Miranda's Big Mistake (24 page)

Miles dropped her back at Tredegar Gardens at midnight. Switching off the ignition, he turned in his seat to face her.

‘I've decided I'm going to convince you I'm serious.'

‘Really?' Miranda looked interested. ‘How? More snogging and smutty talk? Chapter Eleven: When All Else Fails, Beg?'

Miles calmly ignored this.

‘I know what your problem is.'

‘Let me guess,' said Miranda. ‘Chapter Twelve: Tell Her She's Frigid.'

Miles took her perspiring hands in his before she had a chance to wipe them on her jeans.

‘Your problem is Daisy.' He paused. ‘You think I only want you as my bit on the side.'

‘I d-don't think that at all,' squeaked Miranda.

I do, I do!

‘So if I finish with Daisy, will that convince you that I'm serious?'

Oh, good grief, steady on a minute. Deep breaths, deep breaths.

‘You're panting,' Miles observed. ‘Wouldn't be with lust, by any chance?'

‘You don't mean this.' Miranda was floundering, hopelessly out of her depth. He couldn't mean it, surely. It was just another ploy, like married men promising their mistresses they'd leave their wives.

‘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 of 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.

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 such 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.'

‘You'd better learn,' Danny drawled, ‘if you're planning on being Miles Harper's new girlfriend.' His tone was pitying. ‘Are you sure he's going to be faithful to you?'

‘Why are you being so horrible?' Miranda accused him.

Humoring her hadn't worked. Danny decided to be blunt.

‘I'm not being horrible. I just don't believe it's going to happen.'

If it didn't happen, Miranda thought, she was definitely going to have to leave the country. Oh well, in for a penny, in for an awful lot of pounds.

‘You know what? I think you might be a tiny bit jealous.' Leaning forward, she patted the back of Danny's hand, mimicking the patronizing concern he had shown earlier. ‘Never mind, chin up, I know it isn't easy finding a girlfriend but these things take time. One day it'll happen to you too.'

***

Three rubbish skips were lined up in the road outside Fenn's new flat, much to the horror of his well-to-do neighbors.

‘You know you've thrown out a truly terrible bunch of carpets,' he told Chloe, ‘when you dump them in a skip and two days later they're still there.'

‘It feels like such a waste.' Chloe joined him at the window. ‘Couldn't you donate them to some deserving cause?'

The skip looked as if it was bulging with dead zebras. Fenn winced.

‘Where did you have in mind? Regent's Park Zoo?'

Turning back, leaning against the windowsill, Chloe surveyed the stripped room.

‘Another week and this place will really come together. You won't recognize it. The last chap who lived here
definitely
wouldn't recognize it.'

‘Good,' said Fenn. ‘That's the general idea.'

The decorators, still in the process of stripping the wallpaper and sanding the wooden floors, had left hours earlier. The rolls of new paper, chosen by Fenn and Chloe and delivered that afternoon, were stacked in a corner of the room along with a dozen cans of paint in assorted shades of sage-green, lavender and grey-blue. Between them, choosing the color scheme had been an effortless process. They shared the same tastes to an astonishing degree. When Chloe had finished browsing through a foot-thick book of curtain samples she had pointed to the exact swatch of silvery-green material that Fenn had decided on himself.

‘It's going to be great,' she told him happily. ‘All you have to find now are the rugs.'

‘Chinese. I was going to have a look in Harrods on Sunday.' Fenn paused. ‘I don't suppose…?'

‘I'd love to,' said Chloe. ‘Honestly, I'm enjoying every minute of this. I won't know what to do with myself when it's finished.'

Fenn felt much the same way. Soon he was going to run out of legitimate reasons to invite Chloe round to his flat. He sighed inwardly, recalling the telephone call he had received last night from his sister. Tina, three years older than him and so blunt she made Miranda sound diplomatic, lived in New Zealand and hadn't been back to Britain for over five years. For this reason, when she had demanded to know what the bloody hell he was doing renting a flat in snotty Holland Park, Fenn had judged it safe to tell her.

Ten thousand miles, that was far enough.

Besides, if he didn't tell someone, he might actually explode.

‘Okay, you want the truth? Because there's this girl I know, and she lives in Notting Hill, in the same house as my salon junior. And giving the junior a lift home from work gives me the chance to see this other girl.'

Tina, predictably, snorted with laughter.

‘And if you'd moved to Hampstead you wouldn't have been able to do that? Jesus, Fenn, you're priceless. Spending an absolute fortune moving into a flat you don't even like…that's the maddest thing I ever heard. If you're so keen on this girl, wouldn't it be simpler to just ask her out on a date?'

Great idea, now why didn't I think of that? Smiling to himself, Fenn shook his head.

‘Can't do it.'

‘Of course you can! Blimey, you've been out with, like, a million girls. You must know the routine by now.'

‘It's not that straightforward.'

‘Oh, I get it. You mean she's married. Fenn, you plonker. Who needs that kind of grief?'

‘She isn't married. Well, okay, technically she still is, but they're separated.' Fenn paused. ‘The thing is, she's pregnant.'

There, he'd done it at last. And what a relief to finally say it aloud, after bottling it up for weeks.

‘Jesus Christ!' shrieked Tina down the phone. ‘You got her pregnant and her husband found out? No wonder he left her!'

‘Tina, hang on a second—'

‘And you aren't interested in actually marrying her yourself but you want to keep in touch for the sake of the baby. Oh,
now
it all begins to make sense. So you're going to be a dad,' she marveled. ‘Bloody hell, this is a turn-up for the books. You do realize it's going to cost you zillions in child support?'

‘It's not my baby,' said Fenn, when he was able to get a word in.

A long and expensive silence ensued. He'd never heard Tina at a loss for words before.

‘Fuck a duck, Fenn,' she groaned at last. ‘So whose kid is it?'

‘Her husband's.'

‘You're in love with some girl who's pregnant with somebody else's baby. Now I know you're mad.'

‘Thanks.'

‘What's her name?'

‘Chloe.'

‘And how does Chloe feel about this?' Tina's tone was cutting.

‘She doesn't know.'

‘So what are you going to do?'

What could he do? It was hardly the most normal situation in the world.

Frankly, it was bizarre.

‘I don't know.'

***

‘Any more thoughts about the bedroom?'

‘What?' Chloe's words brought Fenn back to the present with a thud.

‘Curtains or blinds, you haven't decided yet.' She pushed her fringe out of her eyes. ‘Come on, let's take another look.'

Without wanting to, Fenn replayed in his mind the rest of last night's conversation with his sister.

‘Drop her,' Tina had commanded. ‘Drop her like a hot potato.'

‘I can't.'

‘A hot potato crawling with maggots.' He had heard the urgency in her voice. ‘Fenn, we're talking major disaster here. For God's sake, get out while you still can, before anything
happens
.'

Too late. It already had. Fenn led the way through to the master bedroom. What did Tina know, thousands of miles away in New Zealand? She had no idea.

Chloe was sitting on the end of his king-size bed, shaking back her hair and giving the two windows her undivided attention.

‘I think blinds, you know.'

‘Your fringe keeps getting in your eyes,' said Fenn.

‘Not those awful frilly blinds,' Chloe made frilly movements with her hands, ‘like Scarlett O'Hara's knickers.'

‘Why don't I cut your hair?'

Chloe was already busy flicking through a sample book. She found what she was looking for and held it up.

‘Silver and beige, and keep them really plain…oh.' Belatedly, Fenn's words registered and her hand flew guiltily to her fringe. ‘My Dulux look, you mean? I meant to have a go at it last week but Miranda borrowed my nail scissors to trim the flex on her hair dryer and—'

‘I don't want to hear this.' Fenn felt as he imagined a surgeon might feel, upon being told that a patient had decided to dig out his own appendix with a rusty knife and a spoon.

Spotting the shudder, Chloe pulled an apologetic face.

‘Sorry, I'm not usually such a pleb.' She shrugged, embarrassed. ‘Trying to economize, that's all.'

‘Will you let me do it for you?' said Fenn.

Chloe was overjoyed.

‘I'm hardly likely to refuse an offer like that, am I?'

***

In all his years of hairdressing, this was a first for Fenn. As a rule, female clients fancied him like mad and flirted with him shamelessly. Less often, deciding that he liked the look of one of these clients, he would flirt back, take her phone number and possibly ask her out.