Miranda's Big Mistake

by Jill Mansell

‘You’re all heart,’ Miranda muttered, counting how much she had left.

  Surreptitiously, while he wasn’t looking, she slid a couple of fifties into the waistband of her skirt, for emergency use only. Sod Danny; if he didn’t know she had them, he couldn’t demand his money back.

  ‘Right, my go.’ Florence rattled the dice and flung them across the board with panache. ‘Six. Hah, Community Chest! “It’s your birthday,”’ she read aloud, ‘“collect five hundred pounds from each player.”’

  ‘I think you mean ten,’ Danny told her.

  Florence winked at him.

  ‘Worth a try, darling, always worth a try. Wouldn’t care to sell me that funny little blue card of yours, by any chance?’

  ‘That funny little blue card,’ said Danny, ‘is Park Lane.’

  ‘Name your price,’ Florence announced grandly.

  ‘A brand-new Porsche.’

  ‘Oh!’ Miranda suddenly squealed. ‘Did you see Bruce’s face when you said Florence had offered to buy you one?’ Scrambling into a sitting position, she imitated Bruce’s get-ready-for-the-suppository expression. ‘Poor old Bruce, I almost felt sorry for him, I thought for a second his eyes were going to bounce out on springs…you know, doinnnggg…’

  Chloe stared at Miranda in amazement.

  Florence, raising her eyebrows, said, ‘Is she on drugs?’

  ‘Either that or she has something to hide.’ Danny was calmly counting his own money. ‘It could be a desperate attempt to distract us, so we won’t notice she’s landed on somebody else’s property—’

  ‘Yes! Bond Street!’ Chloe cried. ‘Hooray, that’s mine!’

  ‘Bastard.’ Miranda glared at Danny, who was trying not to smile.

  ‘Actually,’ he said to Chloe, ‘would you take seven hundred pounds for Fenchurch Street Station?’

  Chloe, who was turning into quite the wheeler-dealer, promptly said, ‘Make it eight.’

  Florence said, ‘He only has seven.’

  Danny looked at Miranda.

  ‘Pay-up time, I’m afraid. I need that extra hundred.’

  ‘I don’t have it! Chloe’s just cleaned me out,’ Miranda protested. Danny could take a hike, he wasn’t getting his hands on her emergency fund.

  ‘Give me my hundred.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Oh yes you can.’

  ‘Look, how can I give you something I don’t have?’

  Florence said, ‘Where are you going?’ as Danny leapt to his feet.

  ‘Don’t you know? I’m a debt collector in my spare time.’

  Miranda, who was on her knees, began to shuffle rapidly backwards away from the table. Ow, carpet burns, carpet burns—

  ‘No!’ She let out a howl of outrage as Danny made a grab for her. ‘You can’t do that!’

  A brief and not very dignified grappling contest ensued on the Persian rug. Miranda screamed as warm fingers burrowed expertly under her T-shirt and slid—eek—beneath the waistband of her skirt.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Danny, emerging triumphant within seconds and clearly not sorry at all. ‘Had to be done.’

  Grinning, he waggled the crumpled fifties under Miranda’s nose, then whisked them out of reach before she could grab them back.

  ‘I hate you,’ Miranda sighed. ‘Now I’m really, really skint.’

  ‘Cheer up, I might land on Old Kent Road in a minute.’ Danny rolled his eyes. ‘Then I’ll owe you…phew, two whole pounds.’

  ‘That wasn’t gel I put in your hair, by the way.’ Miranda tugged her T-shirt down over her midriff. ‘It was superglue.’

  ‘You two, stop sniping,’ Florence instructed as the telephone began to ring. ‘At least while I answer the phone.’

  ‘Maybe I should check your bra,’ said Danny. ‘You could have thousands stashed away.’

  Miranda gazed up at him from the floor, flushed and out of breath.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Want to bet? Oh, sorry, you can’t, can you?’ Danny flashed her his wickedest grin. ‘I forgot you don’t have any money left to bet with.’

  ‘Pig,’ wailed Miranda.

  ‘Miranda!’ said Florence.

  ‘What? Why can’t I call him a pig?’

  ‘I think Florence is talking about the phone call,’ Chloe put in helpfully.

  ‘Oh.’ Lifting her head from the rug, Miranda saw Florence holding the receiver out to her. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Richard Branson, ringing to ask if you want to borrow a couple of grand.’ Florence cackled and blew pretend kisses in the direction of the phone. ‘Who d’you think?’

  Chloe passed the receiver across to Miranda and wriggled out of her way.

  At the sound of Greg’s voice, Miranda’s stomach did an impromptu jump for joy.

  ‘Sounds lively,’ he observed. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m just losing at Monopoly. Mainly because I’m surrounded by cheats.’ Miranda narrowed her eyes at Danny. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Lonely. Missing you,’ said Greg.

  ‘Oh!’ Overcome by this admission, Miranda tried to shield her mouth so that Danny wouldn’t be able to overhear. ‘I miss you too!’

  ‘This is so romantic.’ Danny sighed, clutching Chloe’s shoulder and shaking his head. ‘Anyone got a tissue?’

  ‘You may need one’—this time Miranda covered the receiver—‘to mop up the blood.’ Moving her hand away, she returned her attention to Greg. ‘Sorry about that. Some people have the most infantile sense of humor. So where are you now, out somewhere celebrating the end of the conference?’

  ‘Better than that. Newport Pagnell service station, on the M1.’

  Miranda let out an ear-splitting shriek.

  ‘You’re joking! What are you doing there?’

  ‘Uh oh,’ Danny leaned back on one elbow, ‘he’s met someone else. He’s ringing from Gretna Green to tell her he’s just got married. Her name’s Susie, she’s a stripper—ouch.’

  Miranda stuck out her tongue and kicked him, for good measure. Did he really think he was being amusing?

  ‘I couldn’t stand it a minute longer,’ said Greg. ‘We all went out to a club earlier. You should have seen the rest of the team, chatting up anything in a skirt. All they care about is picking up some tart for the night and getting their leg over. I left them to it,’ he went on. ‘That might be their idea of fun, but it isn’t mine.’

  ‘So you’re on your way home now,’ Miranda exclaimed. ‘Oh, this is brilliant! How long will it take you to get here?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at eleven.’ Greg sounded as if he were smiling. ‘Only if you want me to, of course.’

  ‘I do want you to. Oh, I definitely want you to.’ Miranda was beaming too; she couldn’t help herself. She wished she could purr seductive sweet nothings into the phone but it was hard to purr seductively when you had such a blatantly amused audience.

  ‘I love you,’ said Greg.

  ‘Mm. Um, me too.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Difficult to talk?’

  Across the table, Danny was playing an imaginary violin.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Okay, never mind. See you soon.’

  ‘I sincerely hope that wasn’t Richard Branson,’ said Danny when she had hung up.

  ‘I don’t need a loan any more.’ Miranda shot him a sweet, couldn’t-care-less smile. ‘I’m out, bankrupt. You three can carry on without me. And you,’ she pointed a finger at him, ‘can apologize, if you like, for all that guff you gave me earlier about men saying they’re away at sales conferences when they aren’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry. He’s clearly mad about you.’

  ‘He is,’ said Miranda.

  ‘He’s a
very lucky man.’

  ‘Absolutely correct.’

  Danny grinned, watching her uncross her legs and leap excitedly to her feet.

  ‘So what’s he got that I haven’t? Oh, don’t tell me, he’s terrific in bed.’

  Florence was by this time practically doubled up with laughter.

  ‘Right again,’ Miranda told him as she headed for the door. ‘That makes three out of three. Excellent. You could be a clairvoyant when you grow up.’

  ***

  It was five past eleven.

  Downstairs, Chloe could dimly hear Florence and Danny still battling it out across the Monopoly board, each of them determined to win.

  Yawning, Chloe climbed into her new bed. It had been a long day and she was shattered. Four hours in the shop, then the trip to the OBGYN clinic, followed by the move itself, not to mention the strain of keeping a straight face throughout Danny Delancey’s bravura performance as Orlando.

  The curled-up strip of photographic paper lay on the bedside table between her rackety old alarm clock and her reading lamp. Reaching for it, Chloe lay back against the pillows and gazed at the fuzzy ultrasound image of her baby.

  The doctor had assured her that it was a baby, even though, in profile, it looked a lot like an exotic mushroom.

  Chloe’s eyes filled with tears of joy as she traced the outline of the head and stomach. To have actually watched the tiny heart beating frantically away on the screen, seen the birdlike legs stretch and kick…

  Biting her lip, she remembered the hospital waiting room packed with hand-holding couples. All those husbands and boyfriends, actually looking forward to seeing their very own exotic mushrooms for the first time.

  Oh, Greg, you stupid, selfish bastard, you don’t know what you’re missing, you really don’t.

  Chloe was still studying the miraculous black-and-white image when she heard the sound of a car drawing up outside, followed by a brief toot on the horn. Less than a second later, there was a wild flurry of activity in the next-door room. Cupboards and drawers were slammed shut, the radio switched off and the bedroom door closed.

  She listened to Miranda, in high heels, clatter rapturously down the stairs, call goodnight to Florence and bang the front door behind her. Suddenly tempted to sneak out of bed and peer out of the window, Chloe threw back the duvet. The next moment, the car door slammed shut and the engine was revved up. Oh well, how much had she expected to see anyway, in pitch darkness?

  Chloe hauled the duvet back up again, switched off the bedside lamp and settled down to sleep.

  Lucky Miranda, to have a boyfriend so besotted that he had driven all the way back from Birmingham just to be with her tonight.

  As she closed her eyes, Chloe wondered briefly if any man would ever feel that way again about her.

  Sex, good grief, she could hardly remember what it was like. It was months, Chloe realized, since anyone had approached her nether regions without stopping first to pull on a pair of surgical gloves.

  Chapter 27

  Greg lay back in bed and watched Miranda, naked, nudge the bedroom door open with her bottom.

  ‘This was definitely worth coming back for.’ He grinned and took one of the cups from her. It was a warm night and two hours of stupendous sex had given him a raging thirst. ‘Sorry it has to be tea,’ he clunked his cup against Miranda’s, ‘but I’m all out of champagne.’

  ‘It’s probably disgusting,’ she warned as he took a gulp. ‘You’re out of milk too.’

  It was disgusting, chiefly because Miranda had sprinkled in a bit of Coffee Mate as a consolation prize, but Greg didn’t care. She was here and that was all that mattered.

  ‘I meant what I said on the phone earlier.’ He looked at her, his grey eyes serious. ‘The last few days have been awful. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed you.’

  Miranda abandoned her own cup of undrinkable tea and slid back under the duvet.

  ‘I missed you too.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Greg. ‘I know it’s a bit soon to be saying this, but it just seems crazy, me living here and you living there…both of us paying rent, not to mention all the extra traveling…’

  Her heart skipped a lorryload of beats. Was Greg really saying what she thought he was trying to say?

  Oh, come on, thought Miranda, how dumb am I pretending to be? Of course he was. Even if it wasn’t coming out terribly romantically, she acknowledged with a rush of love. That was the trouble with men, they just didn’t watch enough slushy girlie films; they had no idea how it was meant to be done.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Playfully she danced her fingers across his bare chest. ‘We set up a tent on the bank of the Grand Union Canal? That’s about halfway between your place and mine, wouldn’t you say?’

  Greg captured her hand and held it still. This was important; he didn’t need that kind of distraction right now.

  ‘I’m suggesting you move in with me. I want us to live together.’

  Miranda gazed at him, wide-eyed. Mustn’t laugh, mustn’t laugh.

  ‘You mean, because it would be timesaving and economical?’

  ‘No,’ said Greg. ‘Because I love you and I want to be with you. All the time.’

  ***

  ‘What’s up with you?’ said Bev, materializing behind Miranda at the sinks and making her jump.

  ‘Me? Nothing, nothing…why should anything be up?’

  Bev raised an eyebrow at the scarlet jumble of rag rollers in the sink.

  ‘No reason, just that you’ve been scrubbing away at those things for the last twenty minutes. You’ve missed your coffee break. More importantly,’ she pointed out, ‘you’ve missed your Mars bar break. And I’ve never seen that happen before.’

  Oh help, have to tell her soon, thought Miranda. She lifted the Molton Browners out of the sink—it was like manhandling a dead octopus—and began to pat them dry with a towel.

  ‘I wasn’t hungry,’ she said with a shrug.

  ‘Not hungry? Golly, you must be ill. Better get your appetite back before next week.’

  Miranda’s forehead creased.

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘Your birthday, dipstick! Sunday lunch at Sexy Sam’s,’ Bev reminded her. ‘It’s all arranged, the table’s booked for one o’clock.’

  Miranda had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Greg, her birthday next week had completely slipped her mind. Meeting up for a raucous celebration lunch was an established salon tradition hugely popular with Fenn’s overworked but loyal staff, especially since he was the one footing the bill.

  ‘You’ll have to bring your chap,’ Bev rattled on. ‘Everyone’s dying to meet him.’

  I have to tell her, I really have to tell her, Miranda thought. Oh, but I just don’t want to be the one who dies.

  She felt sick.

  Took a deep breath.

  ‘He’s…um, got a golf tournament lined up for next Sunday. He won’t be able to make it.’

  Aah, bliss, no wonder people fibbed. It was so easy and it made you feel so much better, Miranda thought with a rush of relief. That horrid sick feeling had simply melted away in an instant, like magic.

  I’ll tell her soon, she promised herself.

  Definitely.

  Just not quite yet.

  ‘He’s away on your birthday? That’s a real shame.’ Bev’s eyes widened with indignation. ‘Honestly, men are so selfish. He won’t be away for the whole weekend, will he? Where’s the tournament being held?’

  Unable to think, offhand, of the name of a single golf course—was Murrayfield one? Was Greendale? Stenhousemuir?—Miranda was delighted to hear cross-sounding footsteps marching up behind them.

  Phew, saved by the boss.

  ‘Bev, stop gossiping and get back to work,�
�� Fenn said sharply. ‘There’s someone waiting at the desk.’

  Bev glanced over her shoulder at the girl who had walked in off the street. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder white sweater, baggy combat trousers and dark glasses, and her hair was piled up under a khaki baseball cap.

  ‘She doesn’t have an appointment. And she hasn’t been here before.’ When it came to bookings, Bev had a memory like an elephant.

  ‘So get rid of her.’ Fenn sounded exasperated. ‘Tell her we can fit her in some time next year.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Miranda squealed without meaning to as the girl removed her glasses and baseball cap. ‘It’s Daisy Schofield!’

  ‘Oh dear, your rival in luurve.’ Bev gave her a mock-sympathetic pat on the shoulder. ‘Daisy Schofield is Miles Harper’s girlfriend,’ she explained to Fenn, who was looking surprised. Meaningfully she added, ‘Remember the day Miranda ended up in Try-it-on Tabitha’s swimming pool?’

  Surprise swiftly gave way to alarm.

  ‘Miranda? You’re not seeing Miles Harper, are you?’

  ‘Of course I’m not. It’s just Bev’s sad idea of a joke.’

  ‘She fancies him, though. Like mad,’ teased Bev.

  Fenn raised his eyebrows at Miranda, who did her utmost not to blush.

  ‘Look, I promise you, I don’t.’

  Miranda had turned a dramatic shade of puce, which was always entertaining, but Fenn was busy rejigging this morning’s appointments in his head. They might be fully booked, but business was business, and Daisy Schofield—currently one of the most photographed faces in Britain—would be terrific publicity for the salon.

  ‘So if it’s a cut and blow-dry she’s after,’ the look he gave Miranda was severe, ‘I can definitely trust you to wash her hair without trying to stuff her head down the sink.’

  ***

  Miranda had come across some unchatty clients in her time but Daisy Schofield had to be the unchattiest. It was like trying to hold a conversation with a Pot Noodle.

  ‘Did someone recommend Fenn to you?’ She tried again as she massaged shampoo into her head. For someone who famously maintained that her long ash-blond hair was entirely natural, she couldn’t help observing that Daisy Schofield had amazingly dark roots.