Greg lay back in bed and watched Miranda, naked, nudge the bedroom door open with her bottom.
‘This was definitely worth coming back for.’ He grinned and took one of the cups from her. It was a warm night and two hours of stupendous sex had given him a raging thirst. ‘Sorry it has to be tea,’ he clunked his cup against Miranda’s, ‘but I’m all out of champagne.’
‘It’s probably disgusting,’ she warned as he took a gulp. ‘You’re out of milk too.’
It was disgusting, chiefly because Miranda had sprinkled in a bit of Coffee Mate as a consolation prize, but Greg didn’t care. She was here and that was all that mattered.
‘I meant what I said on the phone earlier.’ He looked at her, his grey eyes serious. ‘The last few days have been awful. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed you.’
Miranda abandoned her own cup of undrinkable tea and slid back under the duvet.
‘I missed you too.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Greg. ‘I know it’s a bit soon to be saying this, but it just seems crazy, me living here and you living there…both of us paying rent, not to mention all the extra traveling…’
Her heart skipped a lorryload of beats. Was Greg really saying what she thought he was trying to say?
Oh, come on, thought Miranda, how dumb am I pretending to be? Of course he was. Even if it wasn’t coming out terribly romantically, she acknowledged with a rush of love. That was the trouble with men, they just didn’t watch enough slushy girlie films; they had no idea how it was meant to be done.
‘What are you suggesting?’ Playfully she danced her fingers across his bare chest. ‘We set up a tent on the bank of the Grand Union Canal? That’s about halfway between your place and mine, wouldn’t you say?’
Greg captured her hand and held it still. This was important; he didn’t need that kind of distraction right now.
‘I’m suggesting you move in with me. I want us to live together.’
Miranda gazed at him, wide-eyed. Mustn’t laugh, mustn’t laugh.
‘You mean, because it would be timesaving and economical?’
‘No,’ said Greg. ‘Because I love you and I want to be with you. All the time.’
***
‘What’s up with you?’ said Bev, materializing behind Miranda at the sinks and making her jump.
‘Me? Nothing, nothing…why should anything be up?’
Bev raised an eyebrow at the scarlet jumble of rag rollers in the sink.
‘No reason, just that you’ve been scrubbing away at those things for the last twenty minutes. You’ve missed your coffee break. More importantly,’ she pointed out, ‘you’ve missed your Mars bar break. And I’ve never seen that happen before.’
Oh help, have to tell her soon, thought Miranda. She lifted the Molton Browners out of the sink—it was like manhandling a dead octopus—and began to pat them dry with a towel.
‘I wasn’t hungry,’ she said with a shrug.
‘Not hungry? Golly, you must be ill. Better get your appetite back before next week.’
Miranda’s forehead creased.
‘Next week?’
‘Your birthday, dipstick! Sunday lunch at Sexy Sam’s,’ Bev reminded her. ‘It’s all arranged, the table’s booked for one o’clock.’
Miranda had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Greg, her birthday next week had completely slipped her mind. Meeting up for a raucous celebration lunch was an established salon tradition hugely popular with Fenn’s overworked but loyal staff, especially since he was the one footing the bill.
‘You’ll have to bring your chap,’ Bev rattled on. ‘Everyone’s dying to meet him.’
I have to tell her, I really have to tell her, Miranda thought. Oh, but I just don’t want to be the one who dies.
She felt sick.
Took a deep breath.
‘He’s…um, got a golf tournament lined up for next Sunday. He won’t be able to make it.’
Aah, bliss, no wonder people fibbed. It was so easy and it made you feel so much better, Miranda thought with a rush of relief. That horrid sick feeling had simply melted away in an instant, like magic.
I’ll tell her soon, she promised herself.
Definitely.
Just not quite yet.
‘He’s away on your birthday? That’s a real shame.’ Bev’s eyes widened with indignation. ‘Honestly, men are so selfish. He won’t be away for the whole weekend, will he? Where’s the tournament being held?’
Unable to think, offhand, of the name of a single golf course—was Murrayfield one? Was Greendale? Stenhousemuir?—Miranda was delighted to hear cross-sounding footsteps marching up behind them.
Phew, saved by the boss.
‘Bev, stop gossiping and get back to work,’ Fenn said sharply. ‘There’s someone waiting at the desk.’
Bev glanced over her shoulder at the girl who had walked in off the street. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder white sweater, baggy combat trousers and dark glasses, and her hair was piled up under a khaki baseball cap.
‘She doesn’t have an appointment. And she hasn’t been here before.’ When it came to bookings, Bev had a memory like an elephant.
‘So get rid of her.’ Fenn sounded exasperated. ‘Tell her we can fit her in some time next year.’
‘Ooh,’ Miranda squealed without meaning to as the girl removed her glasses and baseball cap. ‘It’s Daisy Schofield!’
‘Oh dear, your rival in luurve.’ Bev gave her a mock-sympathetic pat on the shoulder. ‘Daisy Schofield is Miles Harper’s girlfriend,’ she explained to Fenn, who was looking surprised. Meaningfully she added, ‘Remember the day Miranda ended up in Try-it-on Tabitha’s swimming pool?’
Surprise swiftly gave way to alarm.
‘Miranda? You’re not seeing Miles Harper, are you?’
‘Of course I’m not. It’s just Bev’s sad idea of a joke.’
‘She fancies him, though. Like mad,’ teased Bev.
Fenn raised his eyebrows at Miranda, who did her utmost not to blush.
‘Look, I promise you, I don’t.’
Miranda had turned a dramatic shade of puce, which was always entertaining, but Fenn was busy rejigging this morning’s appointments in his head. They might be fully booked, but business was business, and Daisy Schofield—currently one of the most photographed faces in Britain—would be terrific publicity for the salon.
‘So if it’s a cut and blow-dry she’s after,’ the look he gave Miranda was severe, ‘I can definitely trust you to wash her hair without trying to stuff her head down the sink.’
***
Miranda had come across some unchatty clients in her time but Daisy Schofield had to be the unchattiest. It was like trying to hold a conversation with a Pot Noodle.
‘Did someone recommend Fenn to you?’ She tried again as she massaged shampoo into her head. For someone who famously maintained that her long ash-blond hair was entirely natural, she couldn’t help observing that Daisy Schofield had amazingly dark roots.
Yawning, Daisy shook her head.
‘Saw him on TV.’
‘Oh. I wondered if Tabitha Lester had suggested—’
‘No.’ Daisy yawned again, revealing an enviable lack of fillings.
Hate her, hate her.
‘It’s just that we were at Tabitha’s house one day, doing her hair, and we bumped into your boyfriend,’ Miranda blurted out. Heavens, Fenn would kill her if he could hear this, but it was like a compulsion, she so wanted to hear about Miles. She couldn’t help wondering, too, if Miles had happened to mention their impromptu game of watermelon in the pool.
‘I’ve never met Tabitha Lester,’ said Daisy, closing her eyes.
She wasn’t being bitchy or deliberately unpleasant, Miranda was irritated to realize. She just didn’t want to talk.
Ah well, serves me right, she thought. What did I expect, that Daisy would exclaim, ‘Don’t tell me you’re the one who ended up in the water with Miles! He hasn’t stopped talking about you since!’
Oh yes, highly likely. He probably wouldn’t recognize me if he bumped into me in the street.
I met Miles Harper for ten minutes, Miranda told herself, and now I’ve got an embarrassing, infantile crush on him.
Honestly, it was as bad as Bev’s hopeless infatuation with Greg. Worse even, because at least Bev was single. I’ve already got a boyfriend, thought Miranda, and I’m still doing it.
Then again, it was a harmless enough hobby. Wasn’t the world full, after all, of happily married women fantasizing harmlessly over George Clooney?
‘Could you get my bag?’ Daisy’s voice broke into her daydream.
Miranda abruptly stopped shampooing.
‘Sorry?’
‘My phone’s ringing.’ Calmly Daisy nudged the black Prada bag next to her foot. ‘I can’t reach it. I’m expecting an important call.’
From Miles!
Miranda launched herself at the bag, almost knocking herself out on the basin as she jerked upright again. Her imagination, working overtime, galloped through the ensuing phone call from Miles:
‘You’re where? The Fenn Lomax salon? Hey, is there a pretty girl working there…gorgeous eyes, spiky blue hair? You’re kidding, that’s fantastic! Put her on, will you, let me speak to her!’
The trouble with actual phone conversations was, they were always a big letdown compared with imaginary ones.
‘Oh, hi, Suze.’ Daisy gestured behind her for Miranda to turn the water off and pass her a towel. ‘No, nothing much, just getting my hair done, then off to some music awards thing tonight with Ritchie.’
Ritchie?
Miranda, giving the sink a brisk scrub down in order to look busy, wondered who the hell Ritchie was.
Luckily, so did Suze.
Daisy giggled into the phone.
‘Ritchie Capstick, he’s a video-jock with MTV. My agent set it up…God, you must be joking, he’s really ugly and really gay…definitely no comparison with Miles!’
Whoever Suze was, she was having a truly miraculous effect on Daisy. Her whole face had lit up and she was laughing and joking like an actual human being. Miranda, energetically polishing the lined-up bottles of shampoo and conditioner, heard the tinny squawks emanating from the phone but was unable—disappointingly—to make out what was being said.
‘No, he’s still in Montreal, training for the Canadian Grand Prix. Bloody boring.’ Daisy pulled a face. ‘Still, can’t be helped, and it’s only for another ten days.’
More tinny squawking from Suze’s end of the line.
‘Well of course it’s dangerous, did you think that hadn’t occurred to me?’ Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘But that’s his job, Suze, it’s what makes him exciting! D’you think I’d look at him twice if he was a sheep farmer?’
Tinny squawk, tinny squawk.
‘Yeah well, if it happens it happens.’ Daisy shrugged. ‘Still, great publicity, eh? Think how sorry for me everyone would be…the whole world loves a tragedy, not to mention a grieving girlfriend!’
‘I have to rinse you now,’ Miranda said stonily. ‘Fenn’s waiting.’
Daisy ignored her.
‘Yeah, like Thingy Winslet in Titanic.’ She grinned into the phone. ‘And I’ve always looked amazing in black.’