Having eased herself into bed and arranged the duvet to her satisfaction, Florence shook out last night’s Evening Standard and began to read.
Politics, politics, boring, boring. Impatiently she skipped over the first couple of pages.
BUNGEE-JUMPING GREAT-GRANNY, trumpeted the headline on page four, above a photograph of a wizened old woman in a crash helmet. Game-for-anything Alma Trotter, Florence read, jumped for joy when she found out what her family had planned as a surprise for her eighty-seventh birthday.
Ha, thought Florence, with family like that, who needs enemies? Bumping her off, that was what they’d been planning. Except it hadn’t worked, had it? No wonder the old bird was looking so smug.
But it was ten minutes later that an article on page twenty-three really made Florence sit up and take notice.
THAI BRIDE ODDS-ON FAVORITE FOR COLONEL TOM.
‘You old devil,’ Florence exclaimed, peering at the photograph below of a grinning man in his seventies sitting with one arm around the slender waist of a pretty Oriental girl. ‘Tom Barrett, what are you up to now?’
Florence and Ray had first met Tom Barrett and his wife Louisa back in the early seventies, and following Ray’s death Florence had remained friendly with them. The last time she had seen Tom was at Louisa’s funeral three years ago, following which he had disappeared to Spain in order to spend some time with his daughter and her family and come to terms with the loss of his adored wife.
Hmm, thought Florence, studying the photograph once more and noting with approval the twinkle in her old friend’s eye, it looked like he’d done that, all right. And he’d brought his young bride-to-be back to Hampstead, had he? She wondered idly if he was still living in the same house, in which case…
On an impulse, Florence rifled through her bedside drawer until she found her old flip-up phone directory. Within seconds she was dialing Tom’s number.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Tom exclaimed, ‘a call from the Dancing Queen herself! I swear, the phone hasn’t stopped ringing today. Do you have any idea how many long-lost friends have come crawling out of the woodwork since that piece appeared in the paper? Not that you’d ever crawl, my darling,’ he went on with habitual gallantry. ‘You’d shimmy.’
Florence laughed.
‘My shimmying years are over. These days, I’m afraid, I definitely crawl.’
‘Arthritis still playing up?’ Tom sounded sympathetic.
‘Oh, you know, the odd twinge.’
‘And am I delighted to hear from you?’ Florence heard the note of caution in his voice. ‘Or have you rung to tell me I’m off my rocker?’
‘Is that what everyone else has been doing?’
‘Come on. What d’you think?’
Florence glanced at the article spread across her lap.
‘You saw her in a mail-order catalogue and met her how long ago?’
‘Three months.’
‘She’s from Thailand,’ said Florence. ‘Are you sure she isn’t a boy?’
Much gravelly laughter at the other end of the phone.
Finally Tom managed to say, ‘Oh yes.’
‘That’s a start. Do you love her?’
‘I do,’ Tom replied.
‘Does she love you?’
‘I think so.’
‘Are you ridiculously happy?’
‘So happy it would make you sick.’
‘Oh well,’ said Florence, ‘in that case you’re absolutely barking mad and I couldn’t be happier for you. Go for it, prove those miserable doubters wrong, have a ball. And don’t forget to invite me to the wedding.’
‘You can be a bridesmaid if you want.’ Tom’s relief was audible. ‘Dear Florence. So you don’t think I’m making the biggest mistake of my life?’
‘If you’re having fun, how can it be a mistake? The last thing I ordered from a mail-order catalogue was a non-stick saucepan,’ Florence told him, ‘and after a week the bloody handle dropped off.’
‘Christ, I hope mine doesn’t.’
She had to ask.
‘How does Jennifer feel about all this?’
Jennifer was Tom’s daughter. And Tom was a wealthy man. It was bound to concern her.
‘Oh, Jennifer’s a diamond. She’s fine about it, behind me all the way. Says if I’m happy, she’s happy. Look,’ Tom spoke with enthusiasm, ‘we must get together again, it’s been too long. Come to dinner next week, Flo. I want you to meet Maria.’
Hanging up the phone some minutes later, Florence sank back against the pillows and flipped through a few more pages of the paper. For want of anything better to do, she read her horoscope:
Oh dear, you’ve got yourself into a rut, haven’t you? Time to do something about it. A bored person is a boring person…
‘Blah blah blah,’ said Florence, chucking the paper on to the floor. Honestly, talk about cheering you up. It was a good job she didn’t believe in horoscopes.
Except there was no getting away from the fact that—whether she believed in them or not—this one was depressingly true.
Lucky Tom, she thought. Okay, so what he was doing might not work out, but at least he was giving it a go.
And even luckier Tom, Florence idly mused, to have a daughter who backed him all the way. Jennifer, after all, was the one who stood to lose out financially if the marriage went horribly wrong.
‘Can’t imagine you being so generous,’ she said aloud, addressing the framed photograph of Bruce on her bedside table. ‘You wouldn’t be so keen, would you, my sweet, if you thought there was a chance of my money not going your way?’
***
‘…and in June we start shooting the new Madhur Jaffrey film in Norfolk, starring Helena Bonham Carter and Stephen Fry. My role isn’t huge,’ Miranda said modestly, ‘but it’ll be great for the CV. Madhur and Jaffrey are so well thought of, that’s the thing. If you’ve worked with them, people sit up and take notice. It proves you aren’t just some bimbo,’ she explained, ‘and that you really can act.’
And by jingo I can, Miranda thought happily. Was this a performance of a lifetime or what? Adrian—yeurgh, dumb name—was lapping it up.
‘Have you worked with Sylvester Stallone?’ he asked eagerly.
‘No.’ Miranda looked regretful; it wouldn’t do to show off too much. ‘I auditioned once, but didn’t get the part.’
‘So what was Pierce Brosnan like to work with?’
‘Oh, he was great. You must go and see the film when it comes out. The bit where he rescues me from the river just as the crocodiles are about to drag me down was the scariest thing I’ve ever had to do—’
Adrian’s eyes were practically out on stalks.
‘Were they real crocodiles?’
Um…
‘Well, no, not real crocodiles.’
He frowned.
‘So why was it scary?’
‘Because Pierce is such a fantastic actor he made me think they were real.’ Miranda shook her head in admiration. ‘Plus, it was real water. And I can’t swim.’
‘Ahem,’ said Greg, when Bev had disappeared to the loo and Adrian had gone in search of more drinks. ‘It’s Merchant Ivory.’
Miranda turned to look at him. Until now she had been concentrating solely on Adrian, the one in the blue shirt. He was her project and Greg was Bev’s.
‘Merchant Ivory, not Madhur Jaffrey. Their names are Ismail Merchant,’ he explained patiently, ‘and James Ivory.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Miranda, ‘no wonder they kept giving me funny looks on set. How embarrassing.’ She clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘I’ve always been hopeless with names.’
‘And dates.’ Leaning closer, Greg whispered in her ear, ‘Unless he’s Superman, I don’t know how Pierce Brosnan has managed to spend the last six weeks in California and find the time to make a film at Pinewood Studios with you.’
Miranda went pink.
‘Private Jet.’
‘Bullshit.’
Indignantly she said, ‘What makes you think he’s been in California?’
‘I know for a fact that he has.’
‘How?’
‘He’s my uncle.’
‘Oh hell. Really?’
‘No.’ Greg looked amused. ‘That was bullshit too.’
Rumbled, thought Miranda. Damn.
‘Did Bev…?’
‘Oh no, she did very well, considering. I’ve heard all about her record contract and the time she and Noel Gallagher got lost on the way to the Top of the Pops studios, not to mention the time she went to a party and her trousers split and she ended up having to wear one of Boy George’s dresses.’
Miranda’s eyes darted around the room. Maybe it was time to leg it, just get out before he had a chance to make an embarrassing scene. But there was no sign of Bev either.
‘Adrian’s going to be back any second,’ she muttered.
‘In that case,’ Greg seized her clammy fingers in his cool ones, ‘we’d better hide.’
He led her out on to the balcony, shielded from the room by a heavy curtain. Below them, the wet streets glittered in the reflected lamplight. Much to Miranda’s relief, it had stopped raining and the wind had dropped.
‘What about Bev?’ she protested. ‘She’ll wonder where we are.’
‘I’ve spent the last thirty minutes talking to Bev. I’ve done my duty,’ said Greg. ‘Now I want to swap.’
Miranda watched a man on the pavement across the street, taking a furtive pee up against a pillar-box. In Westminster, imagine.
‘Is that fair?’
‘I think it’s fair.’ Greg turned her sideways to look at him. ‘I didn’t just get the Top of the Pops and Boy George stories; I’ve had the “aren’t-babies-wonderful” spiel as well.’
Honestly, thought Miranda, how many times have I told her not to do that?
‘And I don’t happen to think they are,’ he went on, his smile crooked. ‘Anyway, I’d much rather talk to you.’
He had dark-blond hair—natural, she noted automatically—and laughing grey eyes and a really nice mouth. Feeling her stomach go a bit squirmy, Miranda realized how attractive he actually was.
‘I’m not really an actress,’ she said.
‘I gathered that.’
‘I only said I was because—’
‘It’s okay, I know why you did it.’
‘Elizabeth Turnbull’s my next-door neighbor. You made her cry.’
‘Now I feel terrible. I’m sorry, I know we didn’t behave very well. But it was more Adrian than me.’
‘He’s going to be wondering what happened to you.’
‘Adrian can talk babies with Bev. Serve him right for upsetting your neighbor. So who are you really?’
‘Nobody.’ Miranda was unrepentant. ‘A trainee hairdresser.’
‘That explains the hair.’ Reaching up, he touched the feathery dark-blue tendrils at the nape of her neck. ‘I like it.’
Miranda shivered. She liked it too. Things were beginning to heat up here.
‘How about you, what do you do?’ It wasn’t exactly sparkling repartee, but time was short and she wanted to know.
‘Something extremely boring. Insurance. You have my permission to yawn.’
‘Are you single?’
‘Oh yes.’ Greg smiled. ‘Are you?’
That smile. Those teeth. Plus, a thrillingly fit-looking body. Barely able to stop her knees knocking with excitement, Miranda nodded.
‘In that case,’ he took a pen out of his inside pocket, swiftly uncapping it, ‘why don’t you give me your phone number?’
God, I love a fast worker, thought Miranda.
She took the pen and waited.
‘Paper?’
Greg shook his head.
‘Haven’t got any on me. Here, write on my hand. No, better make that my arm.’ He began to fumble with a cuff link. ‘We don’t want to upset Adrian.’
Miranda, experiencing a brief pang of guilt, said, ‘Or Bev.’
The next moment they both jumped at the sound of an aggrieved voice on the other side of the curtain.
‘They can’t have gone, they must be around here somewhere.’
Miranda froze. She heard Bev say, plaintively, ‘But I’ve already looked in the bathroom.’
‘Okay, ask that chap if he’s seen your friend. Tell him you’re looking for the girl with the blue hair.’
In the darkness, Greg was still struggling to unfasten his cuff link.
Too slow, too slow, Miranda thought frantically.
Grabbing the front of his shirt, she wrenched it open and began scrawling her phone number across his chest.