Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [21]
She'd had to bring someone along for moral support. Andbasically, with her social life currently in such a dismal state, Bev needed all the help she could get.
Poor Bev, thought Miranda, it must be awful to be so helplessly at the mercy of your hormones.
It wasn't as if Bev wasn't pretty, because she was. And she took immaculate care of herself.
It wasn't as if she was old, because she wasn't. Well, maybe oldish, but not ancient. Only thirty.
It wasn't even as if she had a horrible personality, or knock-you-dead halitosis. Or acres of cellulite.
No, the only problem with Bev was something so easily remedied it could make you cry.
Sadly, it was this very flaw that sent horrified men scurrying backwards out of rooms the moment she clapped eyes on them.
The trouble with Bev was that she was Desperate.
Her biological clock was clanging like the `Oh-dearwe're-in-trouble' bell on the Titanic. It had been for the last three years.
And she didn't just want a baby, she wanted a husband too, preferably one as keen on the idea of settling down to a lifetime of domestic bliss as she was.
Although failing that, well, pretty much anyone would do.
Just so long as Bev could GET MARRIED and HAVE A BABY.
It was something of a standing joke in the salon.
`Oh well, there must be one around somewhere,' Miranda had consoled her only yesterday when Bev had been wailing over the failure of the latest fling in her life to ring her. `In a zoo, maybe. With a little sign fixed to the front of his
cage saying: "Commitment Man. Possibly the only surviving member of this species. Likes to eat home-made steak and kidney pies and wear hand-knitted tank-tops. Spends his weekends carrying out helpful little DIY jobs around the cage. Seeks ideal mate, can't wait to start a family."'
`I can't think why I'm your friend,' Bev had replied loftily. `I hate you.'
`I know, but you'll come to the party with me tomorrow night, won't you?' Miranda had wheedled. `I promise there'll be oodles of men.'
It was no good explaining to Bev she scared men witless. She knew that already. She couldn't help it, that was her trouble. The light of matrimony was in her eyes and she couldn't switch it off.
And if one more well-meaning person tried to tell her that the reason she wasn't getting anywhere was because she was trying too hard - that if she stopped looking for a man she'd find one before you could say three-tiered cake… well, Miranda didn't give much for their chances.
They were likely to get more than their head bitten off.
`Miranda, how lovely to see you,' gushed Elizabeth Turnbull, leaning towards her and going mwah, mwah several inches away from each cheek.
She was wearing Poison. The air around her was as thick as pea soup. Miranda, her lips clamped together, could still taste it seeping down the back of her throat.
Frantically, over Elizabeth's plump shoulder, she scanned the room for men, any men, who might do for Bev. Honestly, it was like scavenging for scraps to feed a ravenous baby starling. Wayne Peterson, the footballer, was over by the window. Looking quite sober, for him. But since Bevwasn't a Malibu-swilling bosom-flashing page-three girl, he probably wouldn't be interested.
Oh dear, thought Miranda, still searching. Every other man she'd clapped eyes on so far was either diabolically ugly, older than the Tower of London, or clearly married.
Behind her, like telepathic acupuncture, she could feel Bev plunging imaginary pins into her back.
`No sign of Florence's son and his wife yet,' Elizabeth announced, assuming that this was who Miranda was so eager to locate. `What's her name? Valerie?'
`Verity.' A waiter approached, bearing a tray. Hurriedly relieving him of a couple of glasses, Miranda said, `I'm sure they'll be here soon. Don't worry about us, we'll just mingle.'
`Do, do! Caroline Newman's over there, by the way.' Elizabeth gestured grandly towards the fireplace. `The travel presenter, you must recognise her. Charming