Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [47]
She was kneeling on the floor now, bottom in the air, energetically hoovering under the sofa. Florence, from the safety of her chair, said, `So what do you call him?'
`Nothing!' Leaning back on her heels and pushing her spiky fringe out of her eyes, Miranda reached across and switched off the vacuum cleaner. `Just "my boyfriend", or "my chap". Of course, Bev's convinced the reason I won't tell her his name is because he's called something awful, like Horace or Percy. Or Engelbert.'
`Wouldn't it be easier to call him Engelbert?'
Miranda gave her a measured look.`No, it would not.'
It was seven thirty and Greg - the boyfriend with no name - was due over at eight. Miranda kept glancing compulsively at the clock on the mantelpiece.
`Go on, run upstairs and get ready.' Florence shooed her towards the door.
`What's this?' Bending down, Miranda dug a pink ruffled hairband out from between the sofa cushions.
`I had a visitor this afternoon.' The hairband must have fallen out of Chloe's bag, Florence realised. `I'll tell you about it later. You go and have your bath.'
The doorbell rang at seven forty-five. Mr Keen, thought Florence with amusement as she wheeled herself through to the hall. From upstairs came the sound of Miranda still splashing away happily in the bath.
`He's here,' Florence yelled up the staircase. `Don't worry, I'll be gentle with him!'
Pulling open the front door, she came face to face with Miranda's new boyfriend. Black hair and dark-brown eyes, Florence noted with approval; she had always gone for men with dark eyes herself. The clothes - old jeans and a faded black polo shirt - were something of a disappointment, a bit casual for a hot date in Florence's view, but that was young people today. Anyway, the body beneath the shabby clothes more than made up for it.
`Hello, come on in, lovely to meet you at last.' He reminded her of someone; an actor, she guessed, from the telly. `I've heard so much about you from Miranda. She's in the bath, by the way, so I'll look after you until she's finished tarting herself up.'
`Oh, right.' He looked surprised but pleased. `Fine by me. It's nice to meet you too.'
`Through here.' Reversing, Florence expertly guided him past her into the sitting room.
`You aren't going to run me over with your wheelchair, are you?' he said with a grin. `Miranda warned me you might.'
`Why would I want to run you over? Now, tell me what you'd like to drink. I've got a bottle of white wine open, but there's beer in the fridge if you'd prefer.'
`Wine would be great. We'll try not to lose your glasses this time.'
`My glasses?' Florence wondered why he sounded so amused. She hadn't the faintest idea where her glasses were - buried at the back of a drawer somewhere, probably. `To be honest, I never wear them. Too vain.'
When she turned around, Miranda's boyfriend was giving her a slightly odd look.
`I meant the wine glasses you left behind on Parliament Hill.'
`Oh, those! Miranda told you about that, did she?' Florence laughed, remembering their abrupt departure. `Ha, that was a funny old day.'
`Actually-'
`So where are you taking her tonight?'
`Um, I think we've got a few wires crossed here.'
Click click, went Florence's brain. She put down the bottle she was in the process of pouring and gazed steadily across at her visitor.
There was definitely something about those dark-brown eyes.
Click click click…
`Oh dear,' she exclaimed at last, `you must think I'm completely dotty. You aren't Greg, are you?'
He smiled.
`No, I'm not Greg.'
Now Florence knew why he had seemed so familiar. He didn't resemble a television actor at all; he was someone she had seen before in the flesh.
Only fleetingly,