Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [2]
Hooray, tip time!
Then again, maybe not. The expression on her freshly powdered face wasn't exactly brimming over with gratitude.
`I gave you a ten-pound note,' Alice Tavistock announced without preamble, thrusting her outstretched palm under Miranda's nose. `And this is how much you handed back. Do you think I'm incapable of adding up?' she demanded stroppily. `You've short-changed me.'
`God, sorry, I forgot!' Miranda clapped her hand to her forehead. `I meant to give it back, make up the difference, then Fenn told me to sort out the towels and I-'
`And you thought you could get away with it.' Alice Tavistock always spoke with a plum in her mouth. Now she sounded as if she were spitting out the stones. 'Swindler. Thief.'
`I am not a thief!'
Fenn closed his eyes.
`Miranda, what did you do with Mrs Tavistock's money?'
`Gave it to someone.'
Frowning, Fenn said, `What? Stop mumbling, talk properly.' Miranda lifted her head. Oh Lord, he wasn't looking happy.
`I gave it to a homeless person so he could buy himself a cup of tea.'
`My money!' squawked Alice Tavistock. `You're telling me you gave my sixty pence to a filthy scrounging beggar? For crying out loud, girl, are you mad?'
So much for boasting about her ability to add up, Miranda thought mutinously.
`He isn't a beggar.' She couldn't let it pass, somebody had to defend him. `He never begs! And it wasn't sixty pence either,' she concluded, `it was seventy.'
Miranda loved hairdressing, despite the abysmal rates of pay for trainees. She was happy working in Fenn's salon, she adored cutting hair - on the rare occasions when she got the chance - and she really enjoyed the contact with clients.
Well, most clients.
The big drawback was having to carry on being nice to them when they were being horrible to you.
`I'm not a thief,' she told Fenn when he had reimbursed his outraged client from the till, apologised profusely and shown her out of the salon.
`I know that. But you aren't exactly Mensa material either,' Fenn pointed out, `are you?'
`She's a hag! That woman spends her life boasting
about all the charity committees she's on. How can she be so mean?'
`Hardly the point. Alice Tavistock is our client.' `She's a stingy old battleaxe,' Miranda muttered.
`Stop it. Now listen to me.' Fenn consulted his watch.
`Bev has to see her dentist at one o'clock. I'll need you to
take over at the desk for a couple of hours.'
`You mean… work through my lunch break?' Horrors! Miranda's dark eyes widened in dismay. She was already ravenous.
What's more, she remembered guiltily, I'm not the only one.
But it was no good. Fenn was giving her one of his serious, I'm-the-boss looks.
`I think that's fair, under the circumstances. Don't you?'
Chloe watched the checkout girl pick up each item in turn, pass it over the scanner and send it on its way along the conveyor belt. Like the prizes on The Generation Game, minus the cuddly toy.
Packet of chicken breasts.
One lemon.
Pint of milk, semi-skimmed.
Shrink-wrapped bouquet of broccoli.
Small carton of hugely expensive new potatoes. Pregnancy testing kit.
The Generation Game. Very apt.
Chloe held her breath, wondering if the girl would glance at her in a secret, knowing way, but when she looked up all she said in a bored voice was, `That'll be fifteen pounds seventy. Got your Clubcard?'
It clearly took more, these days, than a few chicken breasts and a pregnancy testing kit to arouse a checkout operator's interest.
Back at Special Occasions - perfect gifts for every occasion - Chloe hung the Tesco carrier on her coat hook and locked herself in the tiny downstairs loo.
Her fingers shook as she tore the cellophane wrapping off the testing kit. The words on the accompanying leaflet danced in front of her eyes.
Oh, help, this is it, this is serious.
Right, can't afford any mistakes, thought Chloe, feeling sick already. Treat it like an exam, read the instructions slowly and carefully. Concentrate, concentrate, and for goodness' sake stop this stupid