Miranda's Big Mistake (21 page)

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.

‘At least you got a snog out of it,' Florence continued, her eyes alight with mischief. ‘You can tell us how that went, surely! Good, bad, indifferent…?'

‘Average,' lied Miranda, wondering what she'd done to deserve such torture.

‘Hmm. From the way Bruce described it, that's a bit like describing Torvill and Dean as average ice-skaters.'

‘Actually, I've got a bit of a headache.'

Florence went off into peals of laughter.

‘Poor darling, is that what Danny said to you last night?'

Chloe, feeling sorry for Miranda, said, ‘Shall I bring you a couple of aspirins?'

‘Make it a couple of hundred,' Miranda groaned. Oh dear, was it possible to feel worse than this?

***

The phone rang just as she was crawling out of the house.

‘For you,' crowed Florence, behind her.

‘Who is it?'

‘No idea. Sounds like Jeremy Paxman.' Florence had recently taken to watching
Newsnight
at every opportunity; she thought Jeremy Paxman was the bee's knees. ‘Ask him if he wears pants or boxer shorts.' She wagged the receiver hopefully at Miranda. ‘It's so hard to fantasize when you don't know.'

Miranda snatched the phone from her, not in the mood for Florence's surreal ramblings.

‘Miranda Carlisle? Glad I managed to catch you,' barked Jeremy Paxman, sounding as brisk and disdainful as he did when he was grilling some hapless politician. ‘Short notice, I know, but we'd like you to appear on the show tonight, and not that it's relevant, but for the record perhaps you could tell whoever asked that ludicrous question that the answer is neither. Beneath my desk I am at one with the elements, unhampered, as free as a bird'

Miranda hung up.

Moments later, the phone rang again.

‘You weren't supposed to do that,' a more familiar voice complained good-naturedly. ‘I was only trying to brighten your day.'

‘I don't want to speak to you, I don't, I really don't…'

‘Not bad, though, was it?' Danny sounded pleased with himself. ‘Did I fool you, just for a few seconds?'

‘No.' He had, of course. Right up to the moment when he had begun to describe his below-desk preferences in such vivid detail. Thanks to that deadly accurate machine-gun delivery, she had actually believed that Jeremy Paxman was calling to invite a hopeless trainee hairdresser from Notting Hill on to his show.

That's how stupid I am, thought Miranda.

Spending the rest of her life in a tin shack on the Outer Hebrides was becoming an increasingly attractive idea.

She looked at her watch.

‘I have to go. I'm late for work.'

For some reason, this didn't appear to bother Danny.

‘Dear me, late for work, that would never do.'

‘What do you want?' Miranda gritted her teeth. ‘An apology, is that it?'

‘Don't be daft.' Danny sounded amused. ‘Although you could thank me, if you like. For doing the gentlemanly thing.'

Hot waves of shame swept through her. She stood there, mortified and unable to speak.

Sadist.

‘And don't think it was easy,' Danny went on, ‘because it wasn't. I was tempted, I admit. Turning down offers like that doesn't come naturally to red-blooded males, let me tell you—'

‘Okay, okay,' Miranda blurted out. ‘Thank you thank you thank you for not sleeping with me, I'm so
grateful
to you!'

‘Calm down, no need to yell.' Now he sounded offended. ‘I was being responsible. You were upset about Greg, plus you'd had a fair bit to drink. People do daft things when they're pissed—'

Tell me about it, Miranda thought despairingly. Except—damn—he already was.

‘—and I didn't want you waking up this morning, flinching at the sight of me and thinking, Oh God,
no
.' Danny paused. ‘That's the worst-case scenario, of course. It could have been quite different. You might have been delighted it happened, not embarrassed at all. You might have thought, That was fabulous, why didn't we do it
months
ago?'

There was an odd note in his voice. Miranda couldn't work it out at all, and she didn't want to try. Her brain kept conjuring up hideous images of her flinging herself at Danny in his car, smothering him with kisses, fumbling with his shirt buttons, yelling, ‘I want to have sex with you!'

And the pictures kept appearing, over and over again like a video stuck endlessly on Replay.

‘Look, I do have to go to work.' She tried huffing her fringe out of her eyes but perspiration had plastered it to her clammy forehead. ‘But you're right, it would have been disastrous, the biggest mistake of my life. God, just the thought makes me shudder. I must have been out of my tree.'

‘Okay.' Danny sounded taken aback, as if he hadn't been expecting quite such a brutal put-down. ‘Well, that's that out of the way. All forgotten. How about dinner tonight, to celebrate the fact that we didn't sleep together and we're still friends?'

‘No thanks.' Miranda couldn't face it; she was too ashamed. It was all right for Danny, he wasn't the one who'd been begging for sex. And she didn't believe for one moment that it would be All Forgotten. From now on, their every conversation would be a minefield, because she just knew Danny wouldn't be able to resist teasing her, making the occasional sly remark here, the odd dig there, reminding her—God, as if she needed reminding—what an all-time prize idiot she'd made of herself.

‘Go on,' Danny urged.

‘I really don't want to.'

‘What about the video? I was going to bring it over. Don't you want to see it?'

‘I'm going to work now.' Miranda had had enough. ‘And I don't want to see you or your video.' As her patience snapped, her voice rose hysterically. ‘I just want to be left in peace.'

***

Feigning cheerfulness for the clients at the salon was something you had to do whether you liked it or not. As far as Miranda was concerned, it was a long and trying day. The only time she cheered up was when she handed the parcel Chloe had given her over to Fenn and watched him open it.

‘That's your shirt.' She gazed at it in astonishment. It was definitely the shirt Fenn had been wearing yesterday, now laundered and ironed and folded as neatly as a sweater in a Benetton shop.

‘Chloe insisted.' Fenn ran a finger over the front where the wine stain had been. ‘After Leila got trigger-happy with the claret.'

Mystified, Miranda stared up at him. Fenn was six foot two and broad-shouldered.

‘So if you left your shirt at our house, what did you wear home?'

‘The only thing that fit me.' The corners of Fenn's mouth twitched as he recalled the reaction of his neighbors when they had seen him in the sweatshirt Chloe had bought from Mothercare.

In that moment, Miranda knew.

‘The yellow sweatshirt,' she exclaimed, ‘with pink writing on it.'

‘Maybe,' said Fenn.

Miranda clapped her hands with delight; she could just picture it. Fenn Lomax, emerging from his black Lotus in a pastel-shaded sweatshirt bearing the slogan
I'm Not Fat, I'm Pregnant
.

***

The house overlooking Hampstead Heath was a dream. It was perfect in every way, from the matching pair of monkey puzzle trees in the front garden to the Tuscan-style marbled kitchen the size of a tennis court, done out in irresistible shades of copper and blue.

The estate agent kept saying what a fabulous property it was, and Fenn could only nod in agreement. He was unable to fault it.

‘There's a great deal of interest, as you'd expect,' the agent told him as they left. ‘I'm sure you'd like to put in an offer.'

I could be making the biggest mistake of my life here, thought Fenn. I must be mad.

Aloud he said, ‘No thanks.'

Three weeks later, Fenn moved into his new flat. The next day, he gave his overjoyed salon junior a lift home from work.

‘This is so brilliant,' Miranda exclaimed when he informed her in his offhand fashion that since he practically had to pass her front door, they may as well make it a regular thing. ‘No more fighting and getting squashed on the tube! And I'll be saving eight pounds a week on fares…golly, I'm going to be rich!'

That was a comfort, then. Every cloud…Fenn thought dryly. Miranda was getting herself chauffeured to and from work and saving eight pounds a week. He, on the other hand, had leased a diabolically expensive flat in Holland Park with no swimming pool, no garden and truly cringe-making décor of the 1960s groovy-man-about-town variety. Even the neighbors were unfriendly, clearly regarding a long-haired celebrity hairdresser as an undesirable member of their exclusive enclave. Then again, maybe they were simply suspicious of anyone who would want to live in a flat with zebra-print fitted carpets, mirrored ceilings and leather-look walls.

And let's face it, Fenn had to acknowledge, who wouldn't be?

But he had been compelled to rent the property anyway, for reasons so flimsy and embarrassing he couldn't admit them to a living soul.

‘I thought you'd set your heart on Hampstead.' Rifling through her bag, Miranda offered him a liquorice allsort. ‘What made you go for Holland Park instead?'

There was no way in the world he was going to tell Miranda.

‘I thought if I moved to Holland Park, I'd be able to give you a lift every morning. That way, you wouldn't be able to be late for work,' said Fenn. ‘And we wouldn't have to listen to any more of your bizarre excuses.'

Not true, of course, but close. Closer than Miranda would ever know. Fenn swung the car into Tredegar Gardens and pulled up outside Florence's house.

‘You pretend to be a grumpy old stick,' Miranda told him with a grin, ‘but deep down you're all heart.'

She was gathering together her belongings, squashing the packet of liquorice allsorts back into her haversack, juggling sunglasses, Coke can and a set of keys.

‘How's Florence?' Fenn kept his tone casual.

‘Great! People keep complimenting her on her hair.'

He hesitated.

‘I haven't seen her since the wedding.'

‘Of course you haven't.' Miranda frowned, concentrating on disentangling the cord on her sunglasses from her key ring. ‘Bugger, how did I manage to do this?'

Never mind that, thought Fenn, how do you manage to miss a hint the size of an armored car?

‘Well,' he went on slightly desperately, ‘I'm glad she's okay.'

Yay, done it! Triumphantly, Miranda slung her glasses around her neck and waved her keys at him.

‘Thanks for the lift. You're a star. I'd ask you in for a drink—Florence would love to see you—but I know you must be dying to get back to the new flat.'

Fenn exhaled slowly.

Mission accomplished.

About time too.

‘Of course I am,' he told Miranda with a careless shrug. ‘Still, the flat isn't going anywhere, is it? Twenty minutes won't hurt.'

***

Chloe was dozing on the sun-lounger in the garden, soaking up the late-afternoon rays. When she felt an insect tickling her nose, she batted it away idly without opening her eyes.

Then it happened again. Chloe looked up and saw Miranda grinning down at her.

‘Bzzz bzzz.' Miranda waggled the blade of grass in her hand. ‘Wake up, we've got company.'

‘Who?'

‘My new chauffeur.'

‘
Who?
' As she sat up, Chloe felt the straps of her bikini top cut into her shoulders. It was last year's bikini, designed for an altogether less inflated figure. These days, her breasts spilled over the cups like extravagant scoops of ice cream crammed into tiny cones.

As for her poor bikini bottoms, straining valiantly away at the seams…well, Chloe was just grateful for the miracle of Lycra, and for the security of knowing that Florence's back garden couldn't be overlooked.

‘My new
personal
chauffeur,' Miranda announced smugly. ‘Fenn.'

‘What? Oh my God—'

‘No need to panic, I'm pretty sure he's seen underdressed women before.'

Oh yes, underdressed women who weigh about as much as one of my kidneys, Chloe thought wildly.

‘Go and get my sarong,' she yelped. Aaargh, her sarong was see-through. ‘No, bring towels, lots of towels!'

‘You're being silly, you look fine.' Miranda glanced up at the house. ‘Anyway, too late. He's here.'

Fenn was wheeling Florence down the ramp. Chloe cringed and wondered if she could hide under the sun-lounger. Her face burned; how could they all be so insensitive?

‘Flap flap,' Miranda teased. ‘Anyone would think you had a big crush on Fenn.'

‘Towels.' Chloe glared at her as scarily as she knew how. Ridiculous; she didn't have any kind of crush on Fenn. She just didn't want him to see her looking like
this
.

Across the lawn Fenn heard the hissed command and guessed the cause of Chloe's anguish in an instant.

‘Won't be a sec,' he told Florence and headed back into the kitchen, returning moments later with the emerald-green sarong he had spotted hanging over the back of one of the chairs.

Grateful for Fenn's tact but still barely able to look at him, Chloe wrapped the sarong around herself. Oh dear, it was better than nothing but she still would have preferred a bath towel. Or a king-size duvet. Or, best of all, a nice sturdy body bag complete with six-foot zip.

‘Fenn's moved into a new flat,' Florence explained, distributing bottles of Guinness. ‘In Holland Park.'

Chloe's eyebrows went up. ‘What was wrong with the house in Hampstead?'

Fenn shrugged. Apart from the fact that it was in Hampstead, there hadn't been a single thing wrong with it.

‘I was too late. Someone else got there first.'

‘Isn't it a shame? So he had to settle for this other place instead,' Miranda crowed. ‘And now I don't have to catch the tube any more,' she did a little dance for joy, ‘because Fenn's going to give me a lift into work.'

Florence patted his arm.

‘If you ask me, you should have stuck to Hampstead.' Her voice lowered. ‘She sings, you know. In the mornings.'

Fenn was beginning to wonder if he'd made a horrible mistake.

‘Not in my car, she won't.'

‘Still, it'll be nice, we'll see more of you,' Florence went on cheerfully.

Maybe not such a horrible mistake after all.

Just so long as he doesn't see more of me, Chloe thought ruefully, attempting to tug the flimsy cotton of her sarong further up over her breasts.

‘What's the flat like, then?' Florence took a swig of Guinness. ‘Done out all right?'

‘Think Peter Stringfellow, twenty years ago,' said Fenn. ‘With knobs on.'

‘Hah!' cackled Florence. ‘A shag pad.'

Miranda grinned. Chloe, still shockable, spluttered into her drink.

Fenn said gravely, ‘More like a shag palace.'

‘Not your thing?'

‘You could say that. Every time I open a cupboard I half expect a leftover bunny girl to come tumbling out.'

‘I can help you pick out new stuff,' Miranda exclaimed. ‘Honestly, I'm brilliant at that. I should have been an interior designer.'

‘Oh right, have my new wallpaper chosen by someone with green and blue hair. Great idea,' said Fenn. He raised his eyebrows at Chloe. ‘Help me out here, will you? Think of a way of saying no without hurting her feelings.'

‘But I would be brilliant,' Miranda protested. ‘I would I would I
would
!'

‘No,' Fenn mimicked her pleading tones. ‘No no
no
.'

‘He'll hire a professional designer,' Chloe explained soothingly. It was the kind of thing rich people did.

‘I will not,' said Fenn with a shudder. ‘They always go miles over the top and you're never allowed to want anything normal.'

Miranda, losing interest since she clearly wasn't going to be allowed to help, said, ‘I'm starving. Anyone else for potato chips?'

As soon as she had disappeared into the kitchen, Fenn sat forward and said, ‘So how's she been with you?'

‘Bright and cheerful on the outside, quiet on the inside.' Florence blew a stream of smoke rings. ‘Like a cupcake.'

Fenn nodded. ‘Same as at work.'

‘She stays in every night,' said Chloe.

‘Pretending everything's fine.' Florence stubbed out her cigarette. ‘When what she should be doing is getting out there and having fun. That's what Miranda really needs, of course. A new man to take her mind off the old one.'

The way Florence's lip curled at this reference to Greg reminded Fenn of something else that had been puzzling him.

‘Why hasn't Danny shown her the wedding video yet? I asked Miranda and she said she hadn't seen it.'

‘She didn't want to,' Chloe explained. ‘He brought it round here and Miranda went out. We watched it,' she went on cheerfully. ‘It was brilliant.'

‘The question is, which of them couldn't Miranda face?' Florence's tone was arch. ‘The video, or Danny Delancey?'

Fenn had finished his Guinness. He glanced at his watch.

‘I'd better be off. The faster I clear the packing crates out of my sitting room, the sooner I can rip up the zebra-print carpet.' He glanced at Chloe. ‘How are you at picking out what goes with what? I've spent the weekend up to my ears in color charts and wallpaper samples. I could use a second opinion,' he said easily. ‘So long as it isn't Miranda's.'

Startled, Chloe said, ‘I'm not an expert.'

‘I told you, I don't want an expert. An expert would insist on magenta ceilings, turquoise marble-effect walls and rag-rolled festoon blinds with bloody bows on. All I want is something normal.' Fenn shrugged. ‘That won't give me a headache.'

Reassured, Chloe began to nod.

‘Well, I can probably manage normal. If you're—'

‘There you go!' With an air of triumph, Miranda clattered two plates of leaking sandwiches on to the table. ‘Smoky bacon with barbeque sauce, roast chicken and mayonnaise, cheese and onion with ketchup.' She beamed. ‘Eat them before they go soggy.'

‘And she wonders why I don't want her to redecorate my flat,' said Fenn. He rose to his feet and eyed Miranda severely. ‘Eight o'clock tomorrow morning. On the dot.'

Miranda nodded, her mouth crammed with wonderfully crunchy sandwich. For some reason she was the only one eating. Honestly, some people had no sense of adventure.

‘How about you?' Fenn turned to Chloe. ‘Six-ish, tomorrow evening?'

‘Fine.'

Hey-up, thought Miranda, secret assignations being arranged behind my back—what's this all about?

‘That's discrimination,' she protested. ‘How come she gets six-
ish
and I get on-the-dot?'

‘Because Chloe's doing me a favor, and I'm doing you one.'

In a flash, Miranda knew what the other favor was.

‘Oh, that is so mean,' she wailed. ‘You've asked Chloe to help you choose new stuff for your flat.'

‘Perhaps we could both help,' suggested Chloe, embarrassed.

‘No you bloody well could not.' Fenn was firm. ‘It's my flat and I'll ask who I want.'

‘But—'

‘No begging, no emotional blackmail,' he told Miranda.

Rebelliously she muttered, ‘Just acres and acres of magnolia vinyl emulsion.'

‘Look, I know you're fed up at the moment,' Fenn went on more kindly. ‘You're bored and you want some fun. I just don't want you taking it out on my flat.'

Miranda's shoulders sagged in defeat. He was right, of course—deep down, she knew they had wildly differing tastes. It would be like asking Margaret Thatcher to sashay down the catwalk in a Vivienne Westwood basque.

Oh, but how long was she going to feel like this, hollow with misery and so lonely she could cry?

Wearily Miranda reached for another sandwich. Soggy already, like her life. Fun, had Fenn said?

The way things were going, she couldn't imagine ever having fun again.