Miranda's Big Mistake (34 page)

‘Well, I do now,' said Miranda. ‘But next time, could you not wait quite so long to mention it?'

‘Right from the start, the first time I saw you.' Danny shook his head, remembering.

‘Love at first sandwich,' murmured Miranda, feeling ridiculously happy.

He stood up and hauled her to her feet. The next second, a gust of wind carried away the kite they'd been sitting on. Miranda let out a cry of alarm and made a helpless grab for it as, with a defiant flick of its tail, the kite whisked joyfully skywards.

‘Leave it.' Danny reached for her frozen hand. ‘One difficult kite at a time is as much as I can cope with.'

They made their way downhill towards the car.

‘Florence is going to be so mad she missed this,' said Miranda.

‘She'll know soon enough.'

‘They're away for a whole month.'

‘When she rang me yesterday, she gave me the phone number, the fax number,
and
the email address of their hotel in Miami,' Danny explained. ‘She wants to be told the millisecond anything remotely romantic happens.'

‘Honestly!' Miranda tried hard to look indignant.

‘And there's something else she wants you to know.' Danny sounded pleased with himself.

‘What?'

‘She definitely approves.'

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The car, a gleaming black Mercedes, arrived at seven thirty on the dot. It wasn't a stretch limo, but it was without a doubt the cleanest, most valeted car Lola had ever been in, and knowing that she wouldn't have to pay a huge taxi fare at the end made it an even more pleasurable journey. She sat back as the car purred along, feeling like royalty and quite tempted to wave graciously at the poor people trudging along the pavements on the other side of the tinted glass.

The house, when they reached it, was a huge double-fronted Victorian affair in Barnes, as impressive as Lola had imagined. There were plenty of cars in the driveway and discreet twinkling white Christmas lights studding the bay trees in square stone tubs that flanked the super-shiny dark blue front door. Lola was hoping to be sophisticated enough, one day, to confine herself to discreet white Christmas lights; as it was, she was more of a gaudy, every-color-you-can-think-of girl and all of it as über-bling as humanly possible.

She tried to tip Ken, the driver, but he wouldn't accept her money. Which felt even weirder than not having to pay the fare.

Even the brass doorbell was classy. Lola clutched her Accessorize sequined handbag to her side—as if anyone was likely to steal it
here
—and took a couple of deep breaths. It wasn't like her to be on edge. How bizarre that attempting to beat up a couple of muggers hadn't been nerve-racking, yet this was.

Then the door opened and there was Mr Nicholson with his lovely welcoming smile, and she relaxed.

‘Lola, you're here! How wonderful to see you again. I'm so glad you were able to come along tonight.' He gave her a kiss on each cheek. ‘And you look terrific.'

Compared with the last time he'd seen her, she supposed she must. Not having uncombed, blood-soaked hair was always a bonus.

‘It's good to see you too, Mr Nicholson.'

‘Please call me Philip. Now, my wife doesn't know I've invited you. You're our surprise guest of honor.' His grey eyes sparkled as he led her across the wood-panelled hall to a door at the far end. ‘I can't wait to see her reaction when she realizes who you are.'

Philip Nicholson pushed open the door and drew Lola into a huge glittering drawing room full of people, all chattering away and smartly dressed. A thirty-something blond in aquamarine touched his arm and raised her eyebrows questioningly; when he nodded, she grinned at Lola and whispered, ‘Ooh, I'm so excited, this is going to be great!'

‘My stepdaughter,' Philip murmured by way of explanation. Nodding again, this time in the direction of the fireplace, he added, ‘That's my wife over there, in the orange frock.'

Orange, bless him. Only a man could call it that. The woman, standing with her back to them and talking to another couple, was slim and elegant in a devoré velvet dress in delectable shades of russet, bronze, and apricot. Her hair was fashioned in a glamorous chignon and she was wearing pearls around her neck that even from this distance you could tell were real.

Then Philip said, ‘Darling…' and she swiveled round to look at him. In an instant Lola was seventeen again.

Adele Tennant's gaze in turn fastened on Lola and she took a sharp audible intake of breath.

‘My God, what's going on here?' Her voice icy with disbelief, she turned pointedly back to Philip Nicholson. ‘Did she just turn up on the doorstep? Are you mad, letting her into the house?'

Poor Philip, his shock was palpable. Lola, who was pretty stunned too, couldn't work out who she felt more sorry for: him or herself.

‘How did you find out where I live?' Adele's eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘How did you track me down? My God, you have a nerve. This is a
private party
—'

‘Adele, stop it,' Philip intervened at last, raising his hands in horrified protest. ‘This was meant to be a surprise. This is Lola Malone, she—'

‘I know it's Lola Malone! I'm not senile, Philip! And if she's come here chasing after my son… well, I can tell you, she's got another think coming.'

Yeek, Dougie! As if she'd just been zapped with an electric cattle prod, Lola spun round; was he here in this room? No, no sign of him unless he'd gone bald or had a sex change.

‘I'm so sorry.' Philip Nicholson shook his head at Lola by way of apology. ‘This is all most unfortunate. Adele, will you stop interrupting and listen? I don't know what's gone on in the past but I invited Lola here tonight because she's the one who came to the rescue when you were mugged.' His voice breaking with emotion he said, ‘She saved your
life.
'

And what's more, thought Lola, she's starting to wish she hadn't bothered.

OK, mustn't say that. At least Philip's pronouncement had succeeded in shutting Adele up; while her brain was busy assimilating this unwelcome information her mouth had snapped shut like a bronze-lipglossed trap.

‘I thought you'd like the opportunity to thank her in person,' Philip went on, and all of a sudden he sounded like a headmaster saddened by the disruptive behavior of a vociferous teenager.

People were starting to notice now. The couple Adele had been talking to were avidly observing the proceedings. The blonde who was Philip's stepdaughter—crikey, that meant she was Dougie's older sister—came over and said, puzzled, ‘Mum? Is everything all right?'

‘Fine.' Recovering herself, Adele managed the most frozen of smiles and looked directly at Lola. ‘So it was you. Well… what can I say? Thank you.'

‘No problem.' That didn't sound quite right but what else could she say?
My pleasure?

‘It was such a brave thing you did,' exclaimed Dougie's sister. What was her name? Sally, that was it. ‘I can't bear to think what might have happened to Mum if you hadn't dived in like that. You were amazing!'

Lola managed to maintain a suitably modest smile, while her memory busily rewound to that eventful night ten days ago. Euurrgh, she had stroked Adele's ankle, she had
squeezed
Adele Tennant's
thigh
…

Except she wasn't Adele Tennant any more. She was Adele Nicholson.

‘So you remarried,' said Lola, longing to ask about Doug and feeling her stomach clench just at the thought of him.

‘Four years ago.' Adele was being forced to be polite now, in a through-gritted-teeth, I-really-wish-you-weren't-here kind of way.

‘Congratulations.' Lola wondered what Philip, who was
lovely,
had done to deserve Cruella de Vil as a wife. Presumably Adele did have redeeming qualities; she just hadn't encountered them yet.

‘Thank you. Well, it's… nice to see you again. Can we offer you a drink? Or,' Adele said hopefully, ‘do you have to rush off?'

Rushing off suddenly seemed a highly desirable thing to do. Excellent idea. Since every minute here was clearly set to be an excruciating ordeal, Lola looked at her watch and said, ‘Actually, there is somewhere else I need to—'

‘Here he is!' cried Sally, her face lighting up as she waved across the room to attract someone's attention. ‘Yoohoo, we're over here! And what sort of time do you call this anyway? You're
late.
'

Lola didn't need to turn around. She knew who it was. Some inner certainty told her that Dougie had entered the drawing room; she could
feel
his presence behind her. All of a sudden every molecule in her body was on high alert and she was no longer breathing.

Dougie. Doug. Whom she'd thought she'd never see again.

‘Sorry, I was held up at a meeting. Some of us have a proper job. Hi, everyone, how's it going? What have I missed?'

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‘So you see?' said Orla when she had finished outlining her plan. ‘All you'd have to do is be yourself.'

‘I don't get it.' If she did, Millie thought it was the weirdest idea ever. ‘You want your next book to be the story of all the things that happen to me in the next… how long? Six weeks? Six months? Year?'

‘No time limit. Just as long as it takes before we reach some kind of happy ending.'

Mad. Seriously mad.

‘So that would make it like my autobiography?'

‘Biography,' Orla corrected her. ‘And no, I'd be writing a novel. The whole thing would be fictionalized. But I'd be paying you to provide the plot.'

‘What if I can't?' Millie started to laugh, because the prospect was so ridiculous. ‘I mean, it is quite likely, you know. I've no boyfriend, I've sworn to steer clear of men for the rest of the summer and I have about as much social life as your average Pot Noodle. I hate to say this, but your novel wouldn't be exactly action-packed.'

Orla wasn't laughing. She shrugged and jutted out her lower lip.

‘Maybe not, but at least no one would be able to call it fanciful and far-fetched and ridiculously over the top.'

Millie blinked.

‘You're prepared to do all this because of one bad review.'

‘Actually, I'm doing it for all sorts of reasons. First of all, I think you'd be great material,' said Orla. She held her glass of Frascati up to the light, admiring the way the sun glinted off it. ‘Think how we met, for a start. Then there's your gorgeous wallet story… and losing your job… and getting another job working for the handsome guy your best friend has a mad crush on—'

‘Okay, okay,' Millie said hurriedly. She wouldn't have called her wallet story gorgeous.

‘Secondly, I'd be getting out of the planning rut. I wouldn't know what was going to happen next, simply because it won't
have happened
yet! So no need to agonize over the plot,' Orla said joyfully. ‘And you have no idea how great that would feel. I'd be free!'

Orla was right; Millie had absolutely no idea how great that would feel—the last piece of fiction she'd written had begun, ‘Dear Great Aunt Edna, Thank you so much for the lovely pair of shorts you knitted me…'

‘Go on,' she urged Orla. ‘What else?'

Orla flew into the sitting room, returning moments later with a copy of her latest paperback. Holding it face-out, so Millie could see the instantly recognizable cover, she said, ‘See this? It's an Orla Hart blockbuster. Actually, it's the thirteenth Orla Hart blockbuster, and so far we've sold one and a half million copies. Which is fantastic, of course, for both me and my publishers. Because as far as they're concerned, I'm their star battery chicken. Every year they take it for granted that I'll just churn out another book.'

‘Egg,' said Millie.

‘Golden egg,' Orla corrected her with a faint smile. ‘In fact, a jewel-encrusted solid gold Fabergé egg the size of a sofa. Which is why, when I wanted to change my writing style a couple of years ago, they wouldn't let me. They sweet-talked me out of it, in case I dented their precious profits. But this time I'm going to do it, I'm going to ditch the bonkbuster trappings, the cliches, the whole Orla Hart format. I'm going to write a proper
literary
novel, just to prove to all those bloody sneering critics out there that I can!' As she spoke, she jabbed viciously at the review she had brought downstairs with her. ‘And sod anyone who cares more about the money than they care about me.' She paused, then added calmly, ‘And that goes for Giles too.'

Blimey.

Millie nodded, impressed. Orla was using the opportunity to punish Giles for having had an affair. Maybe it was also her way of testing him. If this change of direction were to fail, Orla wanted to know if he would continue to support her.

For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.

‘You'd have to change all the names,' Millie warned.

‘Darling, I know that. I thought we might call you Gertrude.'

‘Still seems a bit drastic.' Millie gazed reflectively at the unattractive photograph of Christie Carson above his byline. ‘Couldn't you just phone him up, shout “Wanker!” and tell him he's got a nose like a Jerusalem artichoke?'

He didn't, but Millie never let the facts get in the way of a good insult.

‘Nose? Ha, willy more like. And don't think I haven't been tempted.' Orla poured them both some more wine before settling back in her white rattan chair. ‘I hate that man, I really hate him for writing all that horrible stuff about me.' She paused, then fixed Millie with a look of weary resignation. ‘But what I hate more is having to admit to myself that in some ways he's right.'

Before Millie left two hours later, Orla scribbled out a check for five thousand pounds and stuffed it into her hand.

Oh my giddy aunt. Five thousand
pounds
.

‘Really, you don't have to,' Millie protested, not meaning it for a second. How awful if Orla said, ‘No? All right then, I'll have it back.'

Happily she didn't.

‘Rubbish.' Orla was brisk. ‘This is a business arrangement. It's only fair.'

It was, Millie decided happily. It
was
fair. Except…

‘I'm a bit embarrassed. What if you end up with a book where the girl spends her whole life watching
EastEnders
, shaving her legs, and trying to eat chocolate without getting it on her clothes?'

Despite years of practice, she'd never mastered the art of biting a Cadbury's Flake without crumbly bits falling down her front.

‘Exciting things will happen,' Orla said soothingly. ‘And if they don't, we'll jolly well
make
them happen.'

‘Gosh.'

‘All you have to do is report back to me once a week.'

There was no denying it; this was easy money. Easy peasy.

‘And tell you everything?' asked Millie.

‘Everything.'

‘Do I have to be called Gertrude?'

Orla patted her arm.

‘Darling, we can call you anything you like.'

‘Oh well, in that case,' Millie brightened, ‘could you also make me look like Lily Munster?'

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