Miranda's Big Mistake (27 page)

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?'

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 Miranda 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.'

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—'

‘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.'