by Jill Mansell
‘I don’t think I should.’
Miranda ignored this. He was looking at her with regret, not revulsion. Regret didn’t count.
‘I want you to.’ Reaching over, she grabbed his arms. Gorgeous, sexy arms. ‘If you don’t do it, I will.’
Danny didn’t speak.
So she kissed him. Sexily, and for all she was worth.
***
Bruce, who liked a tidy car, had despaired of Verity’s sloppy habit of leaving spare coats slung across the back seat. This time, twisting round, he sent up a prayer of thanks for sloppy people everywhere. He would never moan at Verity again.
***
Miranda missed at first, losing her balance and only managing to make contact with—oof—the stubbled edge of his jaw. Undeterred, she levered herself upright and took fresh aim. This time her mouth landed on Danny’s and she closed her eyes with relief. Bingo, this was more like it! Oh yes, this is miles better than being squashed into a toilet cubicle together, with his knees going numb and me bawling my stupid eyes out.
Even if the other contestant didn’t appear to be giving it his all.
She peeled herself away for a second, to let him know she knew.
‘Seven out of ten. Must try harder, could do better.’ Miranda cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘I think what we need is for you to put a bit more effort into this.’
Chapter 38
Danny glanced sideways as a man in a turquoise cagoule shuffled past, clutching an envelope and heading for the post-box at the end of the road. It was a hot, sunny Sunday afternoon but the hood of the cagoule was pulled up and tied firmly around his face. One of those care-in-the-community types, Danny thought. With a morbid fear of rain.
But he had other things on his mind right now. Like how much longer he could reasonably be expected to fend off Miranda, when she was launching herself at him with all the subtlety of a Scud missile.
‘Or was that your best effort?’ she was saying now, wagging her finger infuriatingly and sounding like a sarcastic schoolmistress. ‘Maybe it was, and you’re just a really hopeless kisser.’
Right. Goaded beyond endurance, Danny took her in his arms and gave her what she wanted. Within seconds she was sighing and writhing helplessly against him like an ecstatic kitten. Equally abruptly, he pulled away.
Hopeless kisser indeed.
‘Wow,’ gasped Miranda, panting for breath. ‘That was more like it.’
Danny acknowledged the compliment with a brief nod. Even if it was coming from someone who was howling drunk.
‘Thanks.’
‘I love you.’ The wine was well and truly lodged in her bloodstream now. She could say anything, anything…
‘Miranda, don’t.’
‘But I do love you!’
‘You do not.’ Christ, did she think this was easy for him?
‘The house is empty.’ She trailed her fingers enticingly across the front of his shirt, still damp where she had sobbed all over him. ‘Shall we go in?’
‘Why?’
Miranda rolled her eyes at his stupidity.
‘We could go to bed.’
Don’t do this, thought Danny.
‘Why?’
‘Well, the general idea would be to have sex.’ She gave him a playful thump on the arm. ‘And then maybe a little sleep, then something to eat, followed—with a bit of luck—by more sex. How does that sound to you?’
For heaven’s sake, how did she think it sounded?
‘What happened to that pledge of eternal celibacy?’
Miranda looked appalled.
‘Oh no, I’ve changed my mind about that completely.’
Give me strength, Danny pleaded silently. Aloud, he said, ‘Not a good idea.’
He was shaking his head. Miranda stared at him.
‘Come on, it’s a brilliant idea! Why can’t we? Stop shaking your head like that and tell me why we can’t!’
‘Because,’ Danny said slowly, ‘you’ve had far too much to drink. And you’d only regret it in the morning.’
‘I would not regret it,’ Miranda wailed.
‘You would.’
‘Why, because you’re rubbish in bed? Is that it?’ Perking up, she recalled that this was the technique that had worked so brilliantly just a couple of minutes earlier. ‘Why would I regret it, Danny? Because you’re even more useless at sex than you are at kissing?’
Bugger, he was smiling at her. It wasn’t going to work.
‘Possibly,’ said Danny.
‘But I want to have sex with you!’ Miranda thumped the steering wheel for emphasis.
‘Not with me,’ said Danny quietly, aware that the chap in the turquoise cagoule had posted his letter and was shuffling back towards them. ‘Right now, anyone would do. You’re just trying to punish Greg for hurting you. And prove to yourself that you’re over him.’
Ouch.
‘Well, so what if I am?’ Miranda pleaded. ‘Isn’t that a good enough reason?’
‘Sweetheart, it’s a terrible reason.’
‘You’re no fun.’ She clung to him, her empty stomach emitting a terrific rumble.
Shuffle, shuffle. The man in the hooded cagoule moved slowly past the car.
‘Come on, I’ll make you a bacon sandwich.’ Patting her arm, Danny opened the door.
‘Give me another kiss first. I’m miserable.’
He did, exerting superhuman control.
‘We could eat them in bed,’ Miranda suggested hopefully.
‘I’m only coming in because I don’t trust you not to set fire to the kitchen,’ Danny told her. ‘As soon as you’ve finished your sandwich, I’ll be off.’
***
Back in his car once more, Bruce watched the two of them disappear together into the empty house. Miranda’s head leaned on Orlando’s shoulder and his arm was around her waist. It was obvious what they were up to.
Damn, what he wouldn’t give for a camera now. Still, he would make Florence believe him when he told her what he’d both seen and heard.
Bruce smiled to himself with satisfaction. Excellent. And thanks to that little tart Miranda doing Chloe’s job for her, he’d saved himself five grand.
***
The party at the Salinger Hotel broke up a couple of hours later. Leila, almost comatose with boredom, drawled, ‘Fenn, let’s get out of here.’
‘No chance, I suppose, that you two might give it a go for real?’ Buzz, seeing that they were about to leave, had sidled up hopefully.
‘No chance at all.’ Fenn jangled his car keys. ‘Chloe? Want a lift?’
Chloe looked up, startled, from her vanilla cream slice.
‘I’m fine, I’ll catch a bus.’
‘Don’t be silly. Come with us.’
Leila’s slanting eyes narrowed with exasperation.
‘If she’s in the car, you won’t let me smoke.’
‘Correct,’ said Fenn. ‘Tell you what, I’ll give Chloe a lift and you can catch the bus.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Leila snapped. ‘Just because she’s pregnant. You care more about her and her stupid baby than you do about me.’
She picked up a glass of red wine. Buzz, hardly able to believe his luck, fumbled for his camera. Stepping out of the way as Leila flung the contents of the glass at him, Fenn escaped almost entirely unscathed. Happily for Buzz, it still made a terrific picture.
‘Cheers,’ he said, winking and giving the thumbs-up sign to Fenn.
‘Oh God,’ whispered Chloe, ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed.’
Like a furious pink pipe-cleaner, Leila stalked off. Fenn grinned at Chloe.
‘Don’t be. I call this a pretty successful day all round.’
***
Fenn threaded the Lotus through the dawdling Sunday traffic, dying to stick his foot down but careful not to do anything that might alarm her.
‘Do I look as if I mind?’
‘No, but…oh God, you’ve got a splash on your shirt.’ Chloe squirmed, feeling horribly responsible. Fenn’s shirts probably cost more than the average package holiday to Ibiza.
‘Look in there.’ He indicated the glove compartment. ‘I’m pretty sure Leila left a bottle of Perrier behind.’
She had, and a packet of Kleenex. Fenn pulled up in a bus lane, allowing Chloe to soak the blue-red stain with lukewarm sparkling water and go to work on it with a tissue. She scrubbed so energetically, a sheaf of papers slithered out of the glove compartment on to her feet.
‘The car’s rocking,’ Fenn observed with amusement. ‘People are going to wonder what we’re up to in here.’
‘Until they see my incredible bulk and realize that getting up to anything would be pretty much impossible. This isn’t working, by the way.’
‘It’s only a shirt.’
Chloe peeked at the label inside the collar.
‘A Turnbull and Asser shirt. If we don’t let the stain dry out, we can soak it in something biological—oh no, now look what I’m doing, wrecking your papers…’
Bending over with difficulty, she gathered up the dozen or so sheets and hurriedly smoothed out the heel marks. They were property details with eye-boggling prices.
‘The lease is up on my flat,’ Fenn explained.
‘Hampstead, what bliss.’ Chloe sighed with pleasure as she leafed through the glossy details. This was clearly the area he was concentrating on. She tried not to drool over a photograph of a white stucco villa overlooking the heath, with a pool in the back garden. It wasn’t the kind of house-hunting she was used to.
‘I’m seeing that one tomorrow, after work,’ said Fenn.
Chloe opened her mouth then quickly shut it again. She’d been about to say that if he wanted a second opinion, she would love to go with him…heavens, presumptuous or what? Why on earth would Fenn be interested in her useless opinion? Worse still, the estate agent might mistake them for a couple, and how embarrassing would that be for Fenn?
‘What?’ He was looking at her oddly.
‘Nothing.’ Chloe went a deep shade of pink.
There was a pause, then Fenn said carefully, ‘Look, if you aren’t doing anything else, why don’t you come along with me?’
Oh Lord, this was awful! He’d guessed what she was about to say and now he felt obliged to make the offer, simply because he was so kind…
‘No thanks,’ Chloe said abruptly. ‘I can’t. I’m busy tomorrow night.’
***
‘So you’re back at last,’ said Bruce when Florence answered the phone at ten o’clock that evening. ‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘Out dancing,’ said Florence.
‘Oh, ha ha, very good.’ Bruce sounded annoyingly buoyant, she realized—how she hated that mixture of sarcasm and joviality in his tone. ‘Though not with the gigolo, one presumes.’
One presumes. Honestly, young people today, where did they pick up this kind of language?
‘His name is Orlando,’ Florence replied coolly. ‘And he isn’t a gigolo. Why are you ringing, Bruce? If you want to speak to Chloe, she’s in bed.’
‘I paid a visit to your house this afternoon—’
‘I know. Chloe has the shop keys, they’re perfectly safe.’
‘Mother, will you stop interrupting? This is important. Your so-called boyfriend Orlando is cheating on you.’
Long pause. Yesss, thought Bruce triumphantly.
At last Florence said, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Orlando. And Miranda. I saw them outside your house, bold as brass. They were all over each other.’
‘Orlando and Miranda? My Miranda? All over each other, you say? I don’t believe it!’
Florence was genuinely stunned.
‘And I do mean all over each other,’ Bruce went on sanctimoniously. ‘We aren’t talking about a quick peck on the cheek, oh no, this was serious. And then—I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mother—they disappeared together. Into the house.’
‘And then they disappeared together into this very house?’ parroted Florence, her eyebrows practically turning cartwheels as she kept Tom Barrett abreast of developments. ‘You mean, to have sex?’
Tom, still wearing his cassock and white surplice, refilled Florence’s glass with bourbon and tut-tutted in a vicarish way.
Bruce said, ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But that’s fantastic!’ Florence whooped, unable to conceal her delight.
‘What?’
‘Thank you, darling, I’m so glad you rang! You really have made my day!’
Bruce was still spluttering when Florence unceremoniously hung up, cutting him off in mid-quack.
‘Well, well, would you believe it? That wicked, wicked boy! To think I actually fell for all that guff about having to take Miranda home because she was drunk.’ Florence’s face was a picture. ‘And all the time they were…ha!’ She clapped her gnarled hands with satisfaction. ‘About bloody time too!’
Chapter 39
It took a while for Miranda to orient herself. Her watch said seven o’clock, but was that morning or evening? She had absolutely no idea how long she had been asleep.
Help arrived, moments later, in the form of Chloe. Carrying a tray.
Miranda peered at it, searching for clues.
‘Hi. Is that…?’
‘Breakfast,’ said Chloe.
Ah.
‘Only tea and toast. I didn’t know if you’d feel up to much.’
Miranda didn’t know either. It was far too soon to tell.
‘You’ve been asleep for fifteen hours,’ Chloe went on, plonking the tray down.
Good Lord, really? Testing her head, Miranda discovered that it hardly hurt at all. How amazing, she appeared to have slept right through her hangover.
Excellent news!
Feeling more cheerful already, she hauled herself into a sitting position and took a noisy slurp of tea. Gorgeous, made just the way she liked it, two and a half sugars and tongue-numbingly strong…
Hang on a sec.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘It’s Florence.’ Chloe’s valiant attempts at keeping a straight face weren’t going well. ‘She’d, um, like a word.’
‘Florence is up already?’ Miranda was astounded. This was unheard of.
‘She made me come and wake you up.’
‘Why?’ Miranda peered suspiciously over the rim of her Bart Simpson mug. Something was going on here and she couldn’t for the life of her imagine what it might be. ‘Why?’ she persisted. ‘Is Florence ill?’
Florence couldn’t really be ill, she knew that. Otherwise, why would Chloe be smirking?
‘I think she’s just dying…’ said Chloe.
What?
‘…of curiosity.’ Another pause, then the words came tumbling out. ‘She wants to know all the gory details about you and Danny.’
‘Me and Danny? For heaven’s sake, what kind of gory details?’
‘Well, who made the first move.’ Chloe’s shoulders were shaking. ‘How many times you…er, did it. Oh, and she especially wants to know if he’s fantastic in bed.’
Miranda dropped her toast. Up until that moment her brain had been merciful, sparing her the horror of having to remember events she would have so much preferred to forget.
Now it all came flooding back in a hideous, toe-curling, spine-tingling technicolor whoosh.
‘Oh God, oh God, oh noooo!’ The tray on Miranda’s lap toppled sideways as she threw herself back against the pillows and dragged the duvet over her head.
Chloe caught the tray with milliseconds to spare. She tugged the duvet away from Miranda’s burning face.
‘You don’t have to be embarrassed. Danny’s great, we all really like him.’
‘Ooohhh!’
‘Miranda, come on, you and Danny got it together and that’s wonderful news. You don’t have to be embarrassed, just because you had sex with him!’
Heavens, Chloe marveled, listen to me. I sound just like Florence.
‘I didn’t have sex with him,’ whispered Miranda. To add insult to injury, her hangover was belatedly kicking in. But the spasms of pain attacking her temples were negligible in comparison with the agony of total humiliation. When you were about to be mauled by a pack of lions, you didn’t worry too much about being bitten by an ant.
Chloe was looking disappointed.
‘You didn’t? Damn, we thought you had.’ She frowned. ‘So why are you so upset?’
Miranda closed her eyes. She didn’t need twenty questions, she needed oblivion. Having sex with Danny Delancey wouldn’t have been embarrassing at all—well, maybe a bit, but she could have handled that.
Equally, being offered the opportunity of a night of wild sex with Danny Delancey and graciously turning him down would have been fine. No reason to be embarrassed there.
Except I didn’t do either of those things, thought Miranda, did I? Oh no, not me, I had to pick the third card, didn’t I? I threw myself at him and forced him to kiss me and then I begged—actually begged—him to have sex with me…and he turned me down.
Awfully kind of you to offer, old thing, but no thanks, rather not.
Miranda shuddered. Her skin crawled with humiliation.
Oh God, what have I done?
Total, total nightmare.
Why am I such a prat?
***
There was nothing else to do but come clean. Florence, true to form, thought it was all uproariously funny.
‘Never mind, darling, better luck next time.’
Next time, oh yes, Miranda thought miserably. I can hardly wait.
