Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [97]
`Chloe insisted.' Fenn ran a finger over the front where the wine stain had been. `After Leila got trigger-happy with the claret.'
Mystified, Miranda stared up at him. Fenn was six foot two and broad-shouldered.
`So if you left your shirt at our house, what did you wear home?'
`The only thing that fitted me.' The corners of Fenn'smouth twitched as he recalled the reaction of his neighbour when they had seen him in the sweatshirt Chloe had bought from Mothercare.
In that moment, Miranda knew.
`The yellow sweatshirt,' she exclaimed, `with pink writing on it.'
`Maybe,' said Fenn.
Miranda clapped her hands with delight; she could just picture it. Fenn Lomax, emerging from his black Lotus in a pastel-shaded sweatshirt bearing the slogan I'm Not Fat, I'm Pregnant.
The house overlooking Hampstead Heath was a dream. II was perfect in every way, from the matching pair of monkey puzzle trees in the front garden to the Tuscan-style marbled kitchen the size of a tennis court, done out in irresistible shades of copper and blue.
The estate agent kept saying what a fabulous property it was, and Fenn could only nod in agreement. He was unable to fault it.
`There's a great deal of interest, as you'd expect,' the agent told him as they left. `I'm sure you'd like to put it an offer.'
I could be making the biggest mistake of my life here thought Fenn. I must be mad.
Aloud he said, `No thanks.'
Chapter 40
Three weeks later, Fenn moved into his new flat. The next day, he gave his overjoyed salon junior a lift home from work.
`This is so brilliant,' Miranda exclaimed when he informed her in his offhand fashion that since he practically had to pass her front door, they may as well make it a regular thing. `No more fighting and getting squashed on the tube! And I'll be saving eight pounds a week on fares… golly, I'm going to be rich!'
That was a comfort, then. Every cloud… Fenn thought drily. Miranda was getting herself chauffeured to and from work and saving eight pounds a week. He, on the other hand, had leased a diabolically expensive flat in Holland Park with no swimming pool, no garden and truly cringe-making dйcor of the 1960s groovy-man-about-town variety. Even the neighbours were unfriendly, clearly regarding a long-haired celebrity hairdresser as an undesirable member of their exclusive enclave. Then again, maybe they were simply suspicious of anyone who would want to live in a flat with zebra-print fitted carpets, mirrored ceilings and leather-look walls.
And let's face it, Fenn had to acknowledge, who wouldn't be?
But he had been compelled to rent the property anyway, for reasons so flimsy and embarrassing he couldn't admit them to a living soul.
`I thought you'd set your heart on Hampstead.' Rifling through her bag, Miranda offered him a liquorice allsort. `What made you go for Holland Park instead?'
There was no way in the world he was going to tell Miranda.
`I thought if I moved to Holland Park, I'd be able to give you a lift every morning. That way, you wouldn't be able to be late for work,' said Fenn. `And we wouldn't have to listen to any more of your bizarre excuses.'
Not true, of course, but close. Closer than Miranda would ever know. Fenn swung the car into Tredegar Gardens and pulled up outside Florence's house.
`You pretend to be a grumpy old stick,' Miranda told him with a grin, `but deep down you're all heart.'
She was gathering together her belongings, squashing the packet of liquorice allsorts back into her haversack, juggling sunglasses, Coke can and a set of keys.
`How's Florence?' Fenn kept his tone casual.
`Great! People keep complimenting her on her hair.' He hesitated.
`I haven't seen her since the wedding.'
`Of course you haven't.' Miranda frowned, concentrating on disentangling the cord on her sunglasses from her key ring. `Bugger, how did I manage to do this?'
Never mind that, thought Fenn, how do you manage to miss a hint the size of a JCB?
`Well,' he went on slightly desperately, `I'm glad she's okay.'
Yay,