Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [79]
`Are you waiting to ask me something or can you just not remember what you're supposed to be doing next?' Patronising old cow.
`Tea or coffee?' said Miranda.
`Tea.' Eleanor was renowned for her split-second decisions; she didn't hang about. `Anything, so long as it's herbal.'
Miranda wondered if deadly nightshade counted as herbal.
`Oh, and I need some contraception for this afternoon,' Eleanor went on. Delving into her briefcase, she produced a ten-pound note. `Pop along to the chemist, would you, dear? Pick me up a packet of condoms.' Her strident voice, so used to the tricky acoustics of the House of Commons, effortlessly drowned out a dozen hairdryers. `Actually, better make that two packets.'
Don't try to embarrass me, thought Miranda.
Aloud she said, `What flavour?'
Oh bum, now she'd probably get the sack.
But when she finally dared to look in the mirror, Fenn was carefully cutting the back of Eleanor's hair and doing his level best not to smile.
By the time Miranda returned from the chemist, Eleanor had recovered her composure. She opened one of the cellophane-wrapped packs, took out two condoms and tucked them into the back pocket of Miranda's parmaviolet jeans.
`There you are, dear. Be Safe, Be Happy!'
This was the slogan adopted by the government for its latest For-God' s-sake-use-something campaign.
Miranda gazed without enthusiasm at the packet in Eleanor's hand.
Happy? What was that?
Since she was planning on being celibate from now on, she would definitely be safe.
But she had no intention of being happy.
The door swung open behind them as Danny and Tony Vale, loaded down with video equipment, arrived in the salon.
Eleanor, a tireless media-whore, perked up at once.
`Everywhere I go, I'm pursued by cameras,' she trilled. Twirling round in her chair, she eyed Danny with greedy approval. `Now, now, I don't remember fixing this up.' She wagged a naughty-boy finger at him. `Which company do you work for, and who told you I'd be here?'
Danny surveyed her, his expression impassive. `Nobody did. We aren't here to film you.'
Just this once - and despite her cracking headache - Miranda could have kissed him.
Witnessing the deflation of the strident ex-MP nobody liked, several other women within earshot sniggered.
`They're making a documentary,' Fenn explained to a disbelieving Eleanor, `about Miranda.'
The filming took less than an hour. Afterwards, Tony Vale loaded the equipment into the back of a cab and headed back to the studio. Danny bore Miranda off to the coffee bar around the corner and ordered her a hot chocolate.
`So, are you sure you want to do it?'
Miranda's glass of hot chocolate was topped with whipped cream and cocoa powder. If she tried to drink it she'd look as if she'd been got by the Phantom Flan Flinger.
`Oh yes.' Using her finger, which was on the unsteady side, she scooped off the top layer. Halfway to her mouth,
the dollop of whipped cream slid free and plopped messily back into her glass.
`Because I can arrange everything,' said Danny. `But you have to be really sure.'
`Look, I am.' Miranda wished everyone would stop treating her like an invalid; she was trembly because she had a hangover, not because she was upset. `Didn't we spend enough time going over this last night? Fenn's all for it, Chloe's all for it, it's not going to cost anything because you're going to sell it…'
She paused, frowning, and trawled her finger speculatively through the cream mountain once more.
`What?'
`The only thing I don't get is, what's in it for you?'
Danny fiddled with the clasp of his wallet, which was lying on the table. Now how was he meant to answer this one?
Or rather, how was he meant to answer this one without giving himself away completely?
`There's nothing in it for me,' he said at last. `I just think you deserve better than to