Miranda's Big Mistake (26 page)

‘Oh.' Unable to think of anything else to say, Miranda asked in a high voice, ‘Where are you going? Somewhere nice?'

‘The Mirabelle.' Danny indicated his striped tie. ‘Pretty smart, hence the suit.'

‘Pretty expensive too.'

‘Never mind, she's worth it.' Turning, Danny caught the eye of the blonde waiting in his car. She smiled and wiggled her fingers back at him, sex-kitten-style.

Miranda felt her shoulders stiffen. It wasn't jealousy; it really wasn't. She just knew that Danny hadn't really dropped by to return a pair of sunglasses that had cost all of two pounds fifty.

‘Right. I'd better not keep you.'

‘I don't know,' Danny mused, ‘it just doesn't seem fair, somehow. There's Miles Harper, your secret boyfriend, about to take part in the biggest race of his life…and here you are, stuck at home like Cinderella scrubbing the kitchen floor.'

Miranda gritted her teeth. ‘I've already told you, he asked me if I wanted to watch him race.'

‘Oh, that's right, and you said no, you'd rather give Florence's quarry tiles a good going-over.'

‘You still don't believe me, do you? You think I'm making this whole Miles Harper thing up.' Losing her temper—oh dear,
again
—Miranda flung the front door wide open and jabbed a finger in the direction of the sitting room. ‘Right, let me prove it to you.'

Danny signalled to the waiting blonde that he would be two minutes and she nodded, evidently unperturbed.

In the sitting room, Miranda grabbed the video remote and pressed Rewind. She was going to show Danny once and for all that it wasn't a fantasy affair. The tape finished rewinding and she pressed Play, fingers trembling in her eagerness to wipe that hateful smug smile off his face.

A close-up of a woman with a lot of amalgam fillings appeared on the screen. Her orange-lipsticked mouth was wide open and her epiglottis quivered as she drew breath.

‘“…All things wise and wonderful,”' sang the woman in a trembling soprano as the camera panned back to reveal the rest of the congregation, ‘“…the Lord God made them
alllll
.”'

‘Morning worship from Norwich Cathedral,' Danny observed. ‘Don't tell me I'm about to catch a glimpse of you and Miles Harper sharing a hymn book at the back of the church—hey, don't turn it off, I'm interested!'

He was still laughing when she pushed him out of the front door.

‘Sweetheart, all you did was tape the wrong channel. It's a simple mistake, could happen to anyone…in fact, it's exactly the kind of thing you'd expect a racing driver's girlfriend to do, because after all, video recorders are tricky things to understand.'

‘They're tricky things to fit in people's mouths, too.' Miranda gazed pointedly at him. ‘But I could always give it a try.'

Danny grinned.

‘When are you getting them done, anyway?'

‘What?'

He nodded at the front of her T-shirt.

‘Can't be a Grand Prix groupie with a chest that size. You'll be wanting a couple of beach balls in there at least. The hair could be a problem too. What you really need is a Pamela Anderson wig.'

The front door was still open. Across the road in Danny's dusty green BMW, the blonde was peering into the rear-view mirror, carefully touching up her lipstick.

‘You're so funny,' said Miranda. ‘Where did you find your girlfriend anyway? Hookers “R” Us?'

***

The race started at two o'clock. Taping it—and this time checking neurotically at least a dozen times that she had the right channel—Miranda sprawled on the floor with a packet of Jaffa Cakes and forced herself to sit through the most boring Wimbledon men's singles final in the history of tennis. Point by monotonous point the grunting, charisma-free pair slugged it out from their respective baselines. It was sheer torture—worse than being strapped to a chair and forced to watch two hours of folk dancing—but Miranda stuck it out to the bitter end. She had to, having managed to convince herself that if she changed channels, even for a second, this action would send Miles's car spinning off the track.

Finally, finally, one of the tennis players got into a muddle and started trying to hit his opponent's grunt instead of the ball. He promptly lost his serve, went to pieces and flung his racquet to the ground as the winning ball hurtled past him. Game, set, match and…yes, championship! Miranda was so relieved it was over she could have kissed them both.

The ball-boys and ball-girls trooped out. The officials formed an orderly line. The audience nudged each other to wake up. The obligatory royals made their entrance on court and attempted to make polite conversation with assorted tongue-tied ball-boys and girls.

‘Too slow, too
slow
,' hissed Miranda, on her knees in front of the TV. ‘Come on, get a move on, for crying out loud,
hurry up
.'

Only when the loser had received his medal, the winner had kissed his trophy, the photographers had taken fifty million photographs and both players had left the court did Miranda allow herself to turn over to the other channel.

When she saw what was happening at Silverstone, her eyes filled with tears. He'd done it, he'd actually done it. Miles had beaten the Frenchman and won the British Grand Prix. There he was, up on the podium, spraying champagne over an ecstatic crowd. He was laughing, joking with the photographers and drenching his overjoyed support team. Miranda, sitting back on her heels, pressed her hands to her mouth. This had to be the best moment of his life, and it was all,
all
thanks to her. Because if she'd watched the race—or even one tiny bit of the race—she knew with superstitious certainty that Miles would never have won.

He phoned her an hour later, yelling above a background of tumultuous noise.

‘It's chaos here! Did you see me do it? Miranda, can you hear me? Did you watch the race?'

‘I'm watching it now. You're on lap twenty-three.' She looked down at her nails, bitten to shreds even though it was only a video rerun. ‘God, I really hope you win.'

He laughed.

‘I can't wait until tomorrow.'

‘Me neither,' sighed Miranda, feeling very bold.

‘No, listen, I meant I'm not
going
to wait. I'm getting out of here as soon as I can and coming to pick you up. Christ knows when, probably not until around nine…can you manage that?'

Anything, anything! Giddy with delight and ridiculously flattered, Miranda said, ‘Couldn't make it nine thirty, could you? Only I've got a bit of ironing to get through first.'

She heard the sound of champagne corks being popped in the background, punctuated by screams of laughter. How many stunning blondes was Miles currently surrounded by? Stunning blondes with breasts like giant beach balls, Miranda reminded herself, and teeth so dazzlingly white they glowed in the dark like neon…

‘You do realize I had to win this race,' Miles told her. ‘I thought you wouldn't be interested in me any more if I didn't.'

‘You're right, I wouldn't have been. I'm fickle like that.'

‘What?' The noise level was diabolical. It was hard to be laid-back and witty, Miranda discovered, when only the occasional word was managing to percolate through the din.

‘Never mind. I'll see you later.' A thought suddenly struck her. ‘During the race—were you wearing the pig?'

‘Who's a pig?' Miles's voice grew faint. ‘Hang on, the signal's going, this is a useless phone.'

‘See you later,' Miranda yelled again, as he began to crackle and break up. ‘'Bye!'

***

No Florence, no Chloe. Damn, not even Danny Delancey, thought Miranda as nine o'clock approached. When he was the last person you wanted to clap eyes on, he could be guaranteed to turn up. But when you wouldn't actually mind seeing him—in order for him to witness the glorious spectacle of you being swept off your feet by one of the most gorgeous, glamorous men ever—well, then you had…how much chance? Well, exactly. None at all.

Instead, Danny was off out somewhere with Rent-a-Trollop, no doubt regaling her with the rib-tickling tale of the blue-haired girl so pathetic and deluded that she'd actually convinced herself she was involved with Miles Harper…

Typical, thought Miranda, frustrated. Just when I'm looking so fantastic too.

***

Nine o'clock came and went.

Then ten and eleven o'clock.

Miranda could forgive him for being late. He had just won the Grand Prix.

At midnight, she squirted on a bit more scent, brushed her teeth again and carefully redid her lipstick.

At half past midnight she spilled orange juice down the front of her white velvet tank top. Doggedly refusing to believe that Miles might not, after all, be on his way, Miranda scrubbed the orange juice stain out of the top, washed it, blasted it dry with Chloe's hair dryer and put it back on.

At ten past one anxiety turned abruptly to relief. Hearing the tick-tick sound of a black cab pulling up outside the house, Miranda grabbed her bag and raced to the door faster than a greyhound out of a trap. Okay, so he was late, but she didn't care. What did four hours of agonized waiting and serious nail-biting matter? Miles had turned up, hadn't he? So much for the race-track groupies, Miranda thought joyfully, wrenching open the front door. Not all men were enthralled by the sight of beach-ball breasts. Ha, some actually preferred ping pong—

‘Hi,' panted Chloe, dragging her overnight bag into the hall. ‘You're up late—just got in from somewhere nice? Oof, I'm shattered, a day with my mother's worse than any triathlon.' Pulling a face, she unzipped her bag. ‘Wait until you see how much stuff she's knitted for the baby.'

Miranda couldn't speak. Disappointed wasn't the word for it. Biting her lip, she watched Chloe pull a stream of doll-sized matinée jackets, cardigans and booties out of the bag like a conjuror.

‘Can you believe it? I think she even knits in her sleep,' Chloe marveled. ‘And this is only the stuff I could carry. Seven hats, I ask you, how many heads does she think this baby's going to have? Gosh, my throat's dry, let me put the kettle on.' She squeezed past Miranda, heading for the kitchen. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?'

‘Um, no thanks.'

‘Florence not back yet? Honestly, she's turned into a complete gadabout! I bet they're having the most fantastic time in Edinburgh…Isn't it terrible about Miles Harper?'

Miranda, her arms full of the soft, hand-knitted baby things Chloe had dumped on her, felt the blood slow to a halt in her veins.

‘Isn't what terrible? He won the race.'

In the milliseconds before Chloe's reply, Miranda's mind conjured up a satisfactory explanation. There had been a steward's inquiry—or whatever it was they called them in motor-racing circles—and Miles had been stripped of his title, found guilty of dangerous driving…or not doing enough laps…or failing a drug test, something like that—

‘Oh, haven't you heard? Put the TV on,' said Chloe, ‘they're bound to be talking about it. After he left Silverstone this evening he was driving back to London and a lorry smashed into his car on the Ml.' She looked at Miranda, her forehead creasing with concern. ‘I forgot, you met him once, didn't you? Bev was teasing you about him the day you painted my room.'

Everything was happening in slow motion. Feeling as if she was having an out-of-body experience, Miranda watched herself bend down and place the bundle of baby clothes carefully on the floor. Okay, Miles had failed to arrive because he'd been involved in an accident, that was fair enough, that was an excellent excuse for not turning up. And the reason he hadn't phoned to let her know he was going to be late was because he was having a couple of X-rays just to be on the safe side. Miranda nodded to herself, reassured by this. Everyone knew you couldn't use mobile phones in X-ray departments because they sent medical machinery haywire.

Otherwise of course he'd phone me, to let me know he's okay.

‘He is okay.' She looked up at Chloe, seeking confirmation. ‘I mean, maybe a few cuts and bruises, but that's all. He's a brilliant driver, you know, he wouldn't have just
let
a lorry smash into him.'

‘I'm sorry.' Chloe hesitated, shaken by the depth of Miranda's reaction. She was as white as a sheet and trembling visibly. ‘On the news it said the lorry crashed through the median—there was nothing anyone could have done to avoid it.'

‘But Miles is all right. He
is
all right.' Miranda felt like a parrot but she couldn't stop saying it. She wished her teeth would stop chattering and she wished Chloe would stop looking at her in that awful, panicky way. ‘Okay, he's in hospital, I realize that, but he's definitely going to be all right.'

The boiling kettle forgotten, Chloe came towards her. She led Miranda into the sitting room and made her sit down.

‘Miranda, I'm really sorry. He's dead.'

‘Oh no, that's a mistake. He can't be dead.' Firmly, Miranda shook her head.

Clearly, thought Chloe, something was going on here that she didn't know about. She put her arms around Miranda.

‘Darling, I'm afraid he is dead. He was killed outright.'

The next twelve hours were a blur. When she had finished telling Chloe the whole story, Miranda huddled on Florence's sofa and watched every news bulletin on every channel. The nation was gripped by the tragedy—and timing—of Miles Harper's shocking death. TV journalists broadcast live from the bridge over the M1 above the scene of the accident. By midday on Monday, the motorway embankment had disappeared beneath a sea of flowers. Photographs of Miles flapped in the warm breeze. People who had driven for miles to lay cellophane-wrapped bouquets shed tears and hugged each other and told reporters with microphones that it was so sad, so unfair, such a terrible, terrible waste.

The driver of the lorry, it was rapidly established, had suffered a heart attack and died seconds before the crash. No one, not even a driver of Miles Harper's caliber, could have escaped the impact of a twenty-ton artic veering abruptly across three lanes and on to the southbound carriageway. Miles had been killed instantly and his car crushed beyond recognition.

It was like reliving her parents' death all over again. Except that all their accident had merited was a couple of paragraphs in the local paper. Nothing like this media circus.

As she gazed at the TV, Miranda marveled at the great outpouring of clichés. Miles Harper's family and friends, naturally, were devastated. The whole country, intoned the especially cliché-prone newsreader on the lunchtime news, was devastated. Most of all, though, he gravely informed a nation in mourning, Miles's girlfriend was…
utterly
devastated.

‘We now cross, live, to the scene of yesterday's tragic accident,' the newsreader announced. ‘Where Daisy Schofield, actress girlfriend of Miles Harper, has arrived to lay a wreath. Dermot, over to you.'

‘Well, Michael, as you can see, Daisy Schofield is having to be helped out of her limousine. She's clearly distraught…clutching a magnificent wreath of pale-yellow lilies…a fragile figure dressed all in black. I must say, Michael, your heart goes out to her at this dreadful, dreadful time.'

‘Shall I turn it off?' Chloe said anxiously.

Miranda shook her head. She wanted to see it all. Everything.

‘…Barely able to stand, she is supported on either side by professional minders. Daisy, Daisy, we have a live link to the studio, I wonder if you feel up to saying a few words.' The on-the-spot reporter shoved a microphone under Daisy's nose. ‘Maybe you could tell us how you're feeling right now.'

As asinine questions went, this one pretty much took the biscuit.

Miranda wondered how the man would react if Daisy whipped off her sunglasses, flashed him a big smile and said, ‘Oh, not too bad, quite chirpy actually—and black does suit me, don't you think?'

Anyhow, that wasn't going to happen. The state of Daisy's eyes behind the opaque dark glasses was anybody's guess, but her mouth trembled with grief. Clutching the yellow lilies to her chest, she turned to the reporter and whispered brokenly, ‘I loved him so much, and he loved me. We were going to be married…he asked me on Friday night to marry him…We were so happy…Oh, this is like some terrible nightmare.' Daisy's voice rose to an anguished wail. ‘I can't believe he's gone. My life is over, over!' Shaking her head in desperation, she went on, ‘I feel so guilty, because he was hurrying back to London to see
me
. Oh God, I can't bear it!' Sinking to her knees, Daisy buried her face in the lilies and broke down completely, heaving great gut-wrenching sobs and pounding the ground with her clenched fists.

Cringing at the spectacle, itching to turn it off, Chloe indignantly said, ‘She's lying. It's all an act. Miles was coming back to see
you
.'

‘He might not have been.' Miranda kept her gaze fixed on the screen. ‘She might not be lying. Maybe Miles was only stringing me along, pretending to have finished with her.'

‘But you heard her on the phone,' Chloe protested. ‘You told me she was yelling at him on the extension, calling him a bastard.'

‘Someone was calling him a bastard. It could have been anyone, screaming at the top of their voice like that.' Miranda didn't know what to believe any more. She watched Daisy Schofield, on the TV, being helped to her feet. One of the burly minders had passed her a lace handkerchief and Daisy was dabbing under her dark glasses, muttering feverishly, ‘He was mine, all mine.'

Chloe's head jerked up. She'd definitely heard that line before. What's more, the voice was the same too.

‘She rang here! On Saturday afternoon. I thought it was someone warning me to keep away from Fenn!'

‘Warn
you
? Why would anyone do that?' Despite everything, Miranda was momentarily diverted. ‘You're pregnant.'

‘I know.' Chloe felt incredibly stupid. ‘It just didn't occur to me that they might have been trying to scare off the wrong person.'

‘So for now, we leave Daisy Schofield to grieve in peace at the scene of her fiancé's tragic demise. This is Dermot Hegarty, handing back to you, Michael, in the studio.'

‘Dermot, thank you.'

‘Yes, Dermot. Thank you,' said Miranda, switching off the TV at last.

‘So he did finish with Daisy.' As Chloe consoled her with a hug, the phone began to ring.

‘It's me.' Bruce sounded aggrieved. ‘I can't run this bloody shop single-handed, you know. Promise me you'll be back tomorrow.'

Chloe hesitated. Miranda, who could hear every boomed-out word, said, ‘It's okay, tell him you'll be in.'

‘What about you?' Chloe looked worried.

‘Oh, I'll manage. I'll be into work myself.'

‘God, are you sure?'

Miranda shrugged.

‘Sitting here like a zombie isn't doing me any favors. I'd rather be busy. And Fenn's short-staffed this week, with Corinne away.'

***

On his way back from a meeting at Broadcasting House that afternoon, Danny slipped into a newsagent's to pick up a copy of the
Evening Standard
. The tiny cramped shop smelled of patchouli oil, and the plump, middle-aged Asian woman behind the counter was sitting on a stool watching a portable television. When she saw Danny, she wiped her eyes with the edge of her emerald-green sari.

‘Oh dear, look at me, what must you think? It's so sad though, isn't it, such a lovely boy…There now, what can I do for you, sir?'

The TV, perched precariously on top of a pile of
Hello!
, was reshowing Sunday's pre-race interview between Miles Harper and the excitable racing commentator. Miles was leaning back in his chair, smiling and utterly relaxed, answering questions about his preparations for the forthcoming race. When he unfastened the collar of his denim shirt and began to play, apparently absentmindedly, with the choker around his neck, Danny leaned across to take a closer look. He hadn't seen this interview before, but he recognized the object attached to the leather choker. It was Miranda's—he'd spotted it while they'd been filming in her room.

Listening intently, he heard the interviewer say, ‘…Daisy Schofield, am I right?'

‘Actually, no, but I do have a message for the lovely lady in my life.' Pausing and smiling his famous lazy smile, Miles quite deliberately showed off the copper pig to the camera, turning it this way and that to catch the studio lights. ‘And that is, when you meet the right person, you know it. That's what happened to me and I—'

The interviewer charged in at that moment to close the interview. Miles, cut off in crucial mid-sentence, grinned and rolled his eyes with good-natured resignation.

The clip ended equally abruptly and the Indian lady blew her nose noisily into a pink tissue.

‘I'm sorry, I'm not usually like this. But can you imagine how his poor girlfriend must feel? I saw her on the TV earlier, oh, in a terrible state. They were going to get married, you know.' She riffled through one of that morning's papers and pushed it across the counter, showing Danny a recent photograph of Miles and Daisy together at some polo match. ‘Isn't it just the saddest thing in the world?'

***

It felt strange being back at work, realizing that the rest of the world was carrying on more or less as if nothing had happened. Miranda, having explained everything to Fenn and Bev the night before, was aware that Fenn had warned the rest of the staff to be gentle with her, even though they weren't entirely sure
why
they were being gentle. In the mean time, she kept herself as busy as possible, making coffee and running errands, shampooing heads and sweeping up.

Customers were customers, business was business, after all. Life goes on.

***

‘Excuse me, is Miranda here?'

Bev was surreptitiously reading an article in
Cosmo
about liposuctioning fat out of your thighs and injecting it into your lips—heavens, surely not
all
of it—when she realized she was being spoken to. Guilty at being caught out, she shoveled the magazine under the desk and gave the man asking the question her most intimidating stare. Solidly built, in his late twenties, with uncombed light-brown hair and a less than groomed appearance…oh yes, he fit the bill all right.

‘Miranda who?'

He shot her a weary look.

‘Please. I know she works here. I need to see her, okay?'

Bev bristled at his arrogant manner. Fenn had warned her just this morning to be on her guard against doorstep journalists. If anyone came round asking questions about Miranda, he had instructed, Bev was to say nothing and get rid of them, smartish.

No problem. Getting rid of men smartish was a specialty of Bev's. Sadly, even when she didn't want them to go.

‘Miranda isn't here.' As she spoke, Bev moved around slightly to block the man's view of the salon.

To her fury he reached across the counter, gripped her by the elbows and moved her firmly back again.

‘Yes she is. Over there. See?' He pointed out Miranda, emerging from the back room with a mountain of towels.

‘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.'