Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [4]
Last year Florence's well-meaning GP had suggested wheelchair ballroom dancing. Every Thursday night, apparently, busloads of disabled pensioners descended on nearby St Augustine's church hall and had a high old time of it, spinning and twirling their partners around the floor.
`What, in their wheelchairs?' Florence had roared with laughter. `Sorry, darling, not my scene. Sounds like two teenagers with clonking great braces on their teeth trying to have a snog.'
If she sometimes felt a bit down in the dumps, Florence made sure she kept it to herself. What good would it do, after all, to drone on about how depressed you were and how narrow your life had become? That was a surefire way to end up a Nellie No-friends.
Instead, she concentrated on presenting her cheerful, fun-loving face to the world. She also made sure she counted her blessings regularly. She had her home, and no money worries. She had Miranda. And her legs might be useless, but at least she still had the use of her hands,
which meant she could hold a champagne glass, play a mean game of poker and put on her own make-up. Not always brilliantly, as Florence was the first to admit. But hell, there were worse things in life than a bit of wonkily applied eyeliner.
As the clock on the mantelpiece chimed six thirty, Florence wheeled herself over to the sitting-room window. She liked to watch out for her lodger. As soon as she saw Miranda coming up the street - usually searching in her pockets for her front door key - she would fetch a bottle of lager from the fridge and pour herself a decent measure of dry sherry.
That was another great thing about wheelchairs. If the first drink of the day went straight to your knees - well, so what?
Florence was still tussling with the ice cube tray when the front door slammed shut and Miranda yelled, 'I'm home.'
`You're frozen. Go and sit by the fire,' Florence protested when she came through to the kitchen to help. `I can manage.'
Miranda bashed the tray against the top of the fridge, scattering ice cubes in all directions.
`My hands are numb already.' She clattered ice cubes into Florence's sherry glass. `There, done. Now we can both sit by the fire.' She pulled a face. `And I can tell you about my wonderful day.'
Sleety rain dripped down Miranda's neck as she tipped her head back to drink the lager straight from the bottle. Her short black hair, urchin-cut and currently streaked with dark blue and green low-lights, gleamed like a magpie's wing.
.. so I missed my lunch break and by the time I left the salon he'd gone,' she concluded, unaware of the rim of froth on her upper lip. `Poor chap, I feel terrible letting him down like that.'
`You know your trouble,' Florence said comfortably, `you're a soft touch.'
`I just worry about him. What kind of life does he have? I mean, imagine not having anywhere to live.'
Florence snorted into her sherry. `Ha, feeling sorry for him's one thing. Just so long as you don't bring him back here and expect me to feel sorry for him too.'
She wouldn't put it past Miranda to give it a go, to try and persuade her to allow some smelly old tramp to move in with them.
`You're heartless,' said Miranda.
`I'm not a pushover, that's all. Anyway,' Florence grew serious, `there's something I have to tell you. Not good news, I'm afraid.'
`What?' Miranda's dark eyes widened in alarm. `Are you ill?'
`I'm not, but my bank account's feeling pretty sick. You heard about that stock market crash last week?'
Miranda hadn't, but she nodded anyway. Matters of high finance tended to pass her by.
`Well, my accountant phoned me this afternoon. My shares have gone down the toilet. Basically I'm skint.' Florence paused and looked embarrassed. `The thing is, I'm afraid I'm going to have to put your rent up.'
Miranda swallowed. She began to feel queasy.
`Oh. Okay. Um… by how much?'
`Well, double it?'
Good grief.
The look on Miranda's face was a picture. Florence roared with laughter and clapped her hands.
`Ha, April Fool!'
Miranda's