Miranda's Big Mistake (15 page)

Greg met up with Adrian in the bar of the Prince of Wales for an early-evening drink.

‘You've asked her to move in with you?' Adrian spluttered into his pint. ‘Bloody hell, you're a sucker for punishment, aren't you? Out with one bird, in with the next! What have you got in that new flat of yours, revolving doors?'

Greg had expected nothing less from Adrian, who spent all his time noisily insulting women but who was secretly miserable and desperate—like most divorced men—to meet the right girl and settle down.

‘I never expected it to happen like this. It's not the kind of thing you plan,' he said with a shrug. ‘But it's happened and we want to be together. So why shouldn't she move in?'

Adrian tried not to look envious. How could he blame Greg, anyway, when he'd fancied Miranda himself?

‘She isn't bothered about the business with Chloe and the baby, then?'

Greg took a careful gulp of his lager.

‘That's the great thing about Miranda, she hates kids too. You should have heard her the other day, going on about her landlady's grandson. Complete monster, apparently, kicks like a mule. Miranda can't stand him.'

Adrian raised his eyebrows.

‘So you still haven't told her about Chloe and the baby.'

‘Oh come on.' Greg sounded irritable. ‘How can I?'

‘She should know,' said Adrian.

‘Why?'

‘Why? Because she'll go bloody ballistic if she finds out and you haven't told her.'

Greg gave him a pitying look.

‘She won't, though, will she? There's no reason why she should find out. I can trust you to keep your mouth shut, can't I?'

‘Well, yes, but—'

‘Look,' Greg said brusquely, ‘what happened with Chloe wasn't my fault, was it? So why should I suffer now? Why should I be the one to get all the grief?'

‘I know that. I'm just saying, why don't you tell Miranda, then she'll know it too?' Adrian took a great slurp of beer, marveling at the situation he found himself in; the moral high ground was unfamiliar territory to him. Blimey, he'd be taking up counseling next!

But Greg was less amused.

‘Oh, that's great. I'm getting a lecture from the bloke whose wife left him because in his spare time he drank for England and screwed half the barmaids in Battersea.'

‘Fine,' said Adrian, offended. ‘You don't have to take my advice.'

‘Thank Christ for that.' Greg relaxed and grinned at him, signaling to the barman for refills. ‘Come on, Ade, you don't need to worry about me. The situation's under control. Telling Miranda about Chloe,' he gestured and-the-rest with his free arm, ‘isn't going to make her happy, is it? I know what Miranda's like, it's the kind of thing she'd just fret about.'

‘I suppose.' Adrian shrugged, losing interest. He preferred talking about football.

‘I don't need the hassle, that's all.' Greg pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘You know what women are like. What Miranda doesn't know can't hurt her.' He gave Adrian a cheer-up nudge. ‘Isn't that right?'

Adrian lit a cigarette.

‘Yeah.'

***

Miranda, singing noisily and spectacularly off-key in the bath the following Sunday, wondered how old you had to be before you stopped getting excited about your birthday. How much longer did she have before the novelty wore off, boredom set in and she began telling people in blasé fashion, ‘Oh no, nothing planned, it's just like any other day.'

‘Twenty-four today, twenty-four today,' Miranda yodelled, twiddling the hot tap with her toes and sending a gush of scalding water over her ultra-cool, RayBan-wearing yellow plastic duck. ‘Oh, I've got the key of the door, never been twenty-four before.'

‘Any more of that caterwauling,' Bev's voice filtered through from the other side of the bathroom door, ‘and I'll be the one with the key, locking you in there.'

‘You're early!' Miranda splashed into a sitting position. ‘Is Fenn here as well?'

Fenn had volunteered to drive them to the restaurant in Soho, but not yet, surely? It was still only eleven o'clock.

‘He's dropping Leila at Heathrow.' Leila, yet another supermodel, was Fenn's latest girlfriend. ‘I came early because I want you to wear your present from me.'

A present you could wear! Miranda brightened at once.

‘Is it a pair of false bosoms?'

‘Not telling you.' Bev sounded pleased with herself. ‘You'll have to come downstairs and find out.'

It might be a bash over the head with something heavy, thought Miranda, when Bev heard what she had to tell her.

Oh, crikey, it was scary but it had to be done. Lying back in the bath, she took deep breaths and began psyching herself up for the ordeal ahead.

But really, there couldn't be a better time, could there?

It's my birthday, Miranda reminded herself, clutching this fact to her like a security blanket. Nobody was allowed to be horrid to you on your birthday, oh no, that would be too mean for words. Bev couldn't—
wouldn't
—spoil her special day.

Ducking down under the surface of the water, Miranda exhaled a stream of bubbles and began counting. If she reached thirty without coming up for air, Bev would forgive her.

Probably.

And if I don't reach thirty, thought Miranda, I'll have drowned.

Which might actually be safer in the long run.

***

Florence remained discreetly in the kitchen while Miranda took Bev out into the walled back garden.

‘I've left your present inside,' Bev protested, teetering down the wheelchair-friendly slope in her four-inch spike heels.

All the better to hit me over the head with, thought Miranda.

Aloud she said, ‘There's something I have to tell you first. It might make you hate me.'

‘What?' Bev eyed her with suspicion. ‘If your Walkman's chewed up my Celine Dion tape—'

‘It didn't,' Miranda put in hurriedly, glad that no one was around to overhear. Borrowing a Celine Dion tape—phew, now that
was
embarrassing.

‘Okay, so it isn't that.' Bev visibly relaxed. ‘What is it then?'

‘Greg.'

‘Greg who?'

Oh, for heaven's sake…

‘Greg Malone.' Agitatedly, Miranda twisted the silver bangle on her wrist. ‘Remember? The bloke you met at Elizabeth Turnbull's party and haven't stopped talking about for the last two months?'

‘Oh, right.' Bev nodded. ‘That Greg.' She frowned. ‘I don't get it. What about him?'

Miranda felt herself going red.

‘Um…he's who I've been seeing.'

She went redder.

And redder still, under Bev's incredulous gaze.

‘You mean…?'

‘Yes! He's the one,' Miranda blurted out. ‘Oh God, I'm so sorry!'

***

‘Well?' said Florence when Miranda finally reappeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Want me to call the riot police? Did she go for you with the garden spade and call you terrible names?'

‘She did, actually.' Miranda eyed with longing the tray of smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels. ‘Well, not the spade thing, but she called me an idiot.'

‘Is that all? Help yourself, by the way.' Florence nodded at the bagels. ‘They're for you.'

‘A prize idiot. A big wally. And a plonker,' said Miranda through a mouthful of smoked salmon. ‘She couldn't believe I'd been so scared of telling her.'

‘All that fuss for nothing, then.' Florence reached for the tray and balanced it across her lap. ‘What did I tell you? That might be him now,' she went on as the doorbell rang out in the hall.

Miranda shook her head.

‘It won't be, I'm not seeing him until tonight.' In deference to the Bev situation, this was what they had agreed.

Except, Miranda realized frustratedly, now that everything had been sorted out, Greg could have come along after all…

‘You're right, it isn't,' said Florence, who had scooted across the kitchen and was peering out of the window. ‘It's that good-looking boss of yours. Long hair, though,' she tut-tutted. ‘Are you sure he's not gay?'

Miranda almost choked on her bagel.

‘Of course he isn't gay. Fenn gets through supermodels like we get through Jaffa Cakes!'

‘So why have you never made a play for him?' Florence's eyes glittered with mischief. ‘Rich, handsome, successful fellow like that—you could do a lot worse.'

Miranda found this idea comical in the extreme. It had simply never occurred to her to find Fenn attractive, or to have a crush on him. He was her employer and she was the lowly salon junior regarded—quite unfairly—by Fenn as a hopeless case.

Apart from anything else, it was hard to lust over someone who spent his life telling you off.

‘Like I said, he goes for supermodels,' she patiently informed Florence. ‘If I was six feet tall and weighed less than six stone, I might stand a chance. At the moment,' she added by way of explanation, ‘he's going out with Leila Monzani.'

Florence cocked an eyebrow as she wheeled herself through to the hall to answer the door.

‘Ah, but what if he wasn't?'

Once a meddler, always a meddler, thought Miranda.

‘If he wasn't,' she raised her voice to make sure Florence heard, ‘I'd still be going out with Greg.'

When Chloe arrived back from the shops, she found an impromptu champagne-and-bagels party in full swing in Florence's sitting room. Bev was there, and so was Fenn Lomax, whom of course she recognized but hadn't met before.

‘Come on, have a drink, one little glass won't hurt,' Miranda urged, pouring her one and proudly showing off her new top. ‘What d'you think, isn't it great? Bev gave it to me!' She did an arms-up shimmy followed by a twirl, spilling a fair amount of Moët on the way round.

Chloe admired the top, which was black, stretchy and semi-transparent, with strategically positioned red satin butterflies appliquéd across the chest.

‘It's very you,' she told Miranda, deeply envious of her slim figure.

‘Flighty,' Florence crowed, ‘and a bit tight.'

Miranda waved her glass happily.

‘I prefer sexy,' she declared, ‘and exotic.'

The television was on in the corner. Florence was busy zapping through the channels in search of a weather forecast.

‘I still say you should take a jacket, they were predicting thunderstorms for this afternoon. Hang on, I'll get it on Ceefax—'

‘Ooh, look, don't turn over!' Miranda let out a yelp of excitement. ‘It's Miles!'

The Canadian Grand Prix was due to take place in Montreal in just a few hours, and an informal pre-race interview with Miles Harper, the great British hope, was being shown. Seeing as it was Miranda's birthday, everyone turned to watch.

‘He's so gorgeous,' sighed Miranda. Hastily she added, ‘Not that I fancy him, of course.'

‘Not much,' said Bev with a grin.

‘So the very best of luck, Miles, for this afternoon's race,' concluded the jovial motor-racing commentator, ‘from your millions of British fans…'

‘Oh, shame.' Bev patted Miranda's arm. ‘And you thought you were the only one.'

‘…drive safely…'

‘Try not to get killed,' said Miranda. ‘Honestly, can you believe what Daisy Schofield said last week?' She shook her head in disgust. ‘I still can't get over that.'

‘Total bitch,' Bev agreed as the commentator wound up the interview.

Florence, with the remote control poised, said, ‘Okay if I go on to Ceefax now? Only, if it pours with rain and your butterflies shrink, you'll be arrested.'

‘The really irritating thing is, I was sure she wouldn't leave me a tip. And she did,' Miranda marveled.

Bev winked at Chloe.

‘What, like, “Don't get too fond of your racing driver boyfriend in case he dies”?'

‘Better than that,' said Miranda, ‘she gave me a tenner.'

The mention of money reminded Chloe that in her handbag was the card and present she had bought this morning for Miranda. It wasn't much—she couldn't afford a great deal—but she hoped Miranda would like the stained-glass photo frame.

Handbag, handbag—there it was, where she had left it, on the table over by the window.

‘Looking for something?' Fenn had intercepted her gaze, but Chloe was already levering herself upright.

One casual glance out of the window was all it took to suck the air from her lungs and send her mind reeling with shock.

Outside, emerging from his car in the street below, was Greg.

Okay, thought Chloe, don't faint, keep calm, sit back down again before you fall down and
think this through
.

Oh, but he was here; he'd come to see her! And when your ex-husband arrived unexpectedly on your doorstep clutching a bunch of flowers the size of a Christmas tree, it could only mean one thing…

I need more time, I need more time, thought Chloe, dimly aware that Fenn Lomax was watching her slowly retrace her steps, empty-handed. But could this really be happening? Had Greg somehow tracked her down—well, of course he had, through Bruce and Verity, no doubt—and come to beg for her forgiveness? Did this mean he'd changed his mind about the baby as well?

Oh God, this was all so confusing, she could barely think and walk at the same time. Every step was like trying to wade through a field of her mother's bread sauce.

‘Are you all right?' Fenn said quietly, ducking his head as Bev swished past with a brimming glass in one hand and one of Florence's cocktail cigarettes in the other. Bev was known to accidentally set fire to things when she was allowed custody of a cigarette.

Am I all right? wondered Chloe.

‘Ha!' Sparks showered from the end of Bev's Sobranie as she brushed it recklessly past Florence's heavy brocade curtains. ‘Speaking of boyfriends, guess who's downstairs?'

Miranda, through a mouthful of chewy bagel, said, ‘Who?'

‘Greg, you dipstick! Just as well you made your big confession earlier—hey, this is brilliant, he can come with us now that he's here! He can, can't he, Fenn? Greg can come along to lunch?'

Chloe's world was turning crazily on its axis. She didn't understand what was going on, but she'd experienced a similar sensation once before, on the Big Dipper at Blackpool.

Florence's attention had been on her curtains, whose health was in danger of being seriously damaged by Bev's dramatic way with a cigarette. Now, her head swiveled round as she realized that Fenn had leapt from his chair and was lifting Chloe on to the sofa.

Amazed, Florence said, ‘Chloe? What's happening?'

‘Just lie back and breathe slowly,' Fenn instructed Chloe. ‘Is it the baby? Shall I phone for an ambulance?'

Oh no, not a miscarriage, Miranda prayed, not on my birthday. And please don't make it all my fault because I forced Chloe to drink that glass of champagne.

Swallowing her bagel at last, she gazed in horror at the scene being played out before her. All the color had drained from Chloe's face and she was clutching Fenn's hand. Fenn, down on one knee—for all the world like Hardy at Nelson's deathbed—was taking her pulse and exchanging serious-looking glances with Florence.

The doorbell rang.

Chloe visibly flinched

‘I'll call an ambulance,' Florence decided, reaching for the phone.

Chloe blurted out, ‘
No.
'

‘Where does it hurt?' demanded Fenn.

‘I'm okay, I'm okay.' She brushed his hand away from her wrist and tried to sit up, her gaze fixing on Miranda. ‘Look, I'm really sorry about this, but is that your boyfriend out there?'

As she spoke, the doorbell shrilled again.

Mystified, Miranda said, ‘Who, Greg? Of course he's my boyfriend!'

‘Ah. Pass me that glass, would you?' Puffing her hair out of her eyes, Chloe nodded at Fenn. ‘It's okay, I don't need an ambulance. Just a drink. You could probably do with another one as well.' She returned her attention to Miranda. ‘You see, I'm Greg's wife.'

All eyes were now on Miranda, who looked astonished. Fancy making a silly mistake like that, jumping to conclusions and giving everyone a fright.

‘Don't be daft. No, no, it's a coincidence, that's all,' she explained to Chloe, her tone reassuring. ‘My Greg isn't married.'

Chloe didn't breathe a sigh of relief.

She said steadily, ‘Is his name Greg Malone?'

‘Oh,
shit
,' Bev gasped.

It was Miranda's turn to sit down, on a plate of bagels, with a bump.