Miranda's Big Mistake (19 page)

‘Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you'd have finished by now. I was told—'

Chloe's voice broke off as she saw Greg.

Paralyzed, Greg stared back at her. He was having an out-of-body experience. This couldn't be happening to him.

‘What's going on here?' Chloe's incredulous gaze flickered from the vicar to Miranda to Greg. ‘You can't marry him.'

Greg's legs began to tremble violently. He prayed he wouldn't wet himself.

Miranda's eyes were like saucers. Hotly she demanded, ‘Why can't I?'

Chloe put the tray down carefully on the table beside her. She smoothed her apron over her swollen stomach—Jesus, Greg wondered wildly, how had she got that big so soon?—and calmly shrugged.

‘Because I'm his wife.'

‘What the fuck is going on here?' marveled Buzz Baxter as Greg stormed out of the ballroom and the place erupted once more. He nudged the tall girl who was crying with laughter next to him. ‘What's going on?'

Bev wiped her streaming eyes with a tissue.

‘You're the journalist, can't you work it out?'

Greg's wife Chloe was by this time hugging the girl in the wedding dress. The noisy old biddy in the wheelchair was wearing the vicar's dog-collar. And the vicar, now minus his neck gear, was busy cracking open a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. When the girl next to him rushed up to join them, Buzz went along too.

Whooping at the sight of Bev, Miranda hurled her bouquet into the air. Automatically Bev caught it, then, horrified, let it drop, as if it were crawling with maggots.

‘That's not fair,' she wailed. ‘You didn't get married! Now you've probably given me a thousand years' bad luck.'

‘I almost got married,' said Miranda. ‘For a few seconds there, I thought he was going to go through with it.'

Chloe, her waitress's cap askew, nodded cheerfully at Buzz Baxter.

‘Hi, Buzz, sorry you didn't get what you came for. I hope you didn't give Greg any money upfront.'

Buzz grinned; he'd always fancied Chloe. He liked her even more now he knew she had balls.

‘You set the whole thing up.'

‘Well, it was a joint effort.'

‘Quite a lot of effort.'

‘Worth it, though,' Chloe said with relish. ‘Worth every minute, just to see the look on his face.'

Buzz shook his head in admiration. Greg would never live this kind of public humiliation down.

‘And if he'd gone ahead with the ceremony, you'd have—?'

‘Made my entrance,' Chloe supplied, ‘at the crucial point.'

Tom Barrett, handing out glasses of champagne, said, ‘Pity he didn't, I was looking forward to that bit.' He cleared his throat and intoned solemnly, ‘If anyone here present knows of any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, they should speak now…'

He paused dramatically, and Chloe mimed bursting through the door. Brightly she explained, ‘That's where I would have come in.'

‘Isn't he marvelous?' Florence patted Tom Barrett's arm with pride. ‘What a performance, better than Bill Nighy any day.' Teasingly, she tugged his wide black sleeve. ‘This cassock suits you, too. I've always had a thing for men in uniform.'

Buzz wondered how many gaskets his boss was going to blow when he went back to the newspaper offices without a story. Ah well, sod it. He gulped down a brimming glass of champagne; may as well make the most of the free booze.

‘So who's footing the bill for all this?' He held out his glass for a swift refill.

Miranda's mouth twitched.

‘Greg is,' she joked. ‘Well, inadvertently.'

‘Blimey.'

Behind her, Danny was packing the video camera back into its case. Miranda gestured towards it.

‘We filmed the whole thing. There's a new prime-time TV series going out in the autumn, called
Sweet Revenge
. People send in home videos and they pay five thousand pounds—'

‘I know, I've heard about it. This is great.' Buzz started to laugh. Turning to Danny, he said, ‘I hope you remembered to take the lens cap off.'

***

The party spilled out into the walled garden at the rear of the hotel. Almost giving a couple of ancient residents heart attacks, Miranda paused at the top of the steps and peeled off her borrowed bridal gown, stepping out of it to reveal the orange vest and mauve Lycra skirt beneath. The next minute she was splashing around in the ornate Italian fountain with Buzz.

Fenn spotted Chloe sitting on a bench eating a plate of curried chicken salad from the restaurant. Joining her, he observed, ‘You've changed, too. Did I miss it?'

The black and white waitress's uniform had been replaced by a long, floaty cotton dress the color of cinnamon, and her golden hair, no longer tied back, tumbled around her shoulders.

‘That would really have finished them off.' Pulling a face, Chloe nodded at the elderly residents, who were still looking stunned. She had limited exposure of her own unlovely body to the confines of the downstairs loo.

‘Pretty color. It suits you,' said Fenn.

The dress was ancient. Flustered by the compliment, Chloe attempted to cover the darns in the worn cotton, then realized that Fenn was watching her with amusement. Giving in, she laughed and held up her plate of food.

‘At least I'm perfectly coordinated.'

‘Until you eat it.'

‘For about the next three minutes, then.' Ruefully, she gazed down at her stomach. ‘I can't stop eating. It's scary, having the appetite of a prop forward and being the shape of a rugby ball.'

Fenn didn't think it was scary. Accustomed to the finicky eating habits of the models he'd spent the last few years knocking around with, it was a real breath of fresh air. He liked the way Chloe ate with such evident enjoyment, forking up the tender chicken and licking mayonnaise from her fingers. This was how eating should be, after all. You were meant to enjoy it.

Last week, Fenn had been cutting the hair of a knock-kneed, chain-smoking sixteen-year-old sent to him by one of the more ruthless agencies. When he had caught her scrutinizing the wording on her cigarette packet, he had said, ‘They damage your health.'

The girl, blinking nervously up at him, replied, ‘I don't care about that, I was just checking they don't have any calories.'

‘Here comes Leila,' said Chloe. ‘Poor thing, she looks jet-lagged.'

Privately, Fenn thought that Leila, in her fluorescent tube dress, looked like the Pink Panther. And as for jet lag…well, it was impossible to tell. The half-closed eyes and dazed expression were pretty much a permanent feature. All the supermodels were wearing them this season. He'd tried teasing Leila about it, but she hadn't got the joke. Beautiful she might be, Fenn thought with a regretful smile, but a sense of humor wasn't her strong point.

He had persuaded Leila to come along with him today because her frequent trips abroad meant their time together was limited.

And about to become more so, Fenn thought sadly, realizing that yet another hollow relationship was ready to bite the dust. Why did he do it? What was the point of ever getting involved with these girls in the first place?

But he already knew the answer to that one.

Basically, depressingly—like Everest, only skinnier—because they were there.

‘Hi,' said Leila, coiling her body on to the wooden arm of the bench next to Fenn. ‘Can we go now?'

Chloe had finished her chicken. Fenn took the empty plate from her.

‘I was just about to fetch Chloe a piece of raspberry gateau. Shall I get you one too?'

Leila's eyelids flickered briefly, acknowledging the so-called humor of this suggestion.

‘No thanks. The wedding thing's over, isn't it? Why can't we go?'

‘We're celebrating.'

‘I don't know anyone here.'

‘You know Miranda,' said Fenn. ‘Go and dance in the fountain with her.'
Please
, he thought, silently willing her to laugh and kick off her shoes. I'd love it if you did that.

Chloe saw the blank expression on Leila's sculpted face.

‘Why?'

‘You might enjoy it.'

Leila looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

‘I'd get wet.'

***

The Salinger Hotel was famous for its Sunday-afternoon tea dances. Inside, the orchestra played sedate numbers from the twenties and thirties, and elegantly dressed couples moved decorously around the polished dance floor. Outside, in the garden, Miranda danced—rather less elegantly—with Tom Barrett.

‘We're raising a few eyebrows,' he told her, glancing up at the windows. ‘Monocles are popping out as we speak.'

‘That's because I look like a tart, and you're dressed as a vicar.'

‘My dear, I'm the envy of every man in that ballroom.'

Waltzing for all she was worth, Miranda said, ‘Oh Tom, aren't you lovely? Why can't I meet someone as nice as you, only forty years younger?'

Tom shouted with laughter.

‘God, I'm sorry,' mumbled Miranda. ‘I suppose I just answered my own question. A walking disaster, that's me.' Stepping backwards instead of forwards, she pulled a face. ‘Not to mention a waltzing one.'

‘That's no way to speak,' Tom chided. ‘You're not a disaster.'

‘I am.'

‘Refreshingly honest, maybe.' Amused, Tom glanced over at Florence. ‘Can't think where you get it from.'

‘Poor Florence. I feel guilty, twirling away while she's stuck in her chair.'

‘I wouldn't give much for your chances if she heard you calling her poor Florence.' Tom's smile was fond. ‘Good old Flo, she was quite something in her day.'

‘She still is,' said Miranda. ‘And I wouldn't give much for
your
chances if she heard you calling her old.'

He looked thoughtful.

‘Can she stand at all?'

‘Oh yes, with support.'

They grinned at each other.

‘Dare you,' said Miranda.

‘Done.'

Florence looked up in alarm as Tom, his vicar's robes billowing and his manner purposeful, approached her.

‘You're not leaving already?'

‘I am not. I've come to ask for the pleasure of the next dance.'

Astonished, Florence said, ‘With who?'

‘You, you daft woman. And it's with
whom
.'

‘Pah! You're the daft one, Tom Barrett,' Florence snorted, ‘if you think I'd let you fling me round in this chair like a child let loose with a supermarket trolley. Ridiculous, that's how we'd look—'

‘Not in the chair.' Tom shook his head. ‘You can stand, I checked with Miranda. And if I can haul a set of clubs round eighteen holes,' he held out his arms, ‘I'm sure I can manage you.'

‘Lovely turn of phrase you have there,' grumbled Florence. ‘Makes me sound like a sack of turnips.'

Tom smiled.

‘Turnips are quieter. Turnips don't argue.'

‘Go and dance with a turnip then.'

Evocative music drifted through the open French windows as, inside the ballroom, the orchestra struck up the next tune. Irritatingly, it was one of Florence's all-time favorites.

‘I'd rather dance with you,' Tom said calmly. ‘Much rather.'

‘I don't do the tarantella any more.' Florence's tone was truculent. ‘I can't twirl.'

Sensing weakness, Tom raised an enquiring eyebrow.

‘Can you shuffle?'

‘Oh, I can shuffle.'

He nodded with satisfaction, reaching down and clasping his arms firmly around Florence's waist.

‘That'll do.'

***

‘Fancy a bop?' said Buzz.

‘Why not?' Chloe shook back her hair and stood up. ‘But if you try and undo my bra, I shall have to kill you.'

He grinned. Chloe was all right.

‘You're a pregnant lady. I do have some scruples, you know.'

‘You amaze me,' said Chloe.

***

It was the sight of Florence and Tom dancing together that finally did it for Miranda. One minute she was sitting kicking her heels happily in the fountain and the next there was a lump the size of the Rock of Gibraltar battling to burst out of her chest.

Shuffle, shuffle went Tom's feet, in perfect time with Florence's. He was smiling down at her, saying something and making her chuckle. And Florence was enjoying herself; the look on her face said it all. With her new short hairstyle, her jaunty hat and flowing dress of violet silk splashed with crimson orchids, she looked fabulous. And so happy that Miranda wanted to cry.

The next moment, to her horror, she realized that she actually
was
crying. Hot tears were spilling over on to her cheeks like lava out of a volcano and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Oh God, please don't let anyone see me like this…

***

Tom Barrett, his snowy surplice billowing in the breeze, was dancing with Bev. Chloe had been persuaded to take a twirl round the garden with Tony Vale, still in his Blues Brothers suit and glasses but now wearing, as a finishing touch, Florence's flower-bedecked velvet hat.

‘She isn't inside,' said Danny. ‘I can't find her anywhere.'

Fenn frowned.

‘She wouldn't have left without telling us. And her bag's still here.'

Leila, busy lighting up yet another cigarette, said vaguely, ‘When I went to the loo earlier there was someone crying in one of the cubicles.'

Fenn stared at her.

‘Was it Miranda?'

‘How would I know? All I could see was her feet. Green nail polish with purple glitter.' Leila exhaled a stream of smoke and pulled a face. ‘I mean, totally passé.'

‘Those were Miranda's totally passé toes,' Fenn said furiously. ‘Why didn't you tell us earlier?'

Leila looked amazed.

‘You didn't ask.'