Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [127]
Chloe hesitated. Miranda, who could hear every boomed-out word, said, `It's okay, tell him you'll be in.'
`What about you?' Chloe looked worried.
`Oh, I'll manage. I'll be into work myself.'
`God, are you sure?'
Miranda shrugged.
`Sitting here like a zombie isn't doing me any favours. I'd rather be busy. And Fenn's short-staffed this week, with Corinne away.'
On his way back from a meeting at Broadcasting House that afternoon, Danny slipped into a newsagent's to pick up a copy of the Evening Standard. The tiny cramped shop smelled of patchouli oil, and the plump, middle-aged Asian woman behind the counter was sitting on a stool watching a portable television. When she saw Danny, she wiped her eyes with the edge of her emerald-green sari.
`Oh dear, look at me, what must you think? It's so sad though, isn't it, such a lovely boy… There now, what can I do for you, sir?'
The TV, perched precariously on top of a pile of People's Friends, was reshowing Sunday's pre-race interview between Miles Harper and the excitable racing commentator. Miles was leaning back in his chair, smiling and utterly relaxed, answering questions about his preparations for the forthcoming race. When he unfastened the collar of his denim shirt and began to play, apparently absent-mindedly, with the choker around his neck, Danny leaned across to take a closer look. He hadn't seen this interview before, but he recognised the object attached to the leather choker. It was Miranda's - he'd spotted it while they'd been filming in her room.
Listening intently, he heard the interviewer say, `… Daisy Schofield, am I right?'
`Actually, no, but I do have a message for the lovely lady in my life.' Pausing and smiling his famous lazy smile, Miles quite deliberately showed off the copper pig to the camera, turning it this way and that to catch the studio lights. `And that is, when you meet the right person, you know it. That's what happened to me and I-'
The interviewer charged in at that moment to close the
interview. Miles, cut off in crucial mid-sentence, grinned and rolled his eyes with good-natured resignation.
The clip ended equally abruptly and the Indian lady blew her nose noisily into a pink tissue.
`I'm sorry, I'm not usually like this. But can you imagine how his poor girlfriend must feel? I saw her on the TV earlier, oh, in a terrible state. They were going to get married, you know.' She riffled through one of that morning's papers and pushed it across the counter, showing Danny a recent photograph of Miles and Daisy together at some polo match. `Isn't it just the saddest thing in the world?'
It felt strange being back at work, realising that the rest of the world was carrying on more or less as if nothing had happened. Miranda, having explained everything to Fenn and Bev the night before, was aware that Fenn had warned the rest of the staff to be gentle with her, even though they weren't entirely sure why they were being gentle. In the mean time she kept herself as busy as possible, making coffee and running errands, shampooing heads and sweeping up.
Customers were customers, business was business, after all. Life goes on.
`Excuse me, is Miranda here?'
Bev was surreptitiously reading an article in Cosmo about liposuctioning fat out of your thighs and injecting it into your lips - heavens, surely not all of it - when she realised she was being spoken to. Guilty at being caught out, she shovelled the magazine under the desk and gave the man asking the question her most intimidating stare. Solidly built, in his latetwenties, with uncombed light-brown hair and a less than groomed appearance… oh yes, he fitted the bill all right. `Miranda who?'
He shot her a weary look.
`Please. I know she works here. 1 need to see her, okay?'
Bev bristled at his arrogant manner. Fenn had warned her just this morning to be on her guard against doorstep journalists. If anyone came round asking questions about Miranda, he had instructed, Bev was to say nothing and get rid of them, smartish.
No problem. Getting