Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [12]
But the unaccustomed brightness of the sun soon made her eyes water. To give them a rest, Miranda turned her attention instead to a battered green BMW being driven slowly along the road below her. Idly she followed its progress until it braked and reversed into a parking space. Seconds later the passenger door was flung open and a boy aged around five or six jumped out on to the grass verge.
Miranda watched the driver emerge from the other side, open the car's boot and take out a yellow and white kite. From this angle his face wasn't visible, but at a guess he was around thirty, dark-haired like his son and wearing a white rugby shirt and faded jeans.
Another Sunday father, thought Miranda, bringing his child out for a spot of kite-flying then whisking him off for a burger at McDonald's before depositing him back with his mother at the designated time.
Hampstead Heath was full of them.
The spiralling divorce rate had done the fast-food business no harm at all.
As Florence dozed peacefully beside her, Miranda watched the boy yell out instructions to his dad. Dad was evidently no expert; as they edged their way up the hill he unravelled
the nylon line and made two or three unsuccessful attempts to get the kite airborne.
Miranda smirked as he threw it up again, this time narrowly avoiding decapitation. She heard his son yell out in disgust, `You're useless! Come on, let me have a go.'
They were closer now, moving towards her. The man said, `Charming manners, Eddie, you take after your mother.'
`She says you've always been a hopeless case. You can't even put a shelf up straight.'
`Maybe I don't want to. Anyway, your mother's not so clever herself,' he retorted. `Ask her how many times she's pranged the car trying to reverse it into the garage.'
Miranda watched the boy impatiently seize control of the kite. Playing one adult off against the other, she thought, feeling sorry for him. Poor little lad, caught in the middle between two warring parents.
It couldn't be much fun.
Except… wasn't there something oddly familiar about the father's voice? A familiarity that for some reason didn't quite fit with the visual image of the man twenty yards in front of her, now struggling to untangle a section of line which had somehow managed to knot itself around both legs?
Miranda sat up, hugging her knees and pushing her beret to the top of her forehead in order to get a better look. She was sure he wasn't a visitor to the salon.
Damn, where have I heard that voice before? she thought with mounting frustration. And why do I keep feeling something isn't right?
The kite, miraculously, made it up into the air. The boy let out a whoop of delight and galloped a few yards further up the grassy slope.
`You did it, you did it!'
`Now who's useless?' his father demanded with a triumphant grin.
`Don't let it crash!'
`It's okay, I've got the hang of this now. A genius, that's what I am, and you can tell your mother that when we get back.'
The wind was taking control, carrying the kite towards the top of the hill. Following his son, the man moved closer to Miranda. Next to her, Florence snored peacefully in her wheelchair. Glancing across at them, he smiled.
The moment his dark eyes locked with Miranda's, she knew.
Oh no, it couldn't be.
But it was.
It was him.
The beggar from the Brompton Road.
Her whole body stiffened in disbelief. Incredibly, he was still grinning at her.
He hasn't recognised me, thought Miranda. He spends his life sitting on his bum watching the world go by. For God's sake, how can he not recognise me?
Outraged, she shoved a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. The orange beret, already tipped to the back of her head, promptly slid off.
At last, with her spiky blue-and green-tipped hair revealed, the penny dropped. His broad smile faltered and