive bear hug. ‘I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been feeling so…so on my own.’
When he nodded, Miranda realized that he had guessed this already; it was why he’d come to see her. So that she could talk about Miles with someone else who had known and loved him and was as miserable as she was.
More, probably, she thought with a pang, because she’d only known Miles for a few days. Johnnie had been his closest friend for years. They had told each other everything, shared—
BEEP-BEEP! tooted a passing transit van, and through the open passenger window a series of ear-splitting wolf-whistles was followed by a roar of, ‘Go for it, mate, give her one from me!’
Tears turned to wry laughter and Mira
nda wiped the back of her hand across her wet face. They were quite the center of attention, it appeared. Everywhere she looked, people were watching them, possibly waiting for her to be given one, as the men in the transit had so sensitively suggested.
‘What’s her name?’ said Johnnie, nodding in the direction of the salon.
Miranda peered around his arm. Bev, who had been staring at them, hurriedly looked away.
‘That’s Bev, our receptionist.’
‘Is she always that friendly?’
‘She was trying to protect me. Come on, let’s go somewhere.’ They were still being watched. ‘Now I know how it feels to be a panda in the zoo.’
Johnnie led her down a narrow side street and into a quiet, dimly lit wine bar. They ordered coffee and sat down opposite each other at a corner table. Johnnie sighed, pushing his fingers through his already disheveled hair before leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette.
‘I didn’t know where you lived. That’s why I had to come to the salon. He did finish with Daisy,’ he said quietly. ‘In case you saw her weeping and wailing on the telly and were beginning to wonder.’
Miranda nodded, her throat aching.
‘Thanks.’
‘He really did love you, you know.’ Johnnie drew hard on his cigarette. ‘The way he talked about you was amazing. I mean it, a real first.’
Miranda’s nose was beginning to run with the effort of keeping her eyes dry. Surreptitiously she made use of a napkin.
‘Sorry about this. Bev did warn me not to get involved with Miles. She said it would end in tears.’
Johnnie shrugged and shook his head.
‘Yeah well, for me too. Look, the other reason I needed to see you was to find out if you want to go to the funeral. Because if you do, you can come with me.’
‘I won’t, thanks.’ Miranda didn’t even have to stop and think about it. She knew she didn’t want to tag along incognito, and have to witness Daisy Schofield hurling herself across the coffin and generally playing star mourner.
Johnnie nodded, understanding.
‘If you change your mind, let me know.’ He patted her hand then reached into the back pocket of his decrepit corduroy trousers. ‘Oh yes, and I’ve got something for you.’
She took the copper pig, warm from Johnnie’s pocket, and held it in the palm of her hand.
‘Some lucky charm this turned out to be.’
‘He won the race, didn’t he?’
Miranda felt an uneasy squirming sensation in her stomach.
‘Was he wearing this when he had the accident?’
‘No. The leather snapped after the race while we were all celebrating. Fairly riotously, I have to admit. Miles gave it to me to look after,’ Johnnie explained. ‘So you see, it did bring him luck.’
His grey eyes were filling up. It was Miranda’s turn to squeeze his arm.
‘You’re going to miss him so much.’
‘Bloody hell, you think you’re half prepared for it when your best friend’s a racing driver.’ Johnnie heaved a sigh. ‘But this is cheating, getting smashed into by a lorry on the fucking M1. It definitely wasn’t meant to happen like this.’
At five to one, he walked Miranda back to the salon.
‘Your minder’s still got her eye on us,’ Johnnie observed, as he held open the smoked-glass door and Bev—like Owl in Winnie the Pooh—swung round on her stool behind the desk.
‘Thanks for everything.’ Miranda hugged him again, her nose finally unblocked enough to be able to breathe in the scent of his Armani aftershave. She liked the contrast of scruffy clothes and sophisticated cologne.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Johnnie told her. Then, gazing steadily over the top of Miranda’s spiky blue head, he said, ‘That’s a bad habit, you know.’ Bev, at whom this comment was directed, bristled instantly.
‘What?’
‘Biting your nails.’
Indignant wasn’t the word for it. As she thrust out her hands, splaying her long fingers to prove beyond doubt that her polished acrylic nails were flawless, there was practically steam gushing out of Bev’s ears.
‘I never bite my nails,’ she informed Johnnie icily.
No rings on the relevant finger. Excellent.
‘That’s because they aren’t real.’ He smiled at Bev, having discovered what he’d set out to discover. ‘If you tried you’d probably break your teeth.’
***
‘Oh dear, I’m getting that spooky déjà vu feeling,’ said Miranda. ‘It seems like every time the doorbell rings, it’s you again, coming back to hurl a few more insults in my direction.’ She eyed the bunch of pale-pink roses with suspicion. ‘Who are those for, anyway? Florence isn’t here, Chloe hasn’t had the baby yet and it’s nobody’s birthday.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Why not? You usually do.’
‘I came to apologize,’ said Danny. ‘And the flowers are for you.’
‘Pink roses?’ Caught off-guard by this, Miranda instinctively went on the attack. ‘You saw pale pink roses and thought of me?’
‘Yes, well, they’d sold right out of cactus plants.’ Striding past her, plonking the flowers down on the hall table, Danny said, ‘Just humor me for a minute, will you? This is about Miles. I didn’t believe you before, but I do now. And I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry you didn’t believe me, or sorry he’s dead?’ Miranda shoved her hands into the pockets of her dark-blue fleecy top. The weather had worsened dramatically over the last few days and since watching the funeral on the six o’clock news she hadn’t been able to stop shivering.
‘Both. I would have come over sooner but I thought you might not want to see me.’ He paused. ‘I suppose I felt I’d done enough damage.’
Imagine that, Miranda marveled. Danny Delancey has a conscience.
‘How did you find out?’
‘I saw the pre-race interview. He was wearing your copper pig…talking about you…I realized it was all true.’
‘Oh well, not to worry,’ said Miranda. ‘It would never have worked anyway. As you so kindly pointed out. Another couple of weeks and he’d have been off, chasing after the next conquest.’
‘Look, where’s Chloe?’
‘Lamaze class. Learning how to breathe.’
‘And Florence?’
‘Love’s young dream? Still up in Scotland with Tom.’ Miranda smiled, recalling the look of shock on the postman’s face when he had glanced at Florence’s last postcard. ‘They’re visiting old friends from their army days.’
‘Did you go to the funeral this afternoon?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Take a wild guess.’ Miranda paused. ‘She came into the salon this morning, to have her hair done for it.’
‘Daisy Schofield,’ said Danny
‘Who else? And get this, she brought a photographer along with her, from Hi! magazine.’ Miranda assumed a Hi!-type voice. ‘To take pictures of the grieving fiancée as she prepares to say goodbye to the one true love of her life.’
‘You’re not serious.’ Danny looked appalled. ‘And Fenn did her hair?’
‘No. He told her we were fully booked and packed her off to try her luck with Nicky Clarke.’
‘Are you hungry?’ said Danny. ‘Let me take you to dinner.’
It was Friday evening. Exactly this time one week ago, Miranda remembered, they had gone out together for a let’s-be-friends-again drink. And hadn’t that gone well.
‘I don’t know.’ It seemed a bit pointless. She wasn’t even hungry.
‘Hey, I’m trying to say sorry here.’ Danny held out his hands, palms upwards. ‘Humor me, okay? Anywhere you’d like to go.’
‘Anywhere? Oh well,’ said Miranda, ‘if you put
it like that…’
***
The bridge over the M1 was banked high on both sides with flowers, their cellophane wrappings crackling in the stiff breeze. Candles flickered in glass jars amongst the multicolored bouquets. Mourning members of the public walked the length of the bridge, peered silently down on to the southbound carriageway of the motorway where the accident had happened, and wept on each other’s shoulders.
Miranda didn’t weep. She dug her hands deeper into the pockets of her fleecy jacket and gazed without speaking at the moving spectacle stretched out before her. How could the loss of someone she had known for only a few days affect her so much?
Her fingers closed around the copper pig in her pocket. As she stroked its soothingly familiar curves, Danny came up behind her. Having discreetly hung back for a few minutes, he now rested a hand on Miranda’s shoulder.
‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ve got a handkerchief if you want one.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not going to cry anymore. I’ve done enough of that.’
‘Right.’
‘I told you a lie last week, by the way.’ Miranda twisted round to face him, her dark eyes bright. ‘When you asked me if I’d slept with him, I said I had.’ She paused. ‘Well, that wasn’t true. I never did.’
Relieved to hear it, Danny gave her shoulder a squeeze.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter,’ said Miranda. ‘I wish I had.’
Chapter 52
Summer ended and autumn swept in with a vengeance. By the second week in September, thunderstorms were battering the country, hurricane-force winds were tearing the leaves off the trees and—with the dramatic drop in temperature—everyone was busy digging out their thermals.
The up side of chauffeuring Miranda to work on cold mornings, Fenn discovered, was that he no longer had to endure her sitting cross-legged in one of the salon’s swivel chairs, a hair dryer blasting away in each hand, defrosting her feet.
‘Ooh, someone’s going to get the sack,’ Miranda crowed, poring over the day’s appointments and giving Bev a nudge. ‘Is that your writing? You’ve only gone and booked Try-it-on Tabitha in for nine thirty and forgotten to put Home Visit. And Fenn’s already got a nine o’clock and a ten o’clock lined up, so he won’t—’