Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [87]
Buzz wondered how many gaskets his boss was going to blow when he went back to the newspaper offices without astory. Ah well, sod it. He gulped down a brimming glass of champagne; may as well make the most of the free booze.
`So who's footing the bill for all this?' He held out his glass for a swift refill.
Miranda' s mouth twitched.
`Greg is,' she joked. `Well, inadvertently.'
`Blimey.'
Behind her, Danny was packing the video camera back into its case. Miranda gestured towards it.
`We filmed the whole thing. There's a new prime-time TV series going out in the autumn, called Sweet Revenge. People send in home videos and they pay five thousand pounds-'
`I know, I've heard about it. This is great.' Buzz started to laugh. Turning to Danny, he said, `I hope you remembered to take the lens cap off.'
The party spilled out into the walled garden at the rear of the hotel. Almost giving a couple of ancient residents heart attacks, Miranda paused at the top of the steps and peeled off her borrowed bridal gown, stepping out of it to reveal the orange vest and mauve Lycra skirt beneath. The next minute she was splashing around in the ornate Italian fountain with Buzz.
Fenn spotted Chloe sitting on a bench eating a plate of coronation chicken from the restaurant. Joining her, he observed, `You've changed, too. Did I miss it?'
The black and white waitress's uniform had been replaced by a long, floaty cotton dresss the colour of cinnamon, and her golden hair, no longer tied back, tumbled around her shoulders.
`That would really have finished them off.' Pulling a face, Chloe nodded at the elderly residents, who were still looking stunned. She had limited exposure of her own unlovely body to the confines of the downstairs loo.
`Pretty colour, it suits you,' said Fenn.
The dress was ancient. Flustered by the compliment, Chloe attempted to cover the darns in the worn cotton, then realised that Fenn was watching her with amusement. Giving in, she laughed and held up her plate of coronation chicken.
`At least I'm perfectly co-ordinated.'
`Until you eat it.'
`For about the next three minutes, then.' Ruefully, she gazed down at her stomach. `I can't stop eating. It's scary, having the appetite of a prop forward and being the shape of a rugby ball.'
Fenn didn't think it was scary. Accustomed to the finicky eating habits of the models he'd spent the last few years knocking around with, it was a real breath of fresh air. He liked the way Chloe ate with such evident enjoyment, forking up the tender chicken and licking mayonnaise from her fingers. This was how eating should be, after all. You were meant to enjoy it.
Last week, Fenn had been cutting the hair of a knockkneed, chain-smoking sixteen-year-old sent to him by one of the more ruthless agencies. When he had caught her scrutinising the wording on her cigarette packet, he had said, `They damage your health.'
The girl, blinking nervously up at him, replied, `I don't care about that, I was just checking they don't have any calories.'
`Here comes Leila,' said Chloe. `Poor thing, she looks jet-lagged.'
Privately, Fenn thought that Leila, in her fluorescent tube dress, looked like the Pink Panther. And as for jet-lag… well, it was impossible to tell. The half-closed eyes and dazed expression were pretty much a permanent feature. All the supermodels were wearing them this season. He'd tried teasing Leila about it, but she hadn't got the joke. Beautiful she might be, Fenn thought with a regretful smile, but a sense of humour wasn't her strong point.
He had persuaded Leila to come along with him today because her frequent trips abroad meant their time together was limited.
And about to become more so, Fenn thought sadly, realising that yet another hollow relationship was ready to bite the dust. Why did he do it? What was the point of ever getting involved with these girls in