Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [122]
As she was about to lower her aching body onto the sofa, she noticed the blinking light on her answering machine.
Knowing damn well that listening to those messages wouldn’t help with the forgetting plan, Miranda found herself gravitating toward the machine, helplessly snared.
Be-e-e-e-p.
“Miranda? This is Claire. You unutterably foolish woman, whatever have you done? The office is abuzz. The editorial board is thrilled with the publicity, of course, but I’m worried about you. Call me.”
That was nice. Less yelling than she was expecting. Miranda let the messages play and went to get some wine from the kitchen.
“It’s me.”
Jess. She poured a big glass with shaky fingers and hurried back to the machine.
“I can’t believe this. You’re . . . Who are you? My sister wouldn’t do—Frankie, quit it, I’m fine . . .”
Be-e-e-e-p.
Miranda knocked back half the wine in one swallow.
Be-e-e-e-p.
“Me again. I had to . . . Fuck. It’s still hard. Why is this so hard? Miranda, I moved out. I can’t stay with you, I don’t even know you, howcouldyoudothis? Those people are my friends. I thought they were your friends, or at least Adam was. And Frankie, God, the things you wrote about him. Look, I’m staying with him. You have my cell number. I don’t really want to talk to you right now, but . . . Shit, the machine’s gonna cut me off. Bye.”
She was going to need a lot more wine.
Miranda abandoned her wine glass and retired to the sofa, cradling the half-empty bottle of cabernet to her chest.
Claire hadn’t sounded mad or disgusted, so she was first on the list. Miranda was in desperate need of clearheaded advice, since she was currently drinking away her own clear head and had no intention of stopping.
The minute Claire picked up, Miranda was seized by a hiccupping fit. Claire seemed to know who it was, regardless. Unless she routinely answered her office phone with the words, “My God, but you’ve made a mess of your life.”
“I know,” Miranda managed to gasp out. “Claire, it’s so terrifically awful, I don’t even know where to begin.”
“We shall see. Put down whatever it is you are drinking that is giving you such horrible fits.” Claire downshifted into practical French mode, every word brisk and devoid of nonsense. The knot in Miranda’s stomach loosened slightly; Claire’s take-charge attitude was oddly comforting. She set her bottle of wine on the coffee table.
The French accent clipped on, relentless. “You have no mother to go to for advice; I make allowances for that. And my own advice, when I offered it before, you would not take. But that is finished. The book exists and cannot be undone. Alors, we must decide how to proceed.”
“If your advice involves something more than hiding in my apartment and never speaking to anyone again so I can’t do any more damage, I’m afraid I won’t be taking it this time, either.”
Claire clicked her tongue in outrage. “That is quite enough!”
“It is enough!” Miranda banged a fist into the couch cushions. “I’m like a poison, a virus, infecting everyone I touch. I’ve done enough damage for any one person for a lifetime. Hurt so many people, and all for nothing.”
“Yes,” Claire agreed. “It was moronic and entirely avoidable.”
Miranda sucked in a breath that turned into a laugh. “Oh, thanks. Why did I call you again? Right, it was because of the two messages on my machine, yours was the one that exhibited more of the milk of human kindness.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by this milk.” Claire’s voice held the frigid disapproval she always evinced toward unfamiliar English colloquialisms. “But it is no matter. You’ve made a mistake. The important question is this: are you going to give up and hide away from the world in cowardice?” Dramatic