Miranda's Big Mistake (18 page)

‘I've got mumps,' Miranda croaked into the receiver. ‘It's awful. I look like a gerbil with bulimia.'

‘Mumps!' Greg sounded horrified. ‘I've never had mumps!'

I know that, you git, thought Miranda. Otherwise what would be the point of telling you I've got it?

‘Isn't it a nuisance? I won't be able to see you for a whole week—'

‘Longer than that,' Greg cut in, concerned for certain parts of his anatomy. Didn't mumps cause them to swell up agonizingly, like footballs?

Miranda rushed to reassure him. ‘Oh no, six days is fine. I checked with the doctor. Just as well, too, otherwise I'd have had to miss the wedding of the year.'

In the privacy of his living room, Greg stuck his hand down the front of his Nike jogging pants, making sure his testicles weren't quietly swelling up behind his back…so to speak.

‘Wedding?' No, thank God, they seemed okay. ‘Why, who's getting married?'

‘Oh, it's
so
exciting.' Miranda's voice was croaky but otherwise she seemed cheerful enough. ‘You'll never guess!'

‘Not your friend Bev. Don't tell me she's bulldozed some poor sod into marrying her at last.'

‘No.' Miranda sounded hurt. ‘Oh Greg, don't say it like that, when we've just got engaged! You sound so anti-weddings.'

He grinned.

‘Only when they involve saying “I do” to Bev. So who is it then?'

‘Fenn and Leila. Next Sunday at the Salinger Hotel in Kensington. Can you imagine?' sighed Miranda. ‘They've only known each other a month, but they just couldn't wait. Isn't it the most romantic thing you ever heard?'

‘Your boss is marrying Leila Monzani?' Greg marveled. ‘Where's the actual service being held?'

‘Right there in the hotel! Oh, and you should see the guest list,' Miranda exclaimed. ‘Celebrities flying in from all over the world…I mean, are there any famous people Fenn
doesn't
know?'

‘And you've been invited,' said Greg, trying not to sound eaten up with envy. God, what he wouldn't give to go along to a wedding like that, to rub shoulders with rock stars and actors and supermodels…well, if he wore sixteen-inch platforms he could rub shoulders with supermodels…

In her bedroom, Miranda covered the receiver and mouthed, ‘Jealous,' at Chloe.

Chloe mouthed, ‘Daisy,' back at her.

‘Oh yes, and Daisy Schofield's going to be there.' Enjoying herself immensely, Miranda pictured the expression on his face.

‘Daisy Schofield,' Greg echoed, unable to hide his disappointment. This was so unfair.

Miranda paused. Timing, after all, was everything.

‘So you'll be able to meet her at long last.'

Greg digested these words.

‘What?'

‘You're invited too, dopey!'

‘Really? Hey, great.'

He was grinning uncontrollably, Miranda could tell. And trying so hard to sound cool. Bless his heart.

Bastard.

‘So don't forget, will you? Make a note of it in your diary. Midday, next Sunday. Wear your best suit. Oh,' she added as an afterthought, ‘and don't breathe a word about this to anyone. We're talking Top Secret here. Fenn and Leila want total privacy—the last thing they need is for the place to be hijacked by photographers.'

‘Oh, well, yes, I can understand that. Of course,' said Greg in a trustworthy voice. ‘I won't blab. Um…who's going to be the best man?'

Miranda thought for a moment.

‘Can't remember. I think Fenn said Mick.'

Mick?

Mick!

Deeply,
deeply
impressed, Greg swallowed and said, ‘Hucknall or Jagger?'

‘Oh, one of them, I don't know,' Miranda replied carelessly. ‘Does it matter?'

Christ
, no.

‘I could get myself a new suit,' said Greg, determined to sound casual.

‘A new suit?' Miranda waggled her eyebrows at Chloe. ‘That's an idea. Look, sorry to keep on, but Fenn's drummed it into all of us. You won't accidentally let slip about this to anyone, will you?'

The temptation was too great. Leaning across, Chloe listened to her husband's reassuring reply.

‘I won't breathe a word,' she heard Greg say. ‘Darling, you know you can trust me.'

When she had hung up the phone, Miranda bounced off her bed. She rummaged amongst the tangle of necklaces in a blue china bowl on her dressing table.

‘What?' said Chloe, sitting cross-legged on the carpet.

The copper pot-bellied pig, designed to be hung on a leather thong and worn as a choker, went sailing up into the air.

‘He said he wouldn't breathe a word.' Miranda pointed. ‘See? A flying pig.'

There was a gentle thud as it landed on the rug next to Chloe. Picking the pig up, she ran her finger over its upturned snout.

‘Where did you get this? He's brilliant.'

Actually, he was rather brilliant, Miranda modestly acknowledged. Ugly and cross-eyed and with one leg longer than the rest, but with bags of quirky character. And hey, no one's perfect.

‘I made him. Years ago, at school,' she told Chloe. ‘I joined the metalwork class because I was in love with this boy called Denzil and he said girls who did metalwork were great.'

‘And did you end up going out with him?' Chloe gave up on her boring pelvic floor exercises. Eagerly she said, ‘Was he your first boyfriend?'

‘Oh yes. And it changed Denzil's life forever.' Miranda rolled her eyes. ‘One date with me was all it took for Denzil to realize he was gay. To add insult to injury, he was expelled a year later for seducing the metalwork teacher.' She shrugged and held out her hands. ‘What can I tell you? The story of my life. This is how much luck I have with men.'

‘Well,' said Chloe, ‘I know that feeling.'

Miranda watched her pull open the neck of her lime-green cotton sweatshirt, peer down at her stomach and reach for the round cushion on the chair behind her.

‘Um…what are you doing?'

‘I need to be bigger for next Sunday.'

Chloe shoved the cushion up under her sweatshirt, unfolded her legs and solemnly studied her reflection in the dressing-table mirror.

‘I don't know.' Miranda was doubtful.

‘Too much?'

‘You look about fourteen months pregnant.'

The weird thing was, it actually suited Chloe. When you had blonde hair piled up with combs, and golden skin, and blue eyes that sparkled like the sea, Miranda realized, you could get away with almost anything, even stuffing a cushion the size of a sofa down your front.

Chloe thought she looked a fright, of course, but only because it was the automatic response of females everywhere to putting on weight. Plus, her self-confidence had taken a complete hammering when Greg had left.

Which couldn't help.

‘That's better.' Miranda nodded approvingly when the big cushion was swapped for her rolled-up denim shirt. ‘Size-wise, anyway. I'm not so sure about those bits of collar showing through. Looks as if you're about to give birth to something with huge pointy ears.'

Chloe pulled out the shirt and tossed it back on to Miranda's waiting-to-be-ironed, hopefully-before-Christmas pile.

‘I can't wait for next Sunday. God, I hope Greg buys himself a really expensive new suit.' She looked at Miranda. ‘Nothing can go wrong, can it?'

‘Nothing.' Miranda broke into a grin; she was looking forward to it too. ‘Just so long as he doesn't come down with mumps.'

***

‘Flo? Dancing Queen, is that you?'

Florence, who had been wrestling with the
Telegraph
crossword, lit up at the sound of Tom Barrett's gravelly voice.

‘Tom, you wicked old man! Are you ringing to tell me the date of the wedding? Hang on, give me a hand with this stinking crossword first. Attempt to hide donkeys in mountain slope before noon, eleven letters, something c, something e, something something something—'

‘Haven't the foggiest, but I've got one for you. Old man abandoned by nubile young lassie—'

‘Oh, Tom,
no
,' Florence exclaimed, cottoning on at once. ‘Not Maria. Don't tell me she's dumped you.'

Tom chuckled at her dismay.

‘Well, it was pretty mutual. Maria's a sweet girl, the sex was great, but the novelty soon wears off. All she wanted to do was watch
Home and Away
and bloody
Neighbours
. She speaks broken English with an Australian accent. Oh, it was fun while it lasted, Flo, but it wasn't love. She moved out last week, and the
relief
…'

Florence relaxed. He certainly didn't sound heartbroken.

‘Where is she now, gone back to Thailand?'

‘God, no! Moved in with the fellow next door.' Tom barked with laughter. ‘Handy, really. She pops round every evening with a hot meal for me. Even gives me the odd massage if my back's playing up.'

‘Humph,' said Florence. ‘Being fond of
Neighbours
is one thing, but isn't that taking it a bit far?'

‘No ill feelings,' Tom pronounced cheerfully. ‘It didn't work out, that's all. And I'm keeping myself busy, still playing golf…just joined a local theatre group, matter of fact. Great fun.'

He and Louisa had always been keen on amateur dramatics, Florence recalled. Acting had been their great passion. It was something else Tom had given up when his wife had died.

‘I'll never forget that production you put on in Malta.' As she spoke, the germ of an idea began to unfold. ‘You were a fine Professor Higgins.'

‘I had a fine Eliza,' Tom replied fondly, remembering Louisa. ‘And there's something else I haven't forgotten about that show.' His tone grew stern. ‘You fell asleep.'

‘Never mind that now,' said Florence. ‘What are you doing on Sunday?'

‘Not watching endless videos of
Home and Away
, that's for sure.' Tom sounded immeasurably relieved. ‘Why?'

‘We're putting on a small production of our own.' Feeling like a movie mogul, Florence lit a cigarette and blew a row of smoke rings…damn, it really should be a Monte Cristo cigar. ‘You'd fit the bill perfectly for the role I have in mind,' she told Tom, puff puff. ‘And I promise not to fall asleep.'

‘You've been invited to Leila Monzani's wedding?'

Adrian stared at Greg in disbelief.

‘Sshh, keep your voice down,' Greg hissed, though the pub was almost deserted. He tried not to smirk with pride, but it was impossible. Just as it had been impossible to keep the news to himself. Still, it wasn't as if he was blabbing it all around town. Ade was his best friend. He knew he could trust him. That was the whole point of best friends.

Adrian whistled, impressed.

‘You're going up in the world, lucky sod. Who else'll be there?'

Triumphantly, Greg reeled off the list of names Miranda had given him. Ade gulped them down like lager after a lamb vindaloo.

‘Shit! You'll be in
Hello!
magazine.'

‘I told you, no press.'

‘What, you mean
nobody
knows it's going to happen? That could be worth something,' Ade exclaimed. ‘A tip-off to one of the tabloids…they pay good money for that kind of info. Who's Buzz Baxter working for now?' he went on abruptly. ‘The
Sun
, the
Mirror
—one of the tabloids—a scoop like that'd be right up his street.'

Buzz Baxter was an old schoolfriend they still bumped into from time to time. Greg's forehead creased with doubt.

‘But they don't want any publicity, do they?'

‘Come on! One photographer, how terrible would that be? Give Buzz a ring,' Adrian urged. ‘Earn yourself a few easy grand.'

Regretfully, Greg tilted his chair back on its hind legs.

‘Miranda would go berserk.'

‘Sometimes I wonder about you. Buzz wouldn't reveal his sources, would he? And Miranda doesn't know that you know Buzz. Simple,' said Adrian, spreading his hands. ‘Home and dry. I'm telling you, mate, you're mad if you don't.'

They had another drink. Slowly, Greg allowed Adrian to overcome his reluctance.

‘She'd ask me. I'd have to lie to her.'

‘Oh, and that would never do, would it?' Adrian jeered. ‘Keeping the truth from Miranda.'

Greg's smile was rueful. He didn't mention that he already had Buzz Baxter's phone number tucked away in his wallet. Tipping Buzz off had, naturally, occurred to him as soon as Miranda had stressed—rather insultingly, he felt—the secrecy of the occasion. But this way, his conscience was clear. It had been Adrian's idea, not his own. He was being conned, pressured, practically
forced
into going along with it.

Anyway, as Ade kept reminding him, nobody would ever know.

Thousands of pounds, in exchange for one simple phone call.

In all honesty, who could resist that?

***

Miranda, ringing him on Sunday morning, sounded breathless and distracted.

‘Darling, I'll have to meet you there. I'm helping with the bridesmaid's hair. You can make your own way to the hotel, can't you?'

The Salinger, in Kensington, was one of London's classiest and most discreet hotels.

‘As long as they let me in,' said Greg. It was all right for celebrities, with their instantly recognizable faces, but he would be turning up alone, without so much as a printed invitation. So, for that matter, would Buzz.

‘Don't panic. Security will ask for the password,' Miranda explained. ‘You have to tell them you're here to see Mr O'Hare.'

‘O'Hare.' Greg acknowledged the feeble pun with a grimace.

‘Then you have to sing “Here Comes the Bride”.'

‘What!'

‘It's a two-part password,' Miranda told him. ‘You don't have to do the whole song, just the first two lines. Then they'll let you through.'

‘God.' Greg pulled a face; he wasn't much of a singer at the best of times.

‘Have you missed me?'

‘Of course I've missed you. Are you sure you're feeling better?'

‘Oh, tons. Face all back to normal.' Miranda certainly sounded cheerful enough. ‘Don't worry, I won't let you down.'

Greg smiled. He really had missed her.

‘What are you wearing?'

‘Bra, knickers, grey T-shirt with a picture of Screaming Lord Sutch on the front—'

‘I meant to the wedding.'

‘Oh, a new dress. You'll love it!'

‘So long as it doesn't have Screaming Lord Sutch on the front.'

‘Greg, I have to go, we're going to be rushed off our feet for the next couple of hours. See you at the Salinger, okay?'

‘Twelve o'clock. I won't be late.'

‘Blimey, better not be!'

‘I love you,' Greg blurted out.

There was a brief pause.

‘I love you too.'

***

‘When security stops you, you tell them you're there to see Mr O'Hare,' Greg explained importantly.

‘Right.'

‘Then you have to sing the first two lines of “Here Comes the Bride”.'

‘Is this a wind-up?'

‘No.'

‘Can't I just hum it?'

‘No!'

‘Fucking celebrities,' sighed Buzz.

***

‘There he is,' Chloe squealed delightedly, peeping through the curtains down to the street below. ‘Buzz Baxter, lovely, lovely chap. Danced with me at our wedding reception, tried to undo my bra on the dance floor and asked if I'd like to have sex with him in the back of his Austin Montego.'

Miranda peered over Chloe's shoulder at Buzz, glimpsing the camera under his baggy jacket as he fished out his wallet to pay off the cab. Moments later, Buzz smoothed the jacket back into place. The camera, like a concealed weapon, was undetectable. As he turned to mount the white marble steps, another gleaming black cab drew up behind him.

‘How did you know Greg would tip him off?'

Chloe, dryly, said, ‘I know Greg.'

At that moment the door of the cab swung open and Miranda's head began to swim. Oh God, this was actually going to happen, it was really really about to happen. Just for a second, Miranda was choked with sorrow. So much for happy-ever-after. How could she have made such a monumental mistake?

No, no, I
mustn't
feel sorry for myself, there's no time for that now. Be brave, be strong, and smile like a bride…

‘New suit,' Chloe observed with satisfaction. ‘Let's hope it cost a bomb.' She took a deep breath, adjusted the padding beneath her uniform and spun Miranda round so fast she almost fell off her high heels. ‘Right, the weasel has landed.' Firmly, she propelled Miranda in the direction of the blue ballroom's double doors. ‘Go, go, go!'

***

The security man stepped forward, blocking Greg's path through the foyer. Greg knew he was security because he was wearing Blues Brothers dark glasses and an ill-fitting black suit.

‘May I help you, sir?'

‘I'm here to see Mr O'Hare,' said Greg.

The Blues Brother nodded impassively.

And waited.

‘Um…Here comes the bride,' Greg sang in a quavering voice. He felt simultaneously foolish and important. ‘All…all dressed in whi-ite…'

White
came out horribly off-key, which was embarrassing.

The Blues Brother didn't smile. He nodded again, grimly, and stepped to one side.

‘Through reception, up the stairs and turn right. The ballroom's straight ahead of you.'

His black suit was too tight for him. Greg, squaring his shoulders and instinctively straightening his own jacket, wondered if the man had any idea how it felt to wear a suit that had cost eight hundred quid.

He checked his cuffs, then his watch. Five to twelve.

Mustn't be late.

***

When Greg was out of sight, Tony Vale removed his Blues Brothers glasses—Camden Market, £1.50—before turning and switching off the video camera concealed within the pedestal flower arrangement behind him. Then he headed for the staircase. Wouldn't want to miss out on all the fun.

***

The double doors were closed. Fenn Lomax was pacing up and down outside like a nervous father-to-be.

‘Hi. Greg Malone.' As he held out his perspiring-with-excitement hand, Greg wondered how much Fenn's suit had cost. ‘Congratulations.'

‘Miranda's fiancé. Nice to meet you at last.' Fenn nodded and smiled, shaking the outstretched hand. ‘I have to congratulate you too.'

‘Is everyone in there?' Greg jerked his head in the direction of the double doors.

‘Oh yes, all ready and waiting. Apart from the bride, of course. Right,' said Fenn, taking a deep breath. ‘We'd better go through.'

***

For the first few moments, as the heavy doors swung shut behind them and he found himself being led up the central aisle by Fenn, Greg thought he must be in the wrong room.

He knew he couldn't be, because he was with Fenn. But where, in that case, were all the celebrities?

No Kylie, no Daisy Schofield, no stars of stage and screen…and what was more, not a Mick in sight.

Bewildered, Greg wondered why Fenn hadn't seemed to notice that something was seriously amiss. His confusion increased as he recognized Leila Monzani sitting two rows from the front. She was wearing a shocking-pink tube of a dress and Doc Marten's.

And over there, in her wheelchair, was that old witch, Florence…

Greg's neck muscles had by this time assumed a life of their own; his head swiveled from side to side as he spotted first Bev, in a hat the size of a kitchen table, then Buzz, looking as bemused as himself. Towards the back of the room he recognized Danny Delancey, but the dozen or so other guests were all total strangers.

For Christ's sake, where's
Miranda
?

‘Over here, please.' The vicar indicated to Fenn and Greg where he wished them to stand.

‘You don't mind, do you?' murmured Fenn.

In a daze, Greg shook his head. The Micks had evidently let Fenn down. He needed a best man. Jesus, what was Leila Monzani thinking of, getting married in Doc Marten's?

Music flooded the room, making Greg jump. From hidden speakers poured the opening bars of the Wedding March. Next to him, a muscle twitched in Fenn's jaw as he turned in response to the sound of the double doors swishing open.

Greg turned too.

Miranda, all in white, stood framed in the doorway.

Behind the veil, her dark eyes shone. Grinning broadly, she moved up the makeshift aisle towards him.

The music stopped.

Flinging out her arms, throwing them around Greg before he could react, Miranda cried, ‘Surprise!'

The icy trickle of anti-freeze seeped through Greg's veins. Around him, the room erupted with laughter and applause. He felt his heart thudding like a tom-tom in his chest. It was the nightmare to end all nightmares and he could barely breathe.

‘I don't…I don't understand.'

Greg stammered the words out at last, understanding only too well but playing desperately for time.

‘I love you. You love me.' Miranda's cheeks were flushed with elation. ‘It's what we both want, so why wait? I've never seen the point of long engagements. Oh darling, we're getting married…today! Right here, right now!'

Greg couldn't bear to look at her. Whichever way he turned, he saw something else he didn't want to see…the vicar's benign, smiling face…Danny Delancey with a video camera, capturing every moment on film…Fenn Lomax searching in his pocket and pulling out two wedding rings…

Could there be an experience more excruciating than this?

Miranda, reaching for his hands, laughed and said, ‘Darling, you're shaking like a leaf. Don't worry, I've thought of everything.' Leaning closer, she added triumphantly, ‘I smuggled your birth certificate out of your flat last week.'

The ironic thing was, he
would
have married her. Like a shot. But what was the average sentence for bigamy? He might love Miranda, but he couldn't face going to jail.

‘Could we have some quiet, please?' The vicar raised his hands to the boisterous congregation and nodded genially at Greg. ‘If you're ready, maybe we can proceed.'

Greg's mouth opened and closed like a cod's. No words came out. He wondered about slumping to the ground and feigning unconsciousness.

‘You are happy, I take it, for the ceremony to go ahead?' The vicar lifted bushy, enquiring eyebrows at him.

Greg stared back in horror.

‘Darling?' Anxiety creased Miranda's forehead. ‘Please say something. You're not going to turn me down, are you?'

Oh God, how could this be happening to him? How could he tell her?

Miranda's bottom lip began to tremble.

‘Greg? What's wrong? Don't you want to marry me?'

She would never forgive him. Never. Oh,
shit
, why did this have to happen to him?

‘Well,' declared Florence, her throaty voice carrying effortlessly across the room, ‘this is in danger of becoming embarrassing. Come on, Greg, let's get this show on the road! The sooner we start, the sooner it's over with, then we can all have a drink.'

A drink, God, what he wouldn't give for a drink right now. For that matter, what he wouldn't give for a bolt of lightning to crash through the ceiling and knock Florence—interfering old buzzard—out of her wheelchair.

Better still, Greg thought in desperation, one to flatten me.

Daniel Delancey was still filming. Turning to look at him, Greg forced himself to speak.

‘Switch it off,' he croaked. ‘Please.'

‘I can't do that.' Danny sounded surprised. ‘This is the happiest day of Miranda's life.'

Miranda, no longer smiling, said, ‘I'm beginning to wonder. Is this the happiest day of my life, Greg?' Her eyes bored into him. ‘Is it?'

All heads swiveled in unison towards the double doors as they swung open. Desperately praying for some form—any form—of reprieve, Greg's head swiveled too.

A waitress in a black uniform and a white frilled apron backed through the doors carrying a tray of glasses. She turned, balancing the tray against her heavily pregnant stomach, and surveyed the assembled guests.