by Jill Mansell
‘Actually,’ Fenn intercepted her in mid-gloat, ‘I wrote it in. And she isn’t a Home Visit.’ He shrugged his way out of his brown leather jacket. ‘From now on, Tabitha’s coming here for her appointments.’
Miranda boggled at him.
‘Blimey, how d’you manage that?’
Fenn rolled up his shirt sleeves, ready to start work.
‘She tried to grope me once too often. When I told her to cut it out, she offered me five grand to go to bed with her.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘So I said that was it, I’d had enough. No more home visits. From now on she either came to the salon or found herself another hairdresser.’
‘Wow.’ Miranda was impressed. ‘Masterful or what? Of course you know what this means, don’t you?’
Wearily, Fenn said, ‘What?’
‘This is going to make Tabitha keener than ever. In fact we’d better get a panic button installed in the VIP room, pronto.’ Miranda imitated Tabitha’s lascivious, sex-kitten leer. ‘She’s going to be unstoppable now.’
At nine thirty on the dot, Tabitha Lester made her Hollywood entrance in a floor-length fake-fur coat, dark glasses, a silver tracksuit and pink Manolo Blahnik mules. Bev’s hackles rose instinctively as she recognized Tabitha’s companion.
Spotting Johnnie, Miranda rushed over to give him a massive hug.
‘I have the most embarrassing godmother in the world,’ he told her. ‘Her personal trainer, her manicurist and now her hairdresser all refuse to come to the house. She’s a preying mantis in six-inch stilettos.’
‘And you’re the one paying the price.’ Miranda was sympathetic.
‘Having to cart her around from one appointment to the next.’ Johnnie nodded in mournful agreement. ‘How fair is that?’
‘Never mind,’ Miranda said soothingly, ‘we’ll take care of Tabitha now. You just sit down, put your feet up, and Bev will bring you a cup of coffee.’
Johnnie looked over at Bev, who was stonily flicking through the appointments and listening to every word.
‘Only if she promises not to spit in it.’
Bev, who usually enjoyed chatting to the people waiting on the violet sofas next to her desk, vowed not to chat to this one. Who the hell did Tabitha Lester’s godson think he was?
Spit in his coffee? Ha, he’d be lucky if she didn’t wee in it.
***
Half an hour, Tabitha had promised; it didn’t take long for a wash and blow-dry. Johnnie made himself comfortable on the sofa, deliberately closed his ears to his godmother’s louder and more outrageous remarks as she carried on her one-sided flirtation with Fenn Lomax, and glanced up at Bev-the-receptionist, who was making a point of acting as if he didn’t exist.
Fine. He picked up one of the glossy women’s magazines on the coffee table and skimmed through an article entitled ‘The Terrible Mistakes Men Make In Bed!’.
Good God, the detail it went into was mind-boggling; women’s magazines these days were sheer porn. And as for the stuff they expected a bloke to get up to—well, that was nothing short of outrageous.
His glance flickering up from the page, Johnnie caught Bev looking at him. She immediately turned away, snatched up the phone and said, ‘Yes, hello?’ in a high-pitched voice, even though it hadn’t rung.
Johnnie smiled to himself and turned the page. Ah, that was better; he liked questionnaires. This one, called ‘Do You Always Get What You Want?’, sounded right up his alley.
If you see a bloke you fancy, do you:
(a) Ask him out?
(b) Ask your secretary to arrange it?
(c) Smile a lot and hope he’ll take the hint?
(d) Engage him in a conversation about the weather then suddenly say, ‘Oops, I’ve just remembered I’m not wearing any knickers?’
Any of the above would do nicely, thought Johnnie. Sadly, none of them had ever happened to him. Well, maybe the smiling option had cropped up in the past but more often than not the girl doing the smiling had followed it up with: ‘You’re Miles Harper’s friend, aren’t you? If you could introduce me to him, that’d be fab!’
This time Johnnie was the one caught out. Without even realizing it, he had been gazing at Bev. When she looked up and their eyes met, a jolt of something he couldn’t begin to describe shot down his spine.
Johnnie coughed loudly to cover his confusion, hurriedly turned over another page in the magazine and stared hard at a Tampax ad.
Oh yes, very brave, very macho behavior for a grown man. Come on, Tabitha, come on, how long can it take for one sex-crazed ex-movie star to have her hair blow-dried?
Finally Tabitha was done. Fenn brought her out to the reception area and she struck a pose.
‘Darling, how do I look?’
‘Like an old drag queen.’ As her beloved godson, Johnnie was the only person on the planet allowed to tease her. Grinning, he helped Tabitha back into her fake-fur coat. As he did so, he became aware that, once again, Bev was eyeing him discreetly from behind the desk.
‘I do not, I look wonderful,’ cried Tabitha. Pouting, she turned to Bev. ‘Don’t I, darling?’
‘Of course you do. Just ignore him,’ Bev said sweetly. Under her breath she added, ‘Everyone else does.’
The phone rang as Tabitha and Johnnie were leaving, giving Bev the opportunity to sound incredibly busy and pretend she hadn’t noticed they were off.
‘Shall I tell you a funny thing?’ said Miranda afterwards, when Bev had hung up. ‘Every time I looked over, either you were secretly looking at Johnnie or Johnnie was secretly looking at you.’
‘Oh, don’t be so stupid.’
‘I’m not! Neither of you said a word, but there was all this…this stuff going on.’
‘Stuff,’ Bev echoed in disbelief.
‘You know.’ Miranda made mystical movements with her hands. ‘Stuff you can’t describe.’ She speeded up her fingers, wiggling them like worms.
‘You can’t describe it, that’s for sure. Anyway, you’re talking rubbish as usual.’ Badly in need of cosmetic reassurance, Bev reached beneath the desk for her lipstick. Always kept within easy reach, it was Chanel, it was glossy and it was fire-engine red. Since she reapplied it at least a dozen times a day—more, in times of stress—it was also her security blanket. A quick glance in the mirror behind her and a swift one-two was all it took to restore Bev’s faith in herself and a sense of Zen-like inner calm.
‘Rubbish, is it?’ said Miranda gleefully. ‘Well, don’t look now, but he’s coming back.’
As the salon door swung purposefully open, Bev’s hand jerked and scarlet lipstick slid up in a line from her mouth to the outer corner of her right nostril. Horrified, clamping both hands over her face, she ducked out of sight behind the desk.
No tissues down there.
Nothing to wipe her mouth on, except the carpet.
‘Hello?’ said Johnnie, above her. ‘It’s no good, I know you’re down there.’
The carpet was looking tempting, but it was pearl grey and Fenn would kill her.
There was nothing else for it. Crouching on her heels, curled up like a snail, Bev bent forward and wiped the lipstick off on the hem of her skirt. The white Nicole Farhi skirt she had saved up for months to buy.
‘Hello, hello?’
Finally, in slow motion, she rose to her feet. Johnnie was leaning over the desk, watching with interest.
‘What?’ Bev snapped defiantly, hating him more than ever now that he’d ruined her very best skirt. And although the worst of the lipstick was off, she still had to keep one hand cupped, toothache-style, over the right side of her face.
‘Okay, here goes. I think you fancy me.’ Johnnie clasped his hands tightly together to stop them shaking. ‘And God only knows why, but I know I fancy you. So how about it?’
> Bev stared at him. The nerve, the absolute nerve!
‘How about what?’
‘Oh, come on, don’t give me a hard time. I know I’m not great at this,’ said Johnnie, ‘but I’m pretty nervous, okay? You’d be scared too, if you had to do it.’
Deep breath, deep breath.
‘Okay. Try it again,’ said Bev.
Johnnie nodded and cleared his throat.
‘Right. I’d like it very much if you’d come out with me some time. Maybe this Sunday, if you’re free. Is that better?’
It was, but Bev hadn’t finished being surly yet.
‘I think I’m busy then.’
Johnnie snapped his fingers.
‘Miranda, what does this one here do on Sundays?’
Miranda, eavesdropping frantically behind them and pretending to fold towels that had already been folded, stopped what she was doing and feigned surprise.
‘Nothing. Well, unless you count sorting her make-up into alphabetical order.’
Thanks a lot, thought Bev. That was the last time she told Miranda anything, ever. And why did everyone seem to find it so funny anyway? People sorted their collections of CDs and books into alphabetical order, didn’t they? So why couldn’t she do it with make-up?
‘Sunday it is, then,’ said Johnnie. Pulling a pen out of his inside pocket, he helped himself to an appointment card from the pile on the desk. ‘Better tell me where to pick you up.’
Oh well, what the heck. It wasn’t as if she had anything else to do. Still keeping her hand clamped over her face, Bev grudgingly told him her address through splayed fingers.
‘Fine.’ Johnnie clicked the pen shut in a businesslike manner. ‘Right, well, Tabitha’s waiting for me in the car. Sunday it is, then. Six o’clock.’
‘Six o’clock.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Think you can manage that?’
‘Oh, I think so,’ Bev replied with sarcasm. ‘Just about.’
‘Okay, ’bye.’
‘Wait,’ she yelped as he moved towards the door. ‘You haven’t told me where we’re going! I don’t know what to wear—smart or casual?’
Johnnie paused, then shrugged.
‘Casual-ish.’
‘Right.’ Tick-tick went Bev’s brain, racing through the contents of her wardrobe. Casual was fine, she could do casual…click click…caramel wool trousers teamed with her cream silk blouse, chestnut-brown cashmere sweater, single row of pearls, dark-brown ankle boots, Estée Lauder cinnamon silk eye shadow, Lancôme mulberry lipstick—
‘Oh, and don’t worry about breakfast,’ Johnnie added over his shoulder as he left. ‘We’ll stop for a fry-up on the way.’
Chapter 53
‘You make the best mashed potato in the world,’ said Miranda. The candles flickered romantically in the center of the table, lighting up her eyes. ‘Will you marry me?’
‘Do the washing-up and I might consider it,’ Chloe told her. She watched Miranda dig enthusiastically into the tureen of extra-peppery, extra-buttery mashed potato and pile a third helping on to her plate. ‘Actually, there’s a favor I’ve been wanting to ask you.’
‘Don’t tell me.’ Miranda held up her free hand. ‘Let me guess. Fenn can’t cut hair to save his life and you want me to do it for you from now on.’
‘Um, no.’
From across the dining table, Florence chimed in with: ‘My son is unbearable to work with and you’d like Miranda to march into his shop tomorrow morning and fire a poison dart into his neck.’
‘Not that either.’
‘Hang on, I’ve got it,’ Miranda squealed triumphantly. ‘You want me to ask Danny if he’d make a fly-on-the-wall documentary about you having the baby! You want him to film the birth so we can all watch you with your legs in the air, panting like an animal, yelling your head off and flashing your bare bottom to an audience of millions.’
Florence was laughing so hard she almost choked on a piece of beef. Miranda leaned across and patted her on the back.
Chloe, smiling at them both, said, ‘Well, you’re getting closer.’
Florence began to choke again.
‘Not seriously,’ said Miranda, appalled. ‘You can’t want it to be filmed. Not…’ she flapped her hands, in revulsion, in the general region of her own groin, ‘…oh, surely not!’
‘Of course I don’t want to be filmed.’ Chloe put down her knife and fork. ‘But I’d like you to be there with me.’
‘Be where?’
‘At the hospital. While I’m doing the panting and yelling bit.’ She looked hopefully at Miranda. ‘I’m supposed to have a designated birth partner, you see. They keep asking me at the hospital if I’ve chosen anyone yet. And…well, if you’re happy to be involved, I’d really like it to be you.’
Miranda stared at her, dumbfounded.
All that blood.
And awful stuff gushing everywhere.
Agonizing screams of pain.
That hideous disinfectanty smell that all hospitals have.
The sight of needles and, oh God, forceps…
The very real likelihood of fainting during a grisly bit and crashing to the ground, sending all the sterile instrument trolleys flying and probably fracturing her own skull in the bargain.
‘Of course I’ll do it. I’d love to be your birth partner,’ said Miranda.
‘Will you? Really?’ Reaching over, Chloe clasped her hand and squeezed it with delight. ‘Oh, thank you! I’m so glad.’
‘Me too,’ Miranda fibbed. Touched and flattered, maybe. Squeamish, definitely. But glad? Not really.
Oh well.
Florence raised a knowing eyebrow as soon as Chloe had disappeared into the kitchen to fetch the blackberry tart.
‘Liar.’
‘If she wants me to be there, I’ll do it,’ Miranda whispered back. ‘Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.’
With wicked relish, Florence murmured, ‘What if it’s worse?’
Miranda shrugged. She had to be brave, she couldn’t give in.
Basically, when someone does you the honor of asking you to be their birth partner, how can you say no?
***
The next day, after work, Miranda was sitting in the window of a café on Montpelier Street when she saw Danny making his way along the pavement towards her. Without thinking, she tapped on the glass.
When he came in, Miranda admired his dark suit and lavender-blue shirt.
‘Look at you, all dressed up.’
‘Business meeting. I’ve been holed up all afternoon in offices over in Rutland Gate. Just finished five minutes ago.’ Pulling out a chair, Danny ordered coffee from the pretty waitress, then glanced at his watch. ‘What are you doing here anyway? I thought Fenn dropped you home from work these days.’
Miranda shrugged. ‘It wasn’t worth going home. I’m meeting Chloe at the Chelsea and Westminster in half an hour. We’re being given a guided tour of the maternity wing.’
Danny leaned back in his chair.
‘Well, I can understand it being helpful to Chloe, but why do you have to go too?’
Bravely, Miranda said, ‘I’m her birth partner.’
She might have known she couldn’t expect to fool Danny, who wasn’t taken in for a minute.
‘Oh dear.’ He looked amused. ‘And you can’t think of anything worse.’
Miranda’s resolve—to be strong and cheerful and lie valiantly through her teeth—promptly collapsed. Indignantly she demanded, ‘Well, can you?’
Danny started to laugh.
‘There are lots of worse things and you know it.’ His espresso arrived and he began heaping sugar into the tiny steel cup. ‘Come on, birth is a miraculous thing. It’s the most moving experience in
the world.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’ Miranda gave him a wry look. ‘You aren’t the one Chloe’s asked to be there, are you?’
‘But if she did ask me, I’d do it,’ said Danny, surprisingly. ‘Like a shot.’ He held up his hand before Miranda could open her mouth. ‘And no, don’t even think it. Chloe wants you to be her birth partner, not me.’
Miranda sighed and with her index finger scrawled her initials in the foam on her cappuccino.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to be there for Chloe. I’m just terrified I’ll faint or be sick or something. I don’t want to ruin her big day.’
Danny smiled and shook his head.
‘You won’t do that. Once it’s all happening, you won’t even think about passing out. Seriously,’ he reassured her in a trust-me voice. ‘You’ll be fine.’
To her amazement, Miranda realized that she was reassured. Not totally. But a bit. Danny had psyched her up, like a boxing coach. Oh yes, she could do it, she could, she really could—
‘You’ll be an honorary aunt,’ Danny told her with a grin. ‘Auntie Miranda.’
She pulled a face. ‘Mad Aunt Miranda.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Mad aunts are the only kind to have. Much more fun than sensible ones.’
‘Did you have one?’ said Miranda, interested.
‘When I was a kid? Oh yes. Mad Aunt Pearl. She’d take me on cat-tracking expeditions.’
‘Where you would…?’
‘Find a cat and follow it. Wherever it went. Up trees, along walls, through gardens—’
‘And cat-flaps,’ said Miranda.
‘Mad Aunt Pearl was built like a tank. She wouldn’t have fit through a cat-flap.’ Danny was smiling, he clearly had fond memories of his eccentric, tank-sized relative. ‘Oh, but she was great. She used to dress up as a pirate. The neighbors thought she was mad.’
Eccentric, outrageous, certainly not run-of-the-mill Aunt Pearl was beginning to remind Miranda of someone she knew. She thought, so that’s why he gets on so famously with Florence.