Miranda's Big Mistake (5 page)

***

The bill for the meal was astronomical. Miranda determinedly didn't feel guilty; if Daniel Delancey was involved in making TV programs, he must be rolling in it.

Anyway, there was the small matter of the other lie he had told her. A totally unnecessary lie, Miranda thought, considering that when he'd said it, his cover had already been blown.

‘You still haven't told me why you and your landlady were out on the heath yesterday, drinking wine out of Waterford crystal glasses.'

He was driving her home in his scruffy BMW. Miranda, sitting next to him nursing the two glasses on her lap, cast a sidelong glance at his profile.

‘And you haven't told me yet why you said you weren't married.'

The traffic lights ahead turned red. He braked and turned to look at her.

‘Because I'm not.'

He sounded genuinely surprised. Fine, Miranda accepted that. You didn't have to be married to have a child.

‘Okay,' she persisted, ‘but you were with your son yesterday. Why did you say you weren't his father?'

‘Eddie, you mean? I'm
not
his father.'

Men, honestly. You couldn't trust them further than you could kick them.

‘I heard him,' Miranda said pointedly. ‘He called you Daddy.'

Daniel Delancey's mouth was twitching. The lights turned green and he let out the clutch.

‘Eddie's my sister's son. I'm his uncle. He was calling me Danny.'

‘Verity and I are throwing a small party this evening.' Bruce popped his head around the door of the back room, where Chloe was on her knees unpacking stained-glass lampshades. ‘Nothing elaborate, just a spur-of-the-moment thing—'

‘You'd like me to look after Jason for a couple of hours?' Chloe looked up from her sea of bubble-wrap.

‘No, no, Jason's staying overnight at a friend's house,' Bruce assured her. ‘That isn't why I mentioned it. Actually, we wondered if you and Greg would like to come along. Seven until ten, drinks and canapés. Nothing elaborate, just a friendly gesture,' he explained, ‘to welcome our new neighbors.'

Since discovering last night that their new neighbors were a bank manager and his accountant wife, Bruce had decided a welcome party was definitely in order. It never did any harm to be on excellent terms, socially, with a bank manager.

‘Well?' he prompted, wondering why Chloe wasn't saying anything. ‘Is that a yes?' To encourage her, he added, ‘We haven't seen Greg for a while.'

You're not the only one, thought Chloe, breaking into a light sweat.

Still, maybe this was the opener she needed. Bruce had to know sooner or later, and she'd been having palpitations wondering how to announce it.

Oh, by the way, Bruce, I've been dumped.

Chloe licked her lips. He was still peering down at her.

‘Bruce, the thing is, Greg and I aren't together any more. We've…um, separated.'

There, done.

Oh bugger, thought Chloe, as her eyes filled with tears.

‘Good grief.' Bruce took a step backwards. Tears weren't his thing at all. ‘Why?'

‘Oh, you know,' Chloe mumbled. ‘Things just weren't working out.'

‘Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Can't…er, be easy.'

It was Bruce's turn to nervously lick his lips. We must look like a couple of cannibals, Chloe thought.

‘I'll be okay.'

He shifted from one foot to the other.

‘Do you…um, want to talk about it?'

Alarmed, she shook her head.

‘No, no, really, it's fine.'

Bruce was hugely relieved. Female emotions were a minefield best steered well clear of.

At least he'd offered, he told himself. When Verity pressed him for the gory details tonight, wanting to know who'd left who and if Greg had run off with another woman, he'd be able to say, ‘She didn't want to talk about it.'

‘So.' His tone was hearty; he rubbed his hands together in a let's-change-the-subject way. ‘How about this little get-together tonight then? You'll still come, won't you? You and Verity could have a good old chat—'

‘Thanks,' Chloe blurted out, ‘but I'm not really up to it at the moment. I wouldn't be much fun. Another time, maybe.'

Bruce put on his understanding face. At least he knew now why Chloe—certainly no slouch in the looks department—had been looking so pallid and puffy-eyed of late.

‘Of course,' he assured her. ‘Don't worry about it.'

‘But…um, if you ever need a babysitter I'd be happy to do it.' Chloe knew she was gabbling; still, now seemed as good a time as any. ‘As much babysitting as you like, actually.' May as well be upfront about it. ‘The thing is, I could do with the money. Oh, I'm not asking for a pay raise,' she went on hurriedly, intercepting the look of horror on Bruce's pudgy face. ‘It's just, paying the rent on the flat is going to be a bit of a tight squeeze. So any extra work I can do…well, it'll come in handy.'

‘Right, I see.'

Bruce's tone was guarded.

‘I'm not looking for another
proper
job,' Chloe rushed to reassure him. ‘I love working here.'

True. Well, fairly true.

Anyway, changing jobs now would mean she wouldn't be entitled to any maternity benefits.

Bruce visibly relaxed.

‘Okay, I'll let Verity know. I'm sure we can work something out. And you get on well with Jason,' he added encouragingly. ‘That's a plus.'

It was more than that, it was a downright miracle. According to Greg, if Bruce and Verity wanted to earn themselves a quick buck they should cart their beloved son along to the headquarters of the nearest condom manufacturers. Feature Jason in a series of adverts for their product, Greg had declared—often—and condom sales would go through the ozone layer.

‘If you don't get one of these,' he had intoned, dangling an imaginary condom from his fingers then affecting a look of horror, ‘you'll get one of
these
.'

And I laughed, Chloe remembered.

Well, it had seemed funny at the time.

The trouble was, it wasn't actually funny at all.

Bruce left the back room and Chloe went back to unpacking lampshades.

Bundling a mountain of bubble-wrap into an empty box, she forced herself not to think about Greg.

Two minutes later she lurched back on her heels in shock.

God, how could I have been so stupid? How could I have offered to babysit for Verity and Bruce?

Bruce was all right, he was only a man. Men never noticed anything.

But stick-thin, eagle-eyed Verity was another matter altogether, Chloe realized with a sinking heart.

One look at my stomach and she'll be on to me like a shot.

Oh help, I need to sign up for Creative Bluffing classes, she thought helplessly. I'll have to tell Verity I've joined Overeaters Anonymous.

‘This is the right building,' said Miranda, pushing her way through the revolving door. ‘I can feel it in my nose.'

‘Sometimes I worry about you.' Bev ran an anxious hand over her hair, checking her sleek chignon was still secure after its encounter with the howling gale outside. ‘God, what a night. You'd better not have dragged me here under false pretenses,' she warned. ‘If there aren't any decent men here, I'm going straight home.'

Miranda crossed her fingers as they followed the trail of Elizabeth Turnbull's perfume up three flights of stairs. Her extravagant promise to Bev that there would be sackfuls—if not wagonloads—of gorgeous spare men at this evening's party was gnawing slightly at her conscience.

But if she hadn't said it, Bev wouldn't have come.

And since Florence had insisted that she take the spare ticket-for-two, Miranda had been desperate. The prospect of bowling up at a cocktail party on your own where the only people you knew were Bruce and Verity Kent—aargh—and Elizabeth Turnbull—double aargh—was too terrible for words.

She'd had to bring someone along for moral support. And basically, with her social life currently in such a dismal state, Bev needed all the help she could get.

Poor Bev, thought Miranda, it must be awful to be so helplessly at the mercy of your hormones.

It wasn't as if Bev wasn't pretty, because she was. And she took immaculate care of herself.

It wasn't as if she was old, because she wasn't. Well, maybe oldish, but not ancient. Only thirty.

It wasn't even as if she had a horrible personality, or knock-you-dead halitosis. Or acres of cellulite.

No, the only problem with Bev was something so easily remedied it could make you cry.

Sadly, it was this very flaw that sent horrified men scurrying backwards out of rooms the moment she clapped eyes on them.

The trouble with Bev was that she was Desperate.

Her biological clock was clanging like the ‘Oh-dear-we're-in-trouble' bell on the
Titanic
. It had been for the last three years.

And she didn't just want a baby, she wanted a husband too, preferably one as keen on the idea of settling down to a lifetime of domestic bliss as she was.

Although failing that, well, pretty much anyone would do.

Just so long as Bev could GET MARRIED and HAVE A BABY.

It was something of a standing joke in the salon.

‘Oh well, there must be one around somewhere,' Miranda had consoled her only yesterday when Bev had been wailing over the failure of the latest fling in her life to ring her. ‘In a zoo, maybe. With a little sign fixed to the front of his cage saying: “Commitment Man. Possibly the only surviving member of this species. Likes to eat homemade steak and kidney pies and wear hand-knitted tank tops. Spends his weekends carrying out helpful little DIY jobs around the cage. Seeks ideal mate, can't wait to start a family.”'

‘I can't think why I'm your friend,' Bev had replied loftily. ‘I hate you.'

‘I know, but you'll come to the party with me tomorrow night, won't you?' Miranda had wheedled. ‘I promise there'll be oodles of men.'

It was no good explaining to Bev she scared men witless. She knew that already. She couldn't help it; that was her trouble. The light of matrimony was in her eyes and she couldn't switch it off.

And if one more well-meaning person tried to tell her that the reason she wasn't getting anywhere was because she was trying too hard—that if she stopped looking for a man she'd find one before you could say three-tiered cake…well, Miranda didn't give much for their chances.

They were likely to get more than their head bitten off.

‘Miranda, how lovely to see you,' gushed Elizabeth Turnbull, leaning towards her and going mwah, mwah several inches away from each cheek.

She was wearing Poison. The air around her was as thick as pea soup. Miranda, her lips clamped together, could still taste it seeping down the back of her throat.

Frantically, over Elizabeth's plump shoulder, she scanned the room for men, any men, who might do for Bev. Honestly, it was like scavenging for scraps to feed a ravenous baby starling. Wayne Peterson, the footballer, was over by the window. Looking quite sober, for him. But since Bev wasn't a Malibu-swilling bosom-flashing page-three girl, he probably wouldn't be interested.

Oh dear, thought Miranda, still searching. Every other man she'd clapped eyes on so far was either diabolically ugly, older than the Tower of London, or clearly married.

Behind her, like telepathic acupuncture, she could feel Bev plunging imaginary pins into her back.

‘No sign of Florence's son and his wife yet,' Elizabeth announced, assuming that this was who Miranda was so eager to locate. ‘What's her name? Valerie?'

‘Verity.' A waiter approached, bearing a tray. Hurriedly relieving him of a couple of glasses, Miranda said, ‘I'm sure they'll be here soon. Don't worry about us, we'll just mingle.'

‘Do, do! Caroline Newman's over there, by the way.' Elizabeth gestured grandly towards the fireplace. ‘The travel presenter, you must recognize her. Charming lady, so easy to talk to, she and I have been getting on like a house on fire.' She preened visibly, like a cockatoo.

‘I can't see Daisy Schofield,' said Miranda. ‘Wasn't she supposed to be here as well?'

Next to her, Bev knocked back her drink in three seconds flat.

Their hostess pursed her bright orange lips.

‘I'm afraid we've been badly let down by
Ms
Schofield. Some of these so-called celebrities, they just don't take their duties seriously.'

‘So what happened?' said Miranda. ‘She just didn't turn up?'

‘Pretty much.' Elizabeth's mouth narrowed further still, as if some internal vacuum cleaner was trying to suck her lips down her throat. ‘The party began at eight. No word from Daisy Schofield. I mean, you almost expect it from alcoholic footballers…' she gestured carelessly in the direction of poor Wayne Peterson, ‘but if even
he
could manage to get here on time, I don't see why I should be made to look a fool by a third-rate
Australian
model-cum-actress.'

‘Maybe she's on her way,' Miranda suggested. As someone not famous for getting to places on time herself, she felt obliged to leap to the other girl's defence. ‘She could have been held up in traffic.'

Her nasal passages were by this time becoming accustomed to the scent cloud. Either that, Miranda decided, or they'd gone into self-preservation mode and given themselves a general anaesthetic.

‘Hmmph,' Elizabeth snorted, ‘that's what I was hoping, until the phone call ten minutes ago. Man's voice, wouldn't give his name, ringing to tell me Daisy was unwell. Said she was in bed with a viral illness and that she wouldn't be able to make it tonight.'

‘But you don't believe him?' said Miranda.

‘He wasn't exactly going out of his way to sound believable. He treated the whole thing as a joke: “She's in bed with a virile—oops, sorry, viral illness.” And she was there, I could
hear
her, giggling away in the background like a silly teenager playing truant from school.'

‘Daisy Schofield's nineteen.' Miranda remembered reading this in one of the salon's glossy magazines. Feeling incredibly ancient—at twenty-three—she said, ‘She
is
a silly teenager.'

‘People have come here tonight expecting to meet her,' Elizabeth replied frostily, ‘and she's let us down. That girl needs to get a grip.'

Frankly, if Daisy was in bed with a virile male, Miranda thought, getting a grip was probably what she
was
doing right now.

***

By nine o'clock Greg Malone was beginning to wish he hadn't dragged Adrian along to this party. When Ade got it into his head to be argumentative there was no stopping him. God, it wasn't as if either of them was even interested in meeting some bleached-blond, obsolete travel show presenter.

‘It's breach of promise though, isn't it?' Adrian was enjoying the organizer's discomfort. ‘We paid good money for these tickets'—big lie—‘and you haven't delivered. No Carol Newman—'

‘Caroline,' Greg murmured.

‘She
was
here,' the organizer insisted. ‘She had to leave early.'

‘And no Daisy Schofield. I mean, how fair is that?' Adrian tilted his head accusingly. ‘We came along to meet celebrities and instead here you are, palming us off with a roomful of…nobodies.'

Stung, the woman said, ‘We've got Wayne Peterson.'

‘Oh big deal,' Adrian drawled. ‘He's
sober
.'

This was true. Having been given the mother of all talking-tos by—well, his own mother—Wayne Peterson was here tonight on his very best behavior. Miserably clutching his seventh glass of Perrier—and trying hard not to burp—he was currently doing his best to appear interested in some old bore's blow-by-blow account of the 1966 World Cup.

Sadly, Wayne was only fun when he had fourteen pints of Newcastle Brown inside him. Without the aid of alcohol, he was a personality-free zone.

Even Elizabeth had been sorely tempted to spike his water with vodka.

‘Look, I'm sorry if you're disappointed.' She struggled to appease her two difficult guests. ‘Let me get you another drink—'

‘Never mind another drink,' said Adrian. ‘How about a refund?'

‘He doesn't mean that,' Greg put in hurriedly. God, Adrian could be a pain sometimes. ‘Of course we don't want a refund. And yes, another drink would be great.'

Typically, there wasn't a circulating waiter in sight. In her rush to reach the sanctuary of the kitchen, Elizabeth knocked into Miranda, jolting her arm. A sesame prawn canapé flew out of Miranda's hand and landed with a plop in a bowl of floating candles.

‘Oh God, oh God.' Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and mopped her perspiring forehead.

‘Are you all right?' Miranda peered at her. ‘You look a bit, um…'

Hysterical was the word that sprang to mind.

‘…hot and bothered.'

‘Troublemakers.' Elizabeth inclined her head stiffly in the direction of the door. ‘Those two, just arrived. Kicking up a fuss because Daisy Schofield isn't here.' Shuddering because her whole reputation was at stake, she wailed, ‘Why can't people simply relax and enjoy themselves? I'm not Tommy Cooper, I can't click my fingers and produce a hatful of celebrities out of thin air.'

‘Neither could Tommy Cooper,' said Miranda. ‘He'd have clicked his fingers and produced a hatful of sausages.'

‘It's not my fault.' Elizabeth was by this time close to tears. ‘One of them threatened to sue me for breach of promise.'

‘Which one?' Miranda demanded, indignant on her behalf.

‘Blue shirt. Oh Lord, look at the state of me. And I'm supposed to be g-getting them another d-drink.'

Dyed-in-the-wool battleaxes weren't supposed to cry.

Swiveling around to glare at the offending pair, Miranda discovered they were already gazing at her.

The one in the blue shirt smirked and murmured something to his friend.

Prat, thought Miranda.

‘Come on, put your shoulders back,' she instructed Bev, ‘and stick your chest out.'

‘Are we going to talk to Wayne Peterson?' Bev looked worried. She wasn't at all sure she wanted to marry an alcoholic shaven-headed footballer. Then again—the thought flashed unstoppably through her one-track mind—maybe she could be the one to tame him. They could live together happily ever after in a mock-Tudor mansion in Middlesbrough, buy each other matching diamond-encrusted identity bracelets and have lots of boisterous, shaven-headed mini-footballers—

‘Wayne Peterson? No way.' Briskly interrupting this fantasy, Miranda seized the two glasses Elizabeth had returned with from the kitchen. ‘Right, just pay attention,' she told Bev, ‘and follow me.'