Miranda's Big Mistake (30 page)

Miranda knew something weird was going on when she pulled on her baggy khaki trousers, stood up and promptly fell over.

‘You've got both legs in one trouser leg,' Chloe pointed out. ‘You aren't concentrating.'

No, she wasn't. Instead she'd been thinking about Danny, who was due to arrive any minute now, listening out for the doorbell and wondering if she had time to quickly wash the gel out of her hair after all and go for the natural look.

Well, as natural as midnight-blue hair with magenta streaks could ever look.

Dragging her left leg out of her right trouser leg, Miranda realized with a sinking heart that the thing she most didn't want happening was starting to happen all over again. It had been escalating over the last week, creeping inexorably up on her like a mischievous ghost, and there was no longer any getting away from it.

The Crush was back.

Concentrating this time, she put her left leg carefully into her left trouser leg, stood up and fastened the zip.

‘Look at you, with a waist.' As Chloe gave her flat stomach an envious prod, the doorbell rang. ‘Ooh, that'll be Danny. Excited?'

Miranda looked at her hectically flushed reflection in the mirror. Dammit, yes she was, but not for the reason Chloe thought. What was more, she really wished she wasn't excited, because a raging crush on someone who doesn't have a crush on you isn't the coolest, most comfortable thing in the world to have.

The Return of the Crush, thought Miranda, biting her lip. Oh dear, and she'd been so sure it had gone for good when Miles had burst into her life. She'd been cured, oh yes, he'd been just what she'd needed to take her mind off Danny Delancey.

So it was irritating to say the least, having it make an unscheduled reappearance in her life now. Like an annoying old schoolfriend you'd rather hoped never to see again, popping up over the garden fence calling, ‘Coo-ee, we've just bought the house next door!'

***

Funny how you can walk into room quite effortlessly all your life, then all of a sudden it becomes a complicated procedure, fraught with difficulties.

Florence and Tom were in the sitting room, chattering to Danny, who had made himself comfortable at one end of the sofa. Miranda, dithering in the doorway, wondered where she should sit in order not to arouse suspicion. On the floor, close to Florence's chair? Or—the double-bluff—on the sofa, right next to Danny?

And shall I glance at him, smile and say hi, or just ignore him? Which would be more casual? Help, I've forgotten what to do, I can't remember how to be normal, oh, this is horrible—

‘Quick, sit down, it's starting.' Florence waved the TV flipper at the screen, upping the volume as the continuity announcer began to introduce the next program. Chloe, squeezing past Tom and Florence, lowered herself into the last empty armchair. Miranda sank cross-legged on to the carpet.

‘There's plenty of room next to Danny,' Florence protested.

‘I'm fine, I prefer it on the floor.'

The moment the words were out, Miranda regretted them. Florence and Tom sniggered like teenagers. Danny raised an eyebrow. Florence said to him, ‘Make a note of that in your diary.'

‘Sshh,' Miranda said crossly. ‘I thought we were supposed to be watching this.'

‘And now,' purred the continuity announcer, ‘a new documentary from the award-winning team of Delancey and Vale.'

‘I didn't know you'd won awards.' Chloe was impressed.

‘Well,' said Danny, ‘mainly my Blue Peter badge.'

‘Let's settle down now,' the announcer lowered her voice, ‘for an absorbing hour of…
Streetlife
.'

***

‘That was brilliant,' said Tom an hour later. He rewound the videotape to one of the interviews with Florence. ‘And she's not bad either.'

‘To think I fantasized about being spotted by a Texan oil billionaire.' Florence sighed. ‘What did I end up with instead? Some old pervert who gets his kicks dressing up as a vicar.'

Chloe, sticking up for Tom, said, ‘Only once.'

‘Ha, that's all you know,' gurgled Florence. ‘He hasn't taken that cassock back to the hire shop yet.'

It hadn't escaped Danny's notice that Miranda wasn't at all her old self. She was quieter these days, ill at ease in company and lacking her usual exuberance and wit.

He cornered her in the kitchen after the program, where she was making coffee.

‘Miranda, are you okay?'

Miranda flinched and shot an anguished glance in the direction of the door. Wouldn't someone please like to rescue her?
Please?

‘I'm fine.'

‘You've been different recently.'

‘Oh? I don't think I have.'

Danny felt for her. She could barely bring herself to look at him.

‘Is it Miles?'

Miranda swallowed. So that was what he thought, was it? That she was still torn apart with grief.

She wasn't. It was the end of September, ten weeks since the accident. She was over it now. And if that sounded brutal, she had, after all, only known Miles for a few short days.

Still, Danny didn't need to know any of this, did he?

Miranda's skin prickled with shame. It seemed a terrible thing to do, using Miles as an excuse for her odd behavior. Still, not nearly as terrible as the way she'd feel if Danny knew the real reason she was being odd. And Miles wouldn't mind, would he? If he was watching me now, thought Miranda, he'd be roaring with laughter at the mess I've gone and got myself into.

Danny was still waiting for a reply. She shrugged and nodded and carefully measured coffee into the jug.

‘Yes, it's Miles, but I don't want to talk about it.' Terrified that Danny was about to be sympathetic, she felt herself going hot again; she could sink low, but not that low. Hurriedly she added, ‘Just don't be nice to me, okay? Let's change the subject. How's it going with that blond girl? Still seeing her?'

Danny leaned against the fridge and folded his arms across his chest. He gazed at her thoughtfully for a second, then smiled slightly, his dark eyes softening.

‘Oh yes. I had dinner with her last night, as a matter of fact.'

Ah. Bugger. Changing the subject was all very well, but this wasn't the reply she'd been expecting. Subconsciously, Miranda realized, she'd been rather pinning her hopes on something more along the lines of, ‘Blond girl? What blond girl?' Accompanied, preferably, by a puzzled frown.

‘Dinner! Terrific!' She plastered on a bright smile. ‘Anywhere nice?'

‘Her place, actually.'

Serves me right for asking, thought Miranda. Bravely she said, ‘Is she a good cook?'

Danny thought about this.

‘Pretty good. Well, she did one of those Cordon Bleu courses a few years ago.'

Oh well, haven't we all?

And is she good in bed? No, no, mustn't ask that, Miranda told herself, breaking into a light sweat. Phew, thank goodness she hadn't actually said the words aloud. Talk about a dead giveaway—there were some questions you only ever asked a man if you were besotted with him, secretly or otherwise, and this was one of them. The other great no-no being, ‘So, I suppose you're going to marry her?'

Uttered, needless to say, through gritted teeth.

Definitely mustn't ask him that.

‘Right. Coffee.' Light-headed with relief at having given those two a miss, Miranda leaned on the French press's plunger, grabbed a pile of coffee cups and clattered everything on to a tray. She wondered if Danny had inveigled the title of the blond's favorite childhood book out of her and surprised her with a copy, too. It was probably a standard ploy he used to win girls over and convince them how wonderful he was.

Footprints in the Snow
, thought Miranda,
tuh
.

Idiot-Girl Rides Again
, more like.

‘You just wait until tomorrow,' said Danny.

She looked up at him, startled. ‘Why? What happens tomorrow?'

‘You'll be recognized. Everywhere you go, people who saw the program will come up to you and tell you how wonderful you are.' He grinned. ‘Trust me, it'll happen.'

Huh, fat lot of use that is, thought Miranda. If everyone else thinks I'm so wonderful, why can't you think it too?

Biting her lip, she rummaged in the cutlery drawer for teaspoons. ‘Just as well, then, that I'm not going out much.'

Five teaspoons. Sugar. What else was missing? Ah, cream…

‘Look.' Danny hesitated and pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘You've been through a lot and I know these things take time to get over, which is why I'm not pressuring you. But if you do ever feel like going out, give me a ring. I mean it. Any time, okay?'

Miranda winced. Oh dear, those three little words that were another dead giveaway.
Everyone
knew that when a man says he means it, he doesn't mean it.

Still, he was being polite, she had to give him that.

Even if he did sound as if he was thanking some dotty great-aunt for the gorgeous crocheted tank-top she'd given him for Christmas.

‘Right, definitely.' Plonking the cream jug on top of the saucers and picking up the tray, Miranda said brightly, ‘That'd be great.'

Me, you and Ms Cordon Bleu. Oh yes, couldn't get much cozier than that.

***

Several weeks passed. One Tuesday at the end of October, Chloe was working in the shop when the bell above the door went
ting
.

‘Hello,' said Greg.

Even though she'd been expecting him, her stomach squirmed. So did the baby. Probably wondering who the total stranger was, walking through the door, thought Chloe. Don't worry, pet, no one important, only your father.

‘Hello, Greg.' Laying down the order slips she'd been filling out, she glanced first at her watch then across at Bruce. ‘Okay if I take my lunch break now?'

‘Take it, take it.' Bruce nodded vigorously, jowls aquiver. As the owner of a gift shop stacked with china and glass, he was all in favor of members of staff holding their marital disputes off the premises.

‘I'll be back by one.' Chloe pulled on her coat, aware of Greg's gaze on her expanded body.

‘Don't be late. I've got an important meeting this afternoon,' said Bruce.

‘He means an important round of golf,' Chloe told Greg as the door swung shut behind them.

The car was parked on double yellows outside the shop. Greg unlocked the doors.

‘How's Miranda?'

‘Missing you terribly. Pining for you. Actually, that's a joke,' said Chloe, arranging the seat belt around her stomach. ‘She's fine and not missing you at all.'

‘That was a lousy trick the two of you played.'

‘Oh, it took more than two of us.'

Greg gave her the kind of long-suffering look he generally reserved for irritating office juniors who forgot how many sugars he took in his tea.

‘I didn't deserve any of it, you know.'

He thought being set up like that had been embarrassing, Chloe marveled, and the program hadn't even gone out yet. Just wait until all his friends saw him on
Sweet Revenge
.

‘Oh well, let's not argue about that,' she said cheerfully. ‘Let's argue about something else instead. I know, how about the divorce?'

‘You're in a funny mood,' said Greg. Warily, he eyed her stomach. ‘How much longer to go?'

‘Another three weeks yet. Don't worry, your car seats are quite safe.' Chloe marveled at how easy it was to be flippant when you genuinely couldn't care less. ‘Actually, I'm pretty hungry. Could we go to Sadler's?'

Greg looked irritated. Sadler's was expensive.

‘I thought you rang me because you wanted a divorce.'

‘I do. Well,' said Chloe, ‘I assume we both do. But can't I have lunch too?'

It was strange, seeing Greg again for the first time in months. Over lunch at Sadler's, Chloe caught up with all the news, learning that he had found himself a new girlfriend—a chiropodist called Antonia—and that yes, this time she knew all about his estranged pregnant wife.

‘How about you?' He watched Chloe's white teeth as she bit into a stem of asparagus.

‘Me? Just going for the quiet life. Giving the rock climbing and the paragliding a miss,' said Chloe. ‘Playing quite a bit of Scrabble though, drinking loads of cocoa, that kind of thing…'

Bravado, thought Greg.

‘You'll meet someone else, you know. One day.' For some reason—guilt, probably—he felt compelled to say it.

‘Will I? Who knows?' Chloe shrugged and raised a playful eyebrow. ‘I'm not such a catch as you.'

She was teasing him, Greg was stunned to realize. What was more, he found he couldn't tear his eyes away from her. It really was the weirdest thing; Chloe had this massive bulge sticking out in front of her but somehow she didn't look pregnant. She waddled when she walked and massaged her back from time to time but she didn't seem pregnant either. Her gold-blond hair was glossier than ever, her eyes sparkled, she was laughing and making jokes…It was uncanny, thought Greg, bemused. Where had all this confidence come from? Because he'd certainly never seen any evidence of it before.

Actually, it was quite erotic.

‘Okay, this divorce,' said Chloe, bringing him back to earth with a bump. ‘Cheap and cheerful, are we agreed? Oh, yes, please, I'd love another orange juice.' She gave the waiter loitering beside her a dazzling smile and Greg realized with a jolt that the waiter had noticed it too. He wasn't looking at Chloe as if she were pregnant at all—putting it bluntly, he was ogling her.

Jesus, wondered Greg, what was going on here? His ex-wife was exuding sexuality like some fifties starlet and she was managing to do it in white cotton maternity trousers and a man's pink and white striped shirt.

‘Greg? Are you having another drink?'

Still baffled, Greg shook his head.

‘Shouldn't you do up a couple more buttons?'

‘What?' Chloe glanced down. ‘My bra isn't showing, is it?'

‘Your cleavage is.'

He was frowning at her chest. Chloe suppressed a sudden urge to burst out laughing.

‘Greg, don't you worry about my cleavage. It's my problem, not yours.'

But you're still my wife, Greg longed to yell out. He realized how desperately aroused he was. Good grief, he'd never wanted to make love to a pregnant woman in his life—just the thought of it had always been enough to make him feel sick.

But he badly wanted to make love to Chloe now.

‘What's the matter with you?' chided Chloe, leaning across the table and pinching one of his grilled mushrooms. ‘You've hardly touched your food.'

In his mind, Greg raced feverishly through the options open to him. It was twelve thirty—there was clearly no time to whisk Chloe back to his flat now. And Antonia was coming round this evening at eight, dammit.

‘I'm glad we're still friends,' he blurted out. ‘Civilized, like this. Better all round. You're looking fantastic, by the way. Honestly.'

Chloe sat back, eyeing him with amusement. Whatever had possessed Greg to come over so complimentary, all of a sudden?

‘Well, thanks. Now let me give you my solicitor's address—'

‘I could pick you up after work, if you like. Talk about it then. You haven't even seen my flat yet, have you?'

It was the casual shrug that did it. The innocent, oh-so-casual shrug accompanying the boyish smile. Like a great gong clanging in the pit of her stomach, Chloe remembered when she'd encountered these particular signals before. Oh yes, almost four years ago, just after she and Greg had first met. When he was doing his damnedest to charm her into going to bed with him.

And now, incredibly, here it was again, unchanged in every detail, the mating ritual of the greater crested git.

Well, well, who'd have thought it? Some men, marveled Chloe, really were in a class of their own.

Stifling the urge to shriek with laughter, she fixed him with a sultry gaze—well, as sultry as she could manage at short notice—and lowered her voice to a whisper.

‘What would we do when you'd finished showing me your flat? Or,' her smile was slow, complicit, ‘can I guess?'

Greg grinned. Of course, she hadn't had sex for…how long? Seven months? Blimey, talk about a cat in heat, she must be desperate.

‘Don't see why we can't have a bit of fun.' He cocked a playful eyebrow at her. ‘For old times' sake.'

Picking up another asparagus stem, Chloe snaked it slowly through the puddle of hollandaise sauce on her plate.

‘You mean, bed-type fun?'

‘Why not?' Mesmerized, Greg watched her eat the asparagus. Jesus, was she doing that on purpose? ‘Just because we're getting divorced doesn't mean we can't enjoy each other's company every now and again.'

Actually it was a pretty exciting thought—illicit sex was always so much more of a thrill than the ordinary kind.

‘I don't know.' Chloe frowned and laced her fingers together. ‘I'm just a bit worried…'

‘About damaging the baby? Don't be!' Greg, who had heard all about this on a recent radio phone-in, broke in eagerly. ‘I promise you, it doesn't hurt the baby, not one bit.'

‘I wasn't thinking about the baby,' said Chloe.

‘It won't hurt you either—I'll be gentle, I swear I will!'

‘Look, I'll tell you what's bothering me,' Chloe said patiently. ‘Think back to when you were six or seven years old, okay? Your front teeth are loose and you keep wobbling and wobbling them but they won't come out. Remember that?'

She stopped. Baffled, Greg nodded.

‘Well, yes.'

‘Good. And there was always some older boy in your street, telling you that what you needed to do was tie one end of a piece of string around your wobbly tooth and the other end to a door handle. Then someone else slams the door shut and your tooth is yanked out and blood gushes
everywhere
…remember that story as well?'

‘Uh, yes, I suppose so.' Greg shrugged, mystified by all this.

‘Right. Well, the thing is, I'm just a tiny bit worried that when I do exactly the same thing to your bits and pieces'—Chloe's gaze flickered sorrowfully in the direction of his groin—‘it might hurt you.'

It took a couple of seconds for this to sink in. Greg's face fell. Finally, to make sure he'd got it right, he said, ‘So you're saying you don't fancy a quickie, just for the hell of it?'

‘You mean one with no strings attached?' Chloe couldn't resist the pun. ‘I don't think so, thanks all the same. In fact, if I'm honest I'd rather stick red-hot pins under my fingernails and jump blindfold into a snake pit than have sex with you.'

‘I only offered because I felt sorry for you,' Greg hissed back. ‘I mean, Christ, who else would want to?'

Their waiter reappeared with the pudding menu.

‘The coffee and walnut tart sounds gorgeous.' Chloe smiled up at him. ‘But I have to get back to work. Could you possibly wrap a piece up for me?'

Blushing furiously, the young waiter said, ‘I can put it in a patisserie box if you like. Stop it getting squashed.'

The possibility of an entertaining evening having crumbled to dust, Greg scraped back his chair.

‘If you can't even be civil, I don't see why I should have to pay for your meal.' He dug into his pocket and hurled a handful of money on to the table. ‘There, that should cover my share. I'm off.'

Startled, Chloe said, ‘I thought you were going to give me a lift?'

He glared at his ex-wife, then at the waiter who had been making such a prat of himself over her.

‘Find your own way back. Or better still,' Greg snapped, ‘get your toyboy here to give you a lift.'

‘Gosh,' said Chloe when he'd stormed out. ‘Sorry about that. Ex-husband,' she added, by way of explanation. ‘Bit of a wally. Actually, quite a lot of a wally.'

‘I can't give you a lift.' The waiter looked worried. ‘I'm only sixteen and a half. All I've got's a pushbike.'

Chloe tried for a moment to picture herself on it, eight and a half months pregnant and riding on the back of a bike.

Maybe not.

‘Don't worry. Better cancel pudding, though.' She flicked open her purse, praying she had enough to cover the bill. Scattering notes and coins across the table like that had been an undeniably dramatic gesture, but now that she'd counted it up, Chloe discovered that Greg had actually left her with a petrol receipt, a parking ticket and the fabulous sum of three pounds twenty-seven pence.

Hey, small spender.

Then again, it didn't come as any great surprise. He'd always been a bit that way inclined. Even before he'd taken to recycling engagement rings.

When the young waiter brought the bill, Chloe discovered that thanks to the large Scotch and ginger Greg had secretly knocked back at the bar while she'd been in the loo, she had enough money on her to pay for lunch and twenty-four pence left over for a tip.

On the pavement outside the restaurant, Chloe watched the bus she could no longer afford to catch sail past her. Stamping her cold feet and pulling her army surplus greatcoat around her huge stomach—oh yes, glamour no doubt—she set off down the road in the direction of the shop. Just over a mile to be covered in twenty-five minutes. It was achievable, but it would have been a lot easier if only her back didn't ache so much.

Four hundred yards along the road, Chloe was forced to stop for a rest. She had a raging stitch in her side and the backache was gathering force. Leaning against a phone box, she waited for the stitch to subside. And then something awful happened…

Oh, good grief, thought Chloe, I've wet myself!

Warm liquid trickled in an unstoppable stream down her legs. Thank heavens, the phone box was empty. Crushing her knees together, squeezing her pelvic muscles for all she was worth, Chloe shuffled penguin-style into the phone box.

Phew, right, shame about the glass sides—not a lot of privacy to speak of—but at least nobody could see the puddle forming at her feet, which was the main thing. Flushed with embarrassment—especially when she glanced down and saw that in the cold air the puddle was actually steaming—Chloe leaned her forehead against the welcoming cool glass for a moment and tried to work out a plan.

No money, that was the first stumbling block, not even ten pee. Oh dear, don't even
think
of that word, at this rate she'd soon be up to her knees in warm water and the glass would start misting up like a sauna.