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Bev stared at him. The nerve, the absolute nerve! `How about what?'

`Oh, come on, don't give me a hard time. I know I'm not great at this,' said Johnnie, `but I'm pretty nervous, okay? You'd be scared too, if you had to do it.'

Deep breath, deep breath.

`Okay. Try it again,' said Bev.

Johnnie nodded and cleared his throat.

`Right. I'd like it very much if you'd come out with me some time. Maybe this Sunday, if you're free. Is that better?'

It was, but Bev hadn't finished being stroppy yet. `I think I'm busy then.'

Johnnie snapped his fingers.

`Miranda, what does this one here do on Sundays?'

Miranda, eavesdropping frantically behind them and pretending to fold towels that had already been folded, stopped what she was doing and feigned surprise.

`Nothing. Well, unless you count sorting her make-up into alphabetical order.'

Thanks a lot, thought Bev. That was the last time she told Miranda anything, ever. And why did everyone seem to find it so funny anyway? People sorted their collections of CDs and books into alphabetical order, didn't they? So why couldn't she do it with make-up?

`Sunday it is, then,' said Johnnie. Pulling a pen out of his inside pocket, he helped himself to an appointment card from the pile on the desk. `Better tell me where to pick you up.'

Oh well, what the heck. It wasn't as if she had anything else to do. Still keeping her hand clamped over her face,

Bev grudgingly told him her address through splayed fingers.

`Fine.' Johnnie clicked the pen shut in a businesslike manner. `Right, well, Tabitha's waiting for me in the car. Sunday it is, then. Six o'clock.'

`Six o'clock.'

He raised his eyebrows.

`Think you can manage that?'

`Oh, I think so,' Bev replied with sarcasm. `Just about.' `Okay, 'bye.'

`Wait,' she yelped as he moved towards the door. `You haven't told me where we're going! I don't know what to wear - smart or casual?'

Johnnie paused, then shrugged.

`Casual-ish.'

`Right.' Tick-tick went Bev's brain, racing through the contents of her wardrobe. Casual was fine, she could do casual… click click… caramel wool trousers teamed with her cream silk blouse, conker-brown cashmere sweater, single row of pearls, dark-brown ankle boots, Estйe Lauder cinnamon silk eye shadow, Lancфme mulberry lipstick

'Oh, and don't worry about breakfast,' Johnnie added over his shoulder as he left. `We'll stop for a fry-up on the way.'

Chapter 53

`You make the best mashed potato in the world,' said Miranda. The candles flickered romantically in the centre of the table, lighting up her eyes. `Will you marry me?'

`Do the washing-up and I might consider it,' Chloe told her. She watched Miranda dig enthusiastically into the tureen of extra-peppery, extra-buttery mashed potato and pile a third helping on to her plate. `Actually, there's a favour I've been wanting to ask you.'

`Don't tell me.' Miranda held up her free hand. `Let me guess. Fenn can't cut hair to save his life and you want me to do it for you from now on.'

`Um, no.'

From across the dining table, Florence chimed in with: `My son is unbearable to work with and you'd like Miranda to march into his shop tomorrow morning and fire a poison dart into his neck.'

`Not that either.'

`Hang on, I've got it,' Miranda squealed triumphantly. `You want me to ask Danny if he'd make a fly-on-the-wall documentary about you having the baby! You want him to film the birth so we can all watch you with your legs in the air, panting like an animal, yelling yourhead off and flashing your bare bottom to an audience of millions.'

Florence was laughing so hard she almost choked on a piece of beef. Miranda leaned across and patted her on the back.

Chloe, smiling at them both, said, `Well, you're getting closer.'

Florence began to choke again.

`Not seriously,' said Miranda, appalled. `You can't want it to be filmed. Not…' she flapped her hands, in revulsion, in the general region of her own groin, `… oh, surely not!'

`Of course I don't want to be filmed.' Chloe put down her knife and fork. `But I'd like you