Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [14]
There was a poster blu-tacked up on the wall opposite her. It said: Postnatal Depression?
I've got pre-natal depression, thought Chloe. Ha, beat that.
`Chloe Malone,' the tinny voice of the doctor announced over the intercom, `to room six.'
In the space of the next five minutes, everything became astonishingly real. Armed with the date of Chloe' s last period, the doctor twiddled a circular chart contraption, consulted a calendar, then pronounced, `Your baby is due to arrive on Tuesday the third of December.'
Chloe gazed at him. He spoke with such absolute certainty.
Heavens. Move over, Mystic Meg.
`Call it an early Christmas present.' The doctor smiled at her stunned expression. `So, everything okay? Husband happy about it?'
Uh oh, here we go.
`He left me five days ago,' said Chloe, and waited to burst into tears.
The doctor looked as if he were waiting for her to burst into tears too.
Chloe wondered why it wasn't happening.
Instead, the doctor's words, Your baby is due to arrive on Tuesday the third of December, kept dancing through her mind.
Somehow, miraculously, they seemed more important than the brutal ones Greg had flung at her last week.
`He's never wanted children,' Chloe told the doctor, marvelling at the steadiness of her own voice. `But it's okay, I'll cope.'
Well, cope might be putting it a bit strongly. Somehow muddle through was probably nearer the mark.
`In that case, let's pop you on the scales,' said the doctor.
Oh dear, how dainty. That was what you did in the supermarket with a bag of seedless grapes.
`I'm only seven weeks and I've put on loads of weight already.' Chloe kicked off her shoes, embarrassed, and shuffled over to the scales. `I can't stop eating, I just feel so hungry all the time.'
`Don't worry about it. Just try and eat healthily.'
How healthy was pecan toffee ice cream? And bags of liquorice allsorts? Not to mention strawberry Angel Delight.
`Morning sickness, that's what I need.' Chloe sounded rueful. `I keep waiting for it to happen and it just won't.' Amused, the doctor tut-tutted.
`My wife's pregnant. If she could hear you now, she'd hit you round the head with her sick bag. You stay as you are,' he advised Chloe good-naturedly. `You're a lucky girl.'
Was he a real doctor?
Or, Chloe wondered, an escaped lunatic masquerading as one?
Me, a lucky girl?
`You're late,' said Fenn.
`I know, I'm sorry.' As she swung round to face him, Miranda caught a glimpse of her frazzled reflection in one of the salon mirrors. Well, was it any wonder she was looking frazzled? `Oh, but Fenn, you'll never believe what happened!'
Excuses? Fenn had heard them all.
`Don't tell me. You were seized by a gang of kidnappers and held hostage,' he guessed, `until they found out nobody was going to pay to get you back, so they let you go.'
`Oh ha ha.' Miranda was clearly miffed. `I'm being serious.'
`The tube was held up. Body on the line.'
Always a trusty stand-by. It was a wonder London still had a population, the number of times Fenn had heard this one.
He got glared at.
`No.'
`Okay, a puppy ran out into the road and you had to rescue it.'
Fenn was grinning. Miranda could have hit him. The puppy excuse was a standing joke in the salon. The really frustrating thing was, it had once actually happened. It was one of her few genuine excuses and nobody - nobody - had ever believed her.
`If you must know, I've been looking for that beggar,' she announced. Fenn might be a pig, but she was bursting to tell someone. `You know, the one who sits outside the shoe shop?'
`You mean the beggar you gave Alice Tavistock's money to?' Entertained, Fenn raised an eyebrow. `The one you keep insisting isn't a beggar because he never begs?'
`Okay, okay, don't rub it in.' Impatiently Miranda waved the interruption aside. `Anyway, it turns out he isn't a real beggar at all. He's not hungry and he isn't homeless - he's a total fake. I saw him