Miranda's Big Mistake

by Jill Mansell

  Miranda winced.

  ‘After all,’ Bev continued remorselessly, ‘those gloves cost about two hundred quid.’

  They were great friends. She was extremely fond of Miranda, who was dippy and good-hearted. The trouble was, Miranda was always getting herself into…well, trouble. She had a habit of making mistakes.

  ‘Well?’ said Bev.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Miranda groaned, thrusting the broom into her hands. ‘Just cover for me. If Fenn asks where I am, tell him I’m in the loo. I’ll be back in two minutes.’

  As she raced to the door, Bev called after her, ‘Honestly, the muddles you get yourself into.’ She broke into a broad grin. ‘I’m glad I’m not you.’

  Me too, thought Miranda as she pelted hell for leather up the Brompton Road, I wish I wasn’t me either.

  Oh God, this was definitely going to be awkward.

  He was still there, thank goodness. When he spotted her running towards him, he nodded and raised one hand briefly in greeting, waggling his fingers to show her he was still wearing the nice warm gloves.

  ‘This,’ said Miranda, ‘is so embarrassing.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Her teeth began to chatter with cold and shame. It was still raining and she’d dashed out without her coat.

  ‘The gloves. They…er, belong to someone. And…um, well, now they want them back.’

  Dear God, what must he think of me? Playing Lady Bountiful one minute, and all but stripping him naked the next.

  He didn’t even blink.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Miranda with an air of desperation. ‘I feel terrible.’

  ‘And I keep telling you, no need to apologize.’ He peeled off the gloves and held them out to her, smiling faintly as he did so. ‘They weren’t really me, anyway.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Feeling a complete heel, she took them from him.

  ‘Do you need the scarf back as well?’

  ‘No! Stop,’ she almost yelled in alarm as he began to unwind it from around his neck, ‘you can definitely keep the scarf!’

  ‘That’s okay then.’ Relieved, he patted it back into place. ‘Actually, I prefer the scarf.’ His dark eyes registered self-deprecating amusement. ‘It’s much more my style.’

  ***

  As she burst through the tinted glass door to the salon, Miranda heard a male voice saying, ‘…at least now I don’t have to buy a new pair.’ In the nick of time she shoved the gloves under her T-shirt.

  Bev, who had been stalling the man and simultaneously doing her best to impress him with (a) her chest and (b) her dazzling repartee, visibly exhaled with relief when she saw Miranda and the odd-shaped bump protruding beneath her own, considerably smaller, breasts.

  ‘Mission accomplished,’ Miranda murmured when they met up seconds later in the cloakroom. Producing the gloves with a flourish, she waggled them in front of Bev, like cow’s udders.

  ‘This is known as a skin-of-your-teeth experience. He’s in a rush.’ Bev grabbed the gloves, wafting them suspiciously under her nose. ‘God, if he knew where they’d been.’

  Miranda looked offended. ‘I had a shower this morning.’

  ‘Not you, you idiot. Homeless Herbert. It’s probably weeks since he saw a bar of soap.’

  Miranda followed her out of the cloakroom.

  ‘Great, thanks.’ The man took the gloves, then frowned. ‘They’re warm.’

  He looked at Bev. Bev, stumped, gazed back at him.

  ‘It’s cold outside,’ Miranda chimed in helpfully. ‘As soon as you rang, Bev put them on the radiator to warm up.’

  Relieved, Bev nodded vigorously.

  ‘That was nice of you.’ He grinned at her.

  ‘Bev’s a thoughtful girl,’ said Miranda. ‘Single, too,’ she went on, barely wincing as beneath the desk a stiletto heel jabbed into her foot. ‘She’d make someone a wonderful wife.’

  When the client had left, Fenn beckoned Miranda over to him.

  ‘So the gloves have been claimed?’

  ‘Mmm. Lucky he came back before I ran off with them.’

  ‘Very lucky.’

  Fenn kept a straight face as he returned his attention to the hair he was cutting. Did Miranda think he was blind and stupid?

  ***

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Miranda wrinkled her nose as she burst into Florence’s living room. ‘It’s all in the hallway…crikey, it’s even stronger in here. Ah, you’ve had a visitor.’

  ‘I have been visited,’ Florence solemnly agreed, as Miranda eyed the teapot and two cups and saucers on the table. ‘By Elizabeth.’

  ‘Poor you. What was it this time,’ Miranda shrugged off her coat, ‘more raffle tickets?’

  Elizabeth Turnbull, their next-door neighbor, was a divorcée in her mid-forties who devoted half her life to charity fund-raising and the other half to squirting on perfume. She was a nice enough woman, if a bit on the bossy side. Overpowering in every sense of the word.

  ‘Worse.’ As she spoke, Florence pushed a couple of stiff white invitations across the table. ‘Tickets to a cocktail party, if you please. Twenty quid a head, but they’ve rustled up a few celebrities,’ she raised her asymmetrically penciled eyebrows, ‘so apparently it’s a bargain. You get a free glass of champagne and the chance to hobnob with the rich and famous. And, of course, it’s all for a tremendously good cause.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be tremendous fun, too.’ Miranda, in turn, mimicked Elizabeth’s strident tones. She glanced at the gilt-edged invitations, each one admitting two guests. ‘Actually, it might be fun. You could do with a night out.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not going.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘The party’s being held in a third-floor flat. No elevators in the building.’ Dryly Florence added, ‘No Stannah Stairlift either. The only way I’d get in is if a helicopter dropped me through the roof.’

  ‘So you paid eighty pounds for tickets and you aren’t even going to turn up?’ Miranda shook her head, bemused. ‘Honestly, and you call me a soft touch.’

  Florence shrugged. She had her caustic-old-battleaxe image to think of.

  ‘It was the only way to get rid of Elizabeth before the stench of that godawful scent of hers started dissolving the carpet. Anyway, I’ll give one of the tickets to Verity and Bruce. The do’s being held on their wedding anniversary—those kind of meet-the-celebrity functions are right up their street.’

  Chapter 4

  It didn’t help that Bruce kept shaking his head and telling her she looked terrible. Every time he said it, Chloe longed to blurt out that maybe if he was pregnant and his wife wanted him to have an abortion, he might look terrible too.

  But she couldn’t.

  She didn’t dare.

  As long as nobody else was aware of the situation, Chloe felt superstitiously, there was a chance it could somehow sort itself out, be magically resolved.

  It didn’t seem likely, she had to admit. But you never knew, miracles did happen.

  The other reason she was reluctant to tell Bruce was…well, her job.

  He was her employer, and if Greg did leave her, she was going to need, rather badly, to stay employed.

  Chloe couldn’t help wondering how a man who disapproved of women spending more than thirty seconds in the loo was likely to react to the idea of time off for OBGYN appointments, visits to the doctor, maybe a whole day off to actually give birth…

  No, no, safer all round to keep this kind of news from him, Chloe thought with a shudder.

  For the time being, at least.

  ***

  She felt doubly guilty on Friday morning when Bruce came into the shop carrying a box from the patisserie around the corner.

 
‘You’re not eating properly,’ he told her, dumping the box on the counter. ‘This dieting business doesn’t suit you. Here, I picked us up a couple of coffee éclairs.’

  Even a fortnight ago, the prospect of a coffee éclair at nine o’clock in the morning would have made her feel sick. Now, gazing lovingly at them, Chloe realized that she was so ravenous she could eat not only both éclairs but the box as well.

  ‘That’s really kind.’

  Does he seriously think I’m looking terrible because I’m on a diet?

  ‘Got something else for you too.’ Digging in his inside pocket, Bruce pulled out a gilt-edged invitation. ‘My mother sent it to us. Some charity bash in Belgravia. Sounds pretty good, but we’ve made other arrangements for that night—it’s our wedding anniversary—so I thought you and Greg could give it a try. Might perk you up a bit.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Dutifully, Chloe studied the invitation. Right now the only thing capable of perking her up would be a husband with a brain transplant.

  ‘Lots of famous people going.’ In case she’d forgotten how to read, Bruce leaned over and pointed to the list of names. ‘Wayne Peterson, the footballer. Caroline Newman, she’s the one who does that holiday program. And Daisy Schofield…’ He hesitated. The name was familiar but he couldn’t place it.

  ‘Australian model, sings a bit. And she’s acted in a couple of films,’ said Chloe. Greg had something of a crush on Daisy Schofield, so she was in a position to know.

  ‘Well, should be fun.’ Bruce gave her an encouraging wink. ‘No getting yourself chatted up by Wayne Peterson, mind. He’s a good-looking chap.’

  Oh yes, highly likely, thought Chloe. The moment Wayne Peterson claps eyes on me, that’ll be it, no question.

  Bowled over.

  Literally, she decided with a rueful smile, if I carry on eating at this rate.

  ***

  Greg waited until Chloe had left for work the next morning before hauling the suitcases out from under the stairs.

  Doing it this way might seem unkind, but he didn’t mean to be. It would just be far more upsetting for Chloe, he knew, to be there watching him pack.

  Easier all round to clear his things out while she was out.

  Was that so cruel?

  It didn’t take him long to fill four suitcases; he wasn’t making off with the household appliances, only clothes and a few CDs.

  Forty minutes later, Greg took a last tour around the living room. Not the happiest day of his life, but he’d survive.

  None of this is my fault, he told himself, imagining Chloe’s reaction when she came home at five thirty and found his note. It really isn’t my fault, though. Chloe knew the rules and she broke them. How can I be to blame when she forced me into this?

  He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It had been a wedding present from his grandmother, but he wouldn’t take it with him. He wasn’t a bastard, for one thing. This might be the end of the road for himself and Chloe but that didn’t mean they had to turn into the kind of couple who fought over the last curtain hook.

  Anyway, what use would he have for a clock like that? He was moving in with his old mate Adrian, whose own wife had run off last year with a stockbroker. The last thing he needed was the chiming brass monstrosity his grandmother had ordered through her catalogue.

  Much as he loved her, there was no getting away from the fact, Greg decided; it was one seriously tacky clock.

  The gilt-edged invitation was propped up next to it on the mantelpiece. With time on his hands, Greg picked it up and idly read through it again. Last night, Chloe had produced the invitation from her bag and said: ‘Why don’t we go to this? Look, Daisy Schofield’s going to be there. You’d like to meet her, wouldn’t you?’

  It had been, he guessed, her way of trying to pretend nothing had happened.

  ‘Chloe, what’s the point?’ He had been gentle with her, but firm. ‘I’ve already told you, I’m moving out. If you want to go to the party, you go.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’ Chloe’s blue eyes had filled with tears. ‘Not on my own.’

  That had been it. Greg had shrugged, indicating that this was hardly his fault, and Chloe had flung the invitation to the floor before rushing from the room. Greg had been the one to bend down, retrieve it from beneath the coffee table and put it safely on the mantelpiece.

  Daisy Schofield.

  God, she was gorgeous.

  That body…

  Oh, what the hell, Greg thought as he slid the invitation into the back pocket of his jeans. It wasn’t as if Chloe was going to be using it, was she?

  Let’s face it, some opportunities are simply too good to miss.

  ***

  It was a cold, bright Sunday. For what seemed like the first time in months, the sky was blue and the sun was out.

  Florence was sitting gazing out of her window when she heard Miranda clatter down the stairs.

  ‘It’s me, I’m going shopping.’ She poked her head around Florence’s door. ‘Anything I can get you?’

  ‘Absolutely. A bottle of Montrachet, please.’

  Miranda’s expressive eyebrows slanted at right angles.

  ‘Sounds like a sneeze. What is it, some kind of cough medicine?’

  ‘Wine. Better than medicine.’ Florence wheeled herself across to where her handbag lay. ‘Here, let me get you the money.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll pick it up in Tesco. Pay me later.’

  Florence waggled a fifty-pound note at her.

  ‘We aren’t talking plonk here, this should just about cover it. And you’ll have to go to the wine merchants in Kendal Street.’

  ‘Blimey. Special occasion?’ Privately Miranda thought Florence must be mad. Tesco did some great special offers. If she was in the mood to push the boat out she could get a really nice Australian Chardonnay for £3.99.

  ‘It’s April the tenth. Ray’s birthday. We always drank Montrachet on his birthday.’ Briskly Florence snapped her purse shut, determined not to sound like a sentimental old fool. ‘I’ve kind of kept up the ritual. Well, we always said we would. It was Ray’s favorite wine. Flashy bugger,’ she glanced fondly at his photograph, on the table next to her, ‘he reckoned he was worth it.’

  ***

  When Miranda arrived back with the wine an hour later, she found Florence waiting for her by the door.

  ‘Why are you wearing a hat?’

  ‘It’s cold outside.’ Florence adjusted the tilt of her jaunty red fedora. ‘You’ve been ages. The cab will be here any minute.’ She took the tissue-wrapped bottle as carefully as if it were a newborn baby. ‘Was the fifty enough?’

  ‘Three pounds change. Where are you going?’

  ‘Hampstead Heath. Parliament Hill.’ Florence grinned at the expression on Miranda’s face. ‘The sun’s shining. I could do with the fresh air. Anyway, it’s where Ray and I first met.’

  ‘People will stare at you.’

  ‘Oh well, I’m used to that.’

  ‘You’re going to sit on Parliament Hill drinking a forty-seven-pound bottle of wine?’ Miranda said in disbelief. ‘Have you got a corkscrew?’

  ‘I’m in a wheelchair.’ Comfortably, Florence patted her bag. ‘I’m not senile.’

  The bag, when she’d patted it, had made a clinking noise. As a minicab pulled up outside, Miranda said cautiously, ‘Two glasses. One for you and one for…?’

  If Florence said, ‘Ray,’ she would have to stop her. There was such a thing as too weird.

  ‘You, of course.’ Florence opened the door and began to wheel herself through it. ‘Who else d’you think’s going to push me up that bloody hill?’

  Chapter 5

  The view over Hampstead was breathtaking. White clouds scudded across a robin’s-egg-blue sky and the kite flyers were out
in force. Miranda, feeling the cold, dug her woolly orange beret out of her jacket pocket and pulled it on, Benny Hill style, over her tingling ears.

  Florence held the glasses on her lap and Miranda wrestled the cork out of the bottle. When the wine was poured, they toasted Ray and clinked glasses. Reverently taking her first sip, Miranda tried hard—and failed utterly—to appreciate the finer points of £47-a-bottle wine.

  ‘Mm, yum,’ she lied.

  ‘Ha, and I’m the Queen of Spain. Doesn’t matter if you don’t like it,’ Florence said cheerfully, polishing off her first glassful and smacking her lips. ‘I’ll manage the rest.’

  To steer the subject away from her own shameful ignorance, Miranda huffed on her frozen hands and said, ‘So how did you and Ray meet?’

  ‘Haven’t I told you before? Oh, it’s a great story.’ Florence held her glass out for a refill. ‘I was up here early one Sunday morning with Bruce. He had a new bike and I wouldn’t let him out on the roads. So of course, he set out to prove he could ride the thing—he was eight, you know what they’re like at that age—and the next minute he was hurtling out of control down that path there.’ She nodded in the direction of the narrow path curving to the left below them. ‘Poor little sod ended up going slap into a tree.’

  ‘You’ve never told me this!’ Enthralled, Miranda leaned closer, cross-legged on the grass. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Bruce as a stubborn eight-year-old. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Blood and teeth everywhere. One wrecked bike, one sprained knee. Bruce was screaming blue murder and there was me without so much as a tissue to mop up the blood.’

  ‘Poor Bruce.’

  ‘Poor me! I was in a complete flap. Bruce wasn’t the only one in tears, I can tell you.’

  ‘Hang on, I can guess the rest,’ Miranda said excitedly. ‘Then—trumpets, trumpets!—over the hill came Ray riding to the rescue on his motorbike’—she had heard all about Ray’s devotion to his Norton 500—‘with a first-aid kit slung over one shoulder and a big bag of false teeth on the other.’

  Florence chuckled.

  ‘Not quite. Over the hill came Ray, on foot and hung over, making his way back to Highgate after an all-night party. But he came to the rescue, bless his heart, and he had a clean handkerchief, which was more than I did. He cleaned up Bruce’s mouth, managed to stop him screaming and insisted on giving him a piggyback home. He even carried the smashed-up bike,’ Florence remembered fondly. ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t have a heart attack there and then. Well, that was it as far as I was concerned. Love at first sight. There was Ray with his Clark Gable hair—that was when he still had hair, of course—and me trotting along carrying his dinner jacket. Bruce was dripping blood all over his white evening shirt and he wasn’t even bothered. He made us both laugh. And he wasn’t even doing it to impress me, because as far as he was concerned I was just a young housewife in need of a hand. When we got back to the house he said, “Your husband’s going to have his work cut out getting that bike fixed.”’