Miranda's Big Mistake (6 page)

Having eased herself into bed and arranged the duvet to her satisfaction, Florence shook out last night's
Evening Standard
and began to read.

Politics, politics, boring, boring. Impatiently she skipped over the first couple of pages.

BUNGEE-JUMPING GREAT-GRANNY, trumpeted the headline on page four, above a photograph of a wizened old woman in a crash helmet. Game-for-anything Alma Trotter, Florence read, jumped for joy when she found out what her family had planned as a surprise for her eighty-seventh birthday.

Ha, thought Florence, with family like that, who needs enemies? Bumping her off, that was what they'd been planning. Except it hadn't worked, had it? No wonder the old bird was looking so smug.

But it was ten minutes later that an article on page twenty-three really made Florence sit up and take notice.

THAI BRIDE ODDS-ON FAVORITE FOR COLONEL TOM.

‘You old devil,' Florence exclaimed, peering at the photograph below of a grinning man in his seventies sitting with one arm around the slender waist of a pretty Oriental girl. ‘Tom Barrett, what are you up to now?'

Florence and Ray had first met Tom Barrett and his wife Louisa back in the early seventies, and following Ray's death Florence had remained friendly with them. The last time she had seen Tom was at Louisa's funeral three years ago, following which he had disappeared to Spain in order to spend some time with his daughter and her family and come to terms with the loss of his adored wife.

Hmm, thought Florence, studying the photograph once more and noting with approval the twinkle in her old friend's eye, it looked like he'd done that, all right. And he'd brought his young bride-to-be back to Hampstead, had he? She wondered idly if he was still living in the same house, in which case…

On an impulse, Florence rifled through her bedside drawer until she found her old flip-up phone directory. Within seconds she was dialing Tom's number.

‘I don't believe it,' Tom exclaimed, ‘a call from the Dancing Queen herself! I swear, the phone hasn't stopped ringing today. Do you have any idea how many long-lost friends have come crawling out of the woodwork since that piece appeared in the paper? Not that you'd ever crawl, my darling,' he went on with habitual gallantry. ‘You'd shimmy.'

Florence laughed.

‘My shimmying years are over. These days, I'm afraid, I definitely crawl.'

‘Arthritis still playing up?' Tom sounded sympathetic.

‘Oh, you know, the odd twinge.'

‘And am I delighted to hear from you?' Florence heard the note of caution in his voice. ‘Or have you rung to tell me I'm off my rocker?'

‘Is that what everyone else has been doing?'

‘Come on. What d'you think?'

Florence glanced at the article spread across her lap.

‘You saw her in a mail-order catalogue and met her how long ago?'

‘Three months.'

‘She's from Thailand,' said Florence. ‘Are you sure she isn't a boy?'

Much gravelly laughter at the other end of the phone.

Finally Tom managed to say, ‘Oh yes.'

‘That's a start. Do you love her?'

‘I do,' Tom replied.

‘Does she love you?'

‘I think so.'

‘Are you ridiculously happy?'

‘So happy it would make you sick.'

‘Oh well,' said Florence, ‘in that case you're absolutely barking mad and I couldn't be happier for you. Go for it, prove those miserable doubters wrong, have a ball. And don't forget to invite me to the wedding.'

‘You can be a bridesmaid if you want.' Tom's relief was audible. ‘Dear Florence. So you don't think I'm making the biggest mistake of my life?'

‘If you're having fun, how can it be a mistake? The last thing I ordered from a mail-order catalogue was a non-stick saucepan,' Florence told him, ‘and after a week the bloody handle dropped off.'

‘Christ, I hope mine doesn't.'

She had to ask.

‘How does Jennifer feel about all this?'

Jennifer was Tom's daughter. And Tom was a wealthy man. It was bound to concern her.

‘Oh, Jennifer's a diamond. She's fine about it, behind me all the way. Says if I'm happy, she's happy. Look,' Tom spoke with enthusiasm, ‘we must get together again, it's been too long. Come to dinner next week, Flo. I want you to meet Maria.'

Hanging up the phone some minutes later, Florence sank back against the pillows and flipped through a few more pages of the paper. For want of anything better to do, she read her horoscope:

Oh dear, you've got yourself into a rut, haven't you? Time to do something about it. A bored person is a boring person…

‘Blah blah blah,' said Florence, chucking the paper on to the floor. Honestly, talk about cheering you up. It was a good job she didn't believe in horoscopes.

Except there was no getting away from the fact that—whether she believed in them or not—this one was depressingly true.

Lucky Tom, she thought. Okay, so what he was doing might not work out, but at least he was giving it a go.

And even luckier Tom, Florence idly mused, to have a daughter who backed him all the way. Jennifer, after all, was the one who stood to lose out financially if the marriage went horribly wrong.

‘Can't imagine you being so generous,' she said aloud, addressing the framed photograph of Bruce on her bedside table. ‘You wouldn't be so keen, would you, my sweet, if you thought there was a chance of my money not going your way?'

***

‘…and in June we start shooting the new Madhur Jaffrey film in Norfolk, starring Helena Bonham Carter and Stephen Fry. My role isn't huge,' Miranda said modestly, ‘but it'll be great for the CV. Madhur and Jaffrey are so well thought of, that's the thing. If you've worked with them, people sit up and take notice. It proves you aren't just some bimbo,' she explained, ‘and that you really can act.'

And by jingo I
can
, Miranda thought happily. Was this a performance of a lifetime or what? Adrian—yeurgh, dumb name—was lapping it up.

‘Have you worked with Sylvester Stallone?' he asked eagerly.

‘No.' Miranda looked regretful; it wouldn't do to show off too much. ‘I auditioned once, but didn't get the part.'

‘So what was Pierce Brosnan like to work with?'

‘Oh, he was
great
. You must go and see the film when it comes out. The bit where he rescues me from the river just as the crocodiles are about to drag me down was the scariest thing I've ever had to do—'

Adrian's eyes were practically out on stalks.

‘Were they real crocodiles?'

Um…

‘Well, no, not
real
crocodiles.'

He frowned.

‘So why was it scary?'

‘Because Pierce is such a fantastic actor he made me
think
they were real.' Miranda shook her head in admiration. ‘Plus, it was real water. And I can't swim.'

‘Ahem,' said Greg, when Bev had disappeared to the loo and Adrian had gone in search of more drinks. ‘It's Merchant Ivory.'

Miranda turned to look at him. Until now she had been concentrating solely on Adrian, the one in the blue shirt. He was her project and Greg was Bev's.

‘Merchant Ivory, not Madhur Jaffrey. Their names are Ismail Merchant,' he explained patiently, ‘and James Ivory.'

‘Oh my God,' said Miranda, ‘no wonder they kept giving me funny looks on set. How embarrassing.' She clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘I've always been hopeless with names.'

‘And dates.' Leaning closer, Greg whispered in her ear, ‘Unless he's Superman, I don't know how Pierce Brosnan has managed to spend the last six weeks in California
and
find the time to make a film at Pinewood Studios with you.'

Miranda went pink.

‘Private Jet.'

‘Bullshit.'

Indignantly she said, ‘What makes you think he's been in California?'

‘I know for a fact that he has.'

‘How?'

‘He's my uncle.'

‘Oh
hell
. Really?'

‘No.' Greg looked amused. ‘That was bullshit too.'

Rumbled, thought Miranda. Damn.

‘Did Bev…?'

‘Oh no, she did very well, considering. I've heard all about her record contract and the time she and Noel Gallagher got lost on the way to the
Top of the Pops
studios, not to mention the time she went to a party and her trousers split and she ended up having to wear one of Boy George's dresses.'

Miranda's eyes darted around the room. Maybe it was time to leg it, just get out before he had a chance to make an embarrassing scene. But there was no sign of Bev either.

‘Adrian's going to be back any second,' she muttered.

‘In that case,' Greg seized her clammy fingers in his cool ones, ‘we'd better hide.'

He led her out on to the balcony, shielded from the room by a heavy curtain. Below them, the wet streets glittered in the reflected lamplight. Much to Miranda's relief, it had stopped raining and the wind had dropped.

‘What about Bev?' she protested. ‘She'll wonder where we are.'

‘I've spent the last thirty minutes talking to Bev. I've done my duty,' said Greg. ‘Now I want to swap.'

Miranda watched a man on the pavement across the street, taking a furtive pee up against a pillar-box. In Westminster, imagine.

‘Is that fair?'

‘I think it's fair.' Greg turned her sideways to look at him. ‘I didn't just get the
Top of the Pops
and Boy George stories; I've had the “aren't-babies-wonderful” spiel as well.'

Honestly, thought Miranda, how many times have I told her not to
do
that?

‘And I don't happen to think they are,' he went on, his smile crooked. ‘Anyway, I'd much rather talk to you.'

He had dark-blond hair—natural, she noted automatically—and laughing grey eyes and a really nice mouth. Feeling her stomach go a bit squirmy, Miranda realized how attractive he actually was.

‘I'm not really an actress,' she said.

‘I gathered that.'

‘I only said I was because—'

‘It's okay, I know why you did it.'

‘Elizabeth Turnbull's my next-door neighbor. You made her cry.'

‘Now I feel terrible. I'm sorry, I know we didn't behave very well. But it was more Adrian than me.'

‘He's going to be wondering what happened to you.'

‘Adrian can talk babies with Bev. Serve him right for upsetting your neighbor. So who are you really?'

‘Nobody.' Miranda was unrepentant. ‘A trainee hairdresser.'

‘That explains the hair.' Reaching up, he touched the feathery dark-blue tendrils at the nape of her neck. ‘I like it.'

Miranda shivered. She liked it too. Things were beginning to heat up here.

‘How about you, what do you do?' It wasn't exactly sparkling repartee, but time was short and she wanted to know.

‘Something extremely boring. Insurance. You have my permission to yawn.'

‘Are you single?'

‘Oh yes.' Greg smiled. ‘Are you?'

That smile. Those teeth. Plus, a thrillingly fit-looking body. Barely able to stop her knees knocking with excitement, Miranda nodded.

‘In that case,' he took a pen out of his inside pocket, swiftly uncapping it, ‘why don't you give me your phone number?'

God, I love a fast worker, thought Miranda.

She took the pen and waited.

‘Paper?'

Greg shook his head.

‘Haven't got any on me. Here, write on my hand. No, better make that my arm.' He began to fumble with a cuff link. ‘We don't want to upset Adrian.'

Miranda, experiencing a brief pang of guilt, said, ‘Or Bev.'

The next moment they both jumped at the sound of an aggrieved voice on the other side of the curtain.

‘They can't have gone, they must be around here somewhere.'

Miranda froze. She heard Bev say, plaintively, ‘But I've already looked in the bathroom.'

‘Okay, ask that chap if he's seen your friend. Tell him you're looking for the girl with the blue hair.'

In the darkness, Greg was still struggling to unfasten his cuff link.

Too slow, too
slow
, Miranda thought frantically.

Grabbing the front of his shirt, she wrenched it open and began scrawling her phone number across his chest.

Thank goodness it wasn't a hairy chest.

‘Ouch,' whispered Greg, wincing as the sharp nib of the fountain pen dug into his skin.

‘Sorry.' There, done. Hurriedly refastening the buttons, Miranda murmured, ‘Next time, carry a magic marker.'

‘I can take the pain.' He grinned at her. ‘You're worth it.'

The curtain was abruptly whisked aside. Miranda sagged against the balcony railings.

‘Oh, for heaven's sake,
there
you are.'

Bev sounded like a teacher berating a lost child on a school trip.

Adrian, peering suspiciously over her shoulder, said, ‘What are you two doing out here?'

‘Felt faint.' Sagging a little further, Miranda waved an apologetic arm in the direction of the party. ‘Sorry, it was too hot in that room. I had to get some air. Oooh,' she clutched her stomach, ‘I still feel a bit sick.'

‘She needs to get home,' Greg told them. ‘She's really not well.'

‘If you throw up, you'll feel better in no time,' Adrian urged.

Miranda rolled her eyes.

‘I don't think I will.'

‘At least give it a try.' He looked dismayed. ‘Oh, come on, you can't go home now, it's only ten o'clock! I was going to take you to Stringfellows.'

‘Good grief,' said Bev, astonished. ‘Stringfellows! Why?'

‘She's famous, isn't she?' Adrian gave Bev a ‘God-you're-stupid' look. ‘And she knows Peter Stringfellow.'

‘Not in the biblical sense,' Miranda put in hurriedly.

‘Okay, but we won't have to pay to get in, will we?'

‘No,' Bev muttered, ‘you just have to pay to get out.'

Adrian thought it was a brilliant idea. He'd never been to Stringfellows. Furthermore, it was his lifetime ambition to be snapped by the paparazzi.

Generously he told Bev, ‘You and Greg can come along too. I'm sure Peter won't mind.'

Oh dear, time to leave.

‘I really do feel ill,' gasped Miranda.

***

‘You pulled then,' said Bev in the cab on the way home.

‘Mm. First prize in the Pillock of the Year contest.'

Having smeared baby lotion all over her face, Miranda was now wiping it off with a tissue. It was the only way; she never felt like removing her make-up once she got home.

‘Adrian really fancied you.'

‘Fancied the fact that I was an actress, you mean.'

‘He'll definitely phone you.'

‘No he won't,' said Miranda. ‘I made that number up.'

Bev sighed.

‘At least he asked for it.'

Oh help, more guilt.

And I shouldn't even feel guilty, Miranda thought frustratedly. All Greg had done was talk to Bev for half an hour. It wasn't as if he was her boyfriend, for heaven's sake.

‘Greg didn't ask for yours?' To cover her shame, she slapped on another handful of baby lotion and began vigorously scrubbing away with the already shredded tissue.

‘No.' Bev fiddled for a moment with one of her bracelets. ‘Well, I gave it to him.'

‘Oh.'

‘Just to be on the safe side.' Bev sounded defensive. ‘He might have meant to ask, but forgotten. Or he could have been too shy.'

‘Right.'

‘The thing is, I really liked him.' Miserably, Bev began picking at a snag on one of her stockings. Within seconds the snag had become a hole. ‘I know Adrian was a prize pillock, but Greg was really nice.'

‘Well, he might phone. You never know,' Miranda said feebly. The harder she tried not to think about scribbling her own number across Greg's naked chest, the more ashamed of herself she felt.

‘He won't, he won't.' Bev shook her head, waving her hand in a ‘give-me-that-tissue' kind of way. ‘Who am I trying to kid? I've blown it, I'm never going to hear from him again.'

Over his shoulder, the taxi driver said, ‘Come on, love, cheer up. Chances are he's not worth it anyway. He's probably married with five kids.'

Oh golly, thought Miranda, I hope not.

‘He isn't married.' Bev blew her nose with an unromantic trumpeting noise like a mating elephant. ‘I checked.'

‘You mean you frisked him for peck-marks?' The taxi driver chuckled at his own wit.

But Bev was no longer listening. Instead she was gazing with revulsion at the tissue in her hands.

‘When I asked you to pass me a tissue,' she told Miranda disgustedly, ‘I meant a dry one.'

Gluey white baby lotion was sliding down both cheeks and dripping off her chin. The taxi driver, pulling up at traffic lights, swiveled round and said, ‘Blimey, I saw a Hammer Horror film once just like that.'

‘Sorry,' said Miranda, who had squirted a Mr Whippy-sized dollop out of the bottle, ‘I thought you wanted to take your make-up off too.'

‘Swampwoman,' cackled the driver, ‘that's who you look like.'

‘Taxi driver without a tip, that's what
you
look like,' Bev muttered. Honestly, were there
any
men left on the planet who weren't complete pigs?

***

Miranda knew as soon as the phone rang in her flat two days later that it was Greg. She felt her heart do a quick exultant tarantella at the sound of his voice on the other end of the line.

Which, at seven thirty in the morning, was no mean feat.

‘The reason I didn't ring yesterday,' Greg announced, ‘was because I was playing it cool.'

‘Me too,' Miranda said joyfully. ‘So it's just as well you didn't, because I wouldn't have answered the phone.'

He was smiling, she could tell.

‘That's got that out of the way, then. We've done the being-cool bit. Now we're allowed to move on to stage two.' Greg paused. ‘So, how are you?'

‘Great. How's your chest?'

‘Still covered in your phone number.' He sounded rueful. ‘That was indelible ink, you know. I had four showers yesterday.'

‘What you need is a Brillo pad,' said Miranda. ‘That'll do the trick. Or you could use one of those sanding discs,' she added brightly. ‘You just fit them on the end of your Black and Decker and off you go…'

Whoops, unintentional double-entendre. Miranda held her breath, praying Greg wouldn't let her down. If he said anything remotely building-sitey, she'd go off him in a flash.

Just because she'd ripped open his shirt and scribbled across his bare chest didn't mean he was allowed to be crude.

She almost jumped up and down and cheered when Greg passed the unspoken test.

‘I may have to do that.' He sounded amused. ‘Adrian's already wondering why I've taken to wearing a dressing gown around the house.'

‘Tell him you're a born-again virgin and that nudity is a sin,' said Miranda. ‘Has he tried ringing me yet?'

‘Yesterday. He got through to a Mrs Finkelstein.'

‘Was he okay about it?'

‘Put it this way,' said Greg, ‘he was on the phone for twenty minutes, begging at first, then getting madder and madder. When she finally hung up on him he yelled, “Can you believe it? Miranda's mother won't even let me speak to her, just because I'm not Jewish.”'

Miranda, who had plucked the number out of thin air, sent a mental apology to poor, shouted-at Mrs Finkelstein.

‘Anyway,' he went on, ‘that's enough about Adrian. When can I see you?'

Double-checking, Miranda said, ‘Have we definitely stopped playing it cool?'

‘Definitely stopped.'

‘Oh well, in that case,' she said happily, ‘how about tonight?'

***

Crammed on to the tube forty minutes later, Miranda was strap-hanging and swaying in unison with everyone else in the carriage when she saw a face she recognized.

She ducked her head and peered more closely at the copy of the
Daily Mail
being held up by the woman against whom she was currently squashed hip-to-hip. The paper was open at the gossip page and the girl she had spotted in the main photograph was Daisy Schofield.

The woman to whom the paper belonged was reading the other page. Annoyingly, she was obscuring with her fingers the bit Miranda most wanted to see. But Daisy Schofield was certainly looking happy enough, with her thin arms draped around the shoulders of some man or other—oh, come on, move your fingers—and although the accompanying text was partially hidden, Miranda was clearly able to make out the words ‘in fine form', ‘sizzling romance' and ‘Wednesday night'.

So much for being laid up with a virus, thought Miranda. Elizabeth Turnbull had been right.

‘Lying bitch,' she muttered under her breath.

When the woman flinched and glanced sideways in alarm, Miranda realized the words hadn't been as far under her breath as she'd thought. Oh well, never mind, maybe if she apologized and explained, the woman would move her fingers and let her read the rest of the piece.

But the owner of the newspaper was too fast for Miranda. Before she even had a chance to open her mouth, the train screeched to a halt at South Ken. The doors scissored open and the woman, still clutching her paper to her chest, jumped off.

Now I'll have to buy one myself, Miranda thought indignantly, peering after her. Honestly, some people were so
selfish
.