Miranda's Big Mistake (2 page)

Having ridden to the rescue before, Chloe wasn't fooled for an instant by his jovial tone. Like dog years, Bruce's idea of an hour or two generally meant seven or eight.

‘Bruce, I'm sorry. I can't.'

Taken aback wasn't the word for it.

‘But you said you didn't have anything on tonight.' His tone was accusing.

Be brave, stand your ground, don't let him bully you into it.

‘That was this morning.' Chloe spoke as firmly as she dared. ‘I do now.'

Florence Curtis had led an action-packed life; she had always lived for the day and crammed as much as was humanly possible into each and every one of them. Married at twenty, a mother at twenty-five, divorced by twenty-seven, married again, widowed, married for the third time at thirty-three…good Lord, it made her dizzy nowadays just to remember those hectic years when, juggling homes, staff, and the needs of her much-loved but incredibly demanding son, she had followed her various husbands all over the world.

Then her beloved Ray, number three, had died of a heart attack on the steps of the casino at Monte Carlo, and Florence had decided to call it a day on the husband front. Twice widowed was enough; the pain was almost too much to bear. From now on she would stick to lovers. Apart from anything else, she glibly informed her friends—because sympathy was anathema to Florence—she was tired of endlessly changing her surname on checkbooks.

The next twenty years had been spent in the relentless pursuit of fun, with Florence adoring every last minute. Her motto had always been ‘You're a long time dead', and until the first signs of stiffness had begun to seep into her joints, it had never occurred to her that perhaps it should have been ‘You're a long time crippled with arthritis'.

It was hard, adapting to life in a wheelchair when your brain sometimes fooled you into thinking you were still as active as you'd always been. Every now and again Florence dreamt that she had been dancing all night at the Café Royal. When she woke up, exhilarated and in the mood to carry on, she would think, That's what I'll do today, go somewhere a bit posh and
dance
…

Until she tried to turn over in bed, only to groan aloud with the pain. These days she was lucky if she could make it as far as the kitchen before collapsing in a heap.

Last year Florence's well-meaning GP had suggested wheelchair ballroom dancing. Every Thursday night, apparently, busloads of disabled pensioners descended on nearby St Augustine's church hall and had a high old time of it, spinning and twirling their partners around the floor.

‘What, in their wheelchairs?' Florence had roared with laughter. ‘Sorry, darling, not my scene. Sounds like two teenagers with clonking great braces on their teeth trying to have a snog.'

If she sometimes felt a bit down in the dumps, Florence made sure she kept it to herself. What good would it do, after all, to drone on about how depressed you were and how narrow your life had become? That was a surefire way to end up a Nellie No-friends.

Instead, she concentrated on presenting her cheerful, fun-loving face to the world. She also made sure she counted her blessings regularly. She had her home and no money worries. She had Miranda. And her legs might be useless, but at least she still had the use of her hands, which meant she could hold a champagne glass, play a mean game of poker, and put on her own make-up. Not always brilliantly, as Florence was the first to admit. But hell, there were worse things in life than a bit of wonkily applied eyeliner.

As the clock on the mantelpiece chimed six thirty, Florence wheeled herself over to the sitting-room window. She liked to watch out for her lodger. As soon as she saw Miranda coming up the street—usually searching in her pockets for her front door key—she would fetch a bottle of lager from the fridge and pour herself a decent measure of dry sherry.

That was another great thing about wheelchairs. If the first drink of the day went straight to your knees—well, so what?

Florence was still tussling with the ice cube tray when the front door slammed shut and Miranda yelled, ‘I'm home.'

‘You're frozen. Go and sit by the fire,' Florence protested when she came through to the kitchen to help. ‘I can manage.'

Miranda bashed the tray against the top of the fridge, scattering ice cubes in all directions.

‘My hands are numb already.' She clattered ice cubes into Florence's sherry glass. ‘There, done. Now we can both sit by the fire.' She pulled a face. ‘And I can tell you about my wonderful day.'

Sleety rain dripped down Miranda's neck as she tipped her head back to drink the lager straight from the bottle. Her short black hair, urchin-cut and currently streaked with dark blue and green low-lights, gleamed like a magpie's wing.

‘…so I missed my lunch break and by the time I left the salon he'd gone,' she concluded, unaware of the rim of froth on her upper lip. ‘Poor chap, I feel terrible letting him down like that.'

‘You know your trouble,' Florence said comfortably, ‘you're a soft touch.'

‘I just worry about him. What kind of life does he have? I mean, imagine not having anywhere to
live
.'

Florence snorted into her sherry. ‘Ha, feeling sorry for him's one thing. Just so long as you don't bring him back here and expect me to feel sorry for him too.'

She wouldn't put it past Miranda to give it a go, to try and persuade her to allow some smelly old tramp to move in with them.

‘You're heartless,' said Miranda.

‘I'm not a pushover, that's all. Anyway,' Florence grew serious, ‘there's something I have to tell you. Not good news, I'm afraid.'

‘What?' Miranda's dark eyes widened in alarm. ‘Are you ill?'

‘I'm not, but my bank account's feeling pretty sick. You heard about that stock market crash last week?'

Miranda hadn't, but she nodded anyway. Matters of high finance tended to pass her by.

‘Well, my accountant phoned me this afternoon. My shares have gone down the toilet. Basically I'm skint.' Florence paused and looked embarrassed. ‘The thing is, I'm afraid I'm going to have to put your rent up.'

Miranda swallowed. She began to feel queasy.

‘Oh. Okay. Um…by how much?'

‘Well, double it?'

Good grief.

The look on Miranda's face was a picture. Florence roared with laughter and clapped her hands.

‘Ha, April Fool!'

Miranda's mouth dropped open.

‘You mean…my rent's not going up?'

‘Of course it isn't!'

‘You aren't broke?'

‘There hasn't been a stock market crash. You should try reading the paper occasionally,' Florence cackled, ‘then you'd know.'

Miranda breathed again.

‘It's after midday,' she protested. ‘April Fools don't count after midday.'

‘I didn't get a chance earlier. Anyway,' Florence's grin was unrepentant, ‘still worked, didn't it?'

‘That's cheating,' grumbled Miranda.

With an air of complacency, Florence said, ‘Ah well, I'm allowed to cheat, I'm a batty old woman in a wheelchair. That means I can do what I want.'

***

Greg wasn't due home from work until eight. Feeling that an extra-special dinner was called for, Chloe marinated the chicken breasts and mushrooms in garlic and olive oil, tossed the tiny new potatoes in butter and made sure there was enough blackcurrant sorbet in the freezer before running her bath.

She fastened her hair up with the diamanté clips Greg had bought her last Christmas and took out the red satin dress he had given her for her birthday. Since his favorite scent was Obsession—though she wasn't wild about it herself—she squished it on with abandon. She even dug out her old garter belt and the sheer black stockings Greg was so keen on, determinedly ignoring the scratchiness of the lace around her waist.

Every little bit helped.

She hoped.

And let's face it, thought Chloe as she began—albeit shakily—on her make-up, tonight I'm going to need all the help I can get.

Twenty-five past eight.

Still no sign of Greg.

God, the one time I desperately need a drink, and I can't have one.

By eight thirty Chloe's nerves were in bits. When she heard the click of Greg's key in the front door, she catapulted out of her chair as if she'd been zapped with a cattle prod.

Appearing in the living room, loosening his tie, Greg let out a low whistle.

‘I say, what's all this in aid of? Not our anniversary, is it?'

Chloe began to tremble. She'd overdone it. Now he was going to want to know right away why she'd made such an effort.

‘I just felt like dressing up.'

She managed a bright smile. Telling Greg was going to be so much easier once he had a good meal and the best part of a bottle of wine inside him.

‘Garters too.' He tilted his head, observing the telltale bumps beneath the tight red satin. ‘This is the kind of dressing up I like.'

Hmm, maybe dinner followed by sex,
then
tell him. That might be better.

That is, if Greg didn't fall asleep and start snoring like a rhino within six seconds of rolling off her.

It had been known to happen in the past.

‘Is that garlic?' Greg sniffed the cooking smells wafting through from the kitchen. ‘I'd better give that a miss. Big meeting first thing tomorrow—don't want to knock the clients senseless.'

‘Oh.' Chloe's face fell. She'd put garlic in everything. That meant dinner now consisted of blackcurrant sorbet.

‘Is everything okay?' Sensing her anxiety, he moved towards her. ‘Sweetheart, you're shaking. Is something up?'

‘I'd better turn the oven off.' Chloe heard her own voice echoing in her ears. It was like listening to someone else talking. She hadn't wanted to launch right in and say it, she needed time to gear herself up, run a few more practice lines through her head.

Then again, was that really going to make it any easier?

‘Chloe?' Greg's hands were on her bare shoulders, gently massaging them. ‘What is it?'

‘Oh Greg, we're going to have a baby.'

There, she'd done it.

Blurted it out.

Like Bambi's legs collapsing on the ice—whoomph—Greg's hands slid off her shoulders.

‘What?'

Another deep breath.

‘A baby. We—we're going to have one.'

He took a step backwards.

‘You mean you're pregnant?'

With an effort, Chloe stopped her smile from wobbling, though her knees carried on regardless.

‘Well, we didn't win one in a competition.'

‘Is this a joke?'

‘No! I wouldn't joke about something like this!'

Greg gave her an odd look. A not very encouraging one.

‘How long have you known?'

Her heart was flapping around in her chest. It felt as if it was trying to get out.

‘Seven hours.'

‘Chloe. This can't happen. You know it can't.'

‘But it
has
happened,' Chloe protested, dry-mouthed.

‘We agreed. No babies. We don't need them. I don't want them. I don't even like them.'

‘I know, I know,' she pleaded, ‘but it's happened. It was an accident but now it's happened—'

‘Sure about that?' said Greg coldly. ‘Are you sure it was an accident?'

‘I swear to you!' Oh God, this was awful. ‘I'd never do anything like that. It was just as much of a shock to me—'

‘Good. So all we have to do is sort it out.'

Chloe stared at him, unable to speak.

‘Don't look at me like that.' Steadily, Greg held her gaze. ‘What did you seriously expect me to say? Chloe, you are
not
going to have a baby. We'll get this taken care of. It's no big deal, sweetheart, it won't even hurt.'

Fear was replaced by fury. Chloe felt her fingernails digging into her palms.

‘We aren't talking about a…a
wisdom
tooth…'

‘It's smaller than a wisdom tooth.'

‘It's a human being!' Why couldn't he understand how she felt? She fought back the urge to scream at the top of her voice. If he truly loved her, why couldn't he understand how she felt? How could he just reject the idea out of hand?

‘I'm not being brutal,' said Greg, ‘just realistic.'

‘But it doesn't have to be the end of the world!'

‘No, just the end of our marriage.'

Chloe reeled back as if he'd hit her. She felt physically winded.

‘So that's why you made all this effort,' Greg drawled, gesturing at her dress. ‘Oh, I get it now. Slap on a bit of make-up, dig a garter belt out of the back of your knicker drawer, and that'll do the trick. One flash of stocking-top and you'll have me at your mercy, gibbering, “Darling, how wonderful, you've made me the happiest man in the world, of
course
I want a baby.”'

Chloe looked away.

Well, yes.

Basically it was what she had hoped would happen.

‘Sorry, Chloe. I can't do it. I told you before we got married how I felt about children, and I'm not about to start changing my mind now. See?' Greg waved an arm in the direction of the window. ‘No flying pigs.'

No, thought Chloe, just one two-legged one right here in the living room.

‘I can't get rid of it,' she whispered, ‘I just couldn't.' Hating herself for being so feeble, knowing it was a waste of time even saying the words, she begged. ‘You might change your mind.'

‘No.' Greg picked up his car keys, his grey eyes cold. ‘No, no, no. By the way,' he added dismissively as he made for the front door, ‘don't worry about saving my dinner for me. I'll eat out.'

‘Look, I'm really sorry about yesterday,' said Miranda. ‘I got into all kinds of bother with a customer and ended up having to work through my lunch break, otherwise I'd have—'

‘It's okay, doesn't matter. You don't need to apologize.'

Miranda blinked icy rain out of her eyes and rummaged through her bag. If her fingers were frozen she couldn't imagine how his must feel.

‘Ham and tomato today, is that all right? And I thought these might come in handy.' Digging deeper, she unearthed a pair of tan leather gloves and a black knitted scarf.

‘They're great. Thanks very much.' He smiled up at her. ‘Did you knit this?'

She rolled her eyes.

‘God, no, picked it up in Oxfam. I couldn't knit to save my life.'

‘Well, thanks anyway. Very warm.'

He had a nice voice. Miranda watched him wrap the scarf around his neck and slide his fingers into the gloves. She ruffled her own hair, unexpectedly embarrassed. All of a sudden she felt like a bossy maiden aunt forcing her nephew to try on his least favorite Christmas present.

And be suitably grateful.

Damn, she wished she hadn't given him the stupid things now.

‘Better get back.' Hurriedly, she consulted her watch. ‘Don't want to get into any more trouble.'

‘These are expensive gloves.' He was peeling one back at the wrist, reading the label. ‘Harvey Nichols, it says here.'

‘I didn't buy them,' said Miranda, anxious to get away. When his dark eyebrows went up, she added, ‘Don't worry, I didn't steal them either.'

***

The phone rang in the salon an hour later. Miranda, busy sweeping up hair, dimly heard Bev, at the desk, exclaim happily, ‘Oh hi, yes we
do
have them, we wondered who they belonged to!'

Another two minutes elapsed before Bev tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Miranda, that was a client on the phone. Any idea what's happened to those gloves that were left in the cloakroom? He's dropping by this afternoon to pick them up and I can't find them anywhere. D'you know if Fenn put them in his office?'

‘Oh hell.' Miranda straightened up and let out a groan. For three and a half weeks the gloves had lain unclaimed on a shelf in the cloakroom, and now…well, sometimes life was just too unfair.

‘What does that mean?' Bev was instantly suspicious. ‘Oh hell what?'

‘They went to a deserving cause.'

‘Don't tell me, you gave them to that tame tramp of yours.' Bev guessed at once from the look on Miranda's face. ‘Oh, you are hopeless. What on earth am I going to say to the client when he turns up?'

‘Um…'

‘And Fenn is going to kill you.'

‘He won't.' Miranda spoke with more conviction than she felt. ‘I asked if I could have them. He said it was okay.'

Well, he had. Kind of. The only niggling drawback was, Fenn had been pretty busy at the time. And although
technically
he had said yes, Miranda couldn't help feeling that maybe he'd meant yes, she could have the gloves if nobody turned up to claim them within, say, the next six months.

Rather than the next six seconds.

She bit her lip.

‘Well, if Fenn told you it was okay,' said Bev, ‘that's fine. He can make the groveling apologies when the client gets here. Maybe he'd even like to pop along to Harvey Nichols and buy him another pair.'

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.'