Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [16]
Hang on, something not quite right here, thought Miranda. Policemen were honest, law-abiding citizens, weren't they?
Surely they wouldn't park on yellow lines?Chapter 7
`Here she is,' said Fenn, who was pulling on his jacket and preparing to lock up. `What happened, Miranda? We were beginning to think you'd fallen into the tumble dryer.'
Miranda didn't even hear him. She was too busy looking at Hungry and Homeless.
With his shiny clean hair.
And his red crewneck sweater worn over a dark green shirt.
And his black trousers and highly polished black shoes. Slowly, very slowly, she breathed in.
And his Christian Dior aftershave…
`Time for that explanation now?' His dark eyebrows lifted slightly as he spoke. `I could take you out to dinner if you're hungry. Or if you'd prefer, just a drink.'
Miranda had a small but interested audience. Bev, Corinne and Lucy, all with their coats on, were loitering at the desk, clearly dying to know what she'd been getting up to in her spare time.
He's spent the last month sitting outside the shoe shop up the road, she marvelled. Between them, they must have walked past him at least fifty times.
And none of them had the slightest idea who he was.
`Why would I want to have dinner with you?' Miranda squealed, outraged by his colossal nerve. `I mean, seriously, how gullible do you think I am?'
`So,' he grinned at her, `just a drink then.'
`No.' Miranda backed away as he reached into his back pocket. `No dinner, no drink, no nothing. How do I know you're not a raving psychopath?'
Having pulled his wallet out of his pocket, he said in a reassuring voice, `Actually, that's a good sign. If you really thought I was a psychopath, you'd keep it to yourself, you wouldn't accuse me of being one. I'm not, anyway,' he went on, sliding a card out of the wallet and holding it towards Miranda. `I'm a journalist.'
Miranda looked at the NUJ card. It belonged to someone called Daniel Delancey.
There wasn't a photograph on it. `All this tells me is that you mugged a journalist and stole his wallet.'
Her expression truculent, she shrugged and passed the card back.
Fenn intercepted it.
`Miranda, come on, lighten up. The guy's a journalist. He was researching a piece about how it feels to be out on the streets. You blew his cover and called him some terrible names, but still he's forgiven you.' Fenn reached for the door; it was time to lock up and go home. `For heaven's sake, let him buy you dinner.'
Miranda hesitated. Behind Fenn, Bev was saucer-eyed and nodding so fast her eyelashes were in danger of flying off.
Nothing about Bev was real.
`Just something simple, a pizza maybe.' Daniel Delancey- if that was his name - gave her a nod of encouragement.
Sod that, Miranda thought indignantly, he owes me more than a lousy pizza.
If he's taking me out to dinner, we're going to go somewhere expensive.
They went to Langan's Brasserie, on Stratton Street. It wasn't a restaurant Miranda had ever been to before, but she'd heard enough about the place from clients at the salon to know it probably cost a bomb.
Well, good.
As far as Miranda was concerned, the bigger the bomb the better.
And she was going to order the priciest things on the menu.
`I'm glad you changed your mind about coming out,' said Daniel Delancey, when the waiter had taken their order.
`I didn't have a lot of choice.'
Miranda fiddled with her cutlery. She still had a terrible urge to punch him. He had humiliated her and she couldn't forgive him just like that.
`I've got your wine glasses in the car, by the way. You left them behind yesterday.'
His eyes were friendly. He was willing her to smile back at him.
`Look, what do you expect me to do?' Miranda demanded stroppily. `Say thank you and apologise for yelling at you? Because I don't see why I should. You made a fool of me, you let me give you sandwiches… and chocolate… and
a crappy old scarf… Do you have any idea how stupid that makes me feel?'
`Okay, let me explain.' His