‘Florence, hi. Is Miranda with you? Any chance of a word?’
Immediately recognizing the voice at the other end of the line, Florence said cheerfully, ‘I’m so sorry, Miranda can’t come to the phone right now, she’s unconscious in the garden.’
‘Blimey.’ Danny Delancey sounded impressed. ‘All your own work, or did you get Lennox Lewis round to knock her out?’
‘Cheaper than that. Two bottles of Moët,’ said Florence, ‘and one not terribly pleasant surprise.’
‘Will she be all right?’
‘Oh, fine. Her friend Bev’s out there now, covering her with Factor 15. So she’s well oiled in every sense, ha! And Fenn’s arranged for the restaurant to deliver the food here as soon as she wakes up. You could come over too,’ Florence said brightly, ‘even up the numbers a bit. I’m sure Miranda will be pleased to see you…poor darling, so far it hasn’t been the happiest of birthdays!’
Danny hadn’t even realized that today was Miranda’s birthday. Furthermore, he was struck by the difference between what Florence appeared to be saying and the tone of her voice. She was sounding distinctly jaunty.
‘Hang on.’ He frowned, mentally pressing Rewind. ‘What kind of unpleasant surprise?’
Oh dear, doing it again, thought Florence, and nobody likes a told-you-so. Before Miranda woke up she really must practice being more sympathetic and less smug.
‘Mr Right.’ She glanced happily in the mirror at her chic new hairdo. ‘Seems he isn’t so fantastic after all.’
‘Really?’
Danny, she sensed, was being careful to keep his own voice neutral.
‘I know, isn’t it fabulous?’ Sod diplomacy; if there was one thing Florence knew, for sure, it was that Danny was on her side. Gleefully she confided, ‘Turns out he was Mr Total Disaster all along.’
***
Uuurrgh.
Miranda, with enormous difficulty, peeled her eyelids open.
Uh oh, hangover. Now how had that happened?
More to the point, what on earth had been going on while she’d been er…resting her eyes?
Oh dear, as if waking up from a drunken stupor wasn’t a bewildering enough experience on its own. Miranda, struggling into a half-sitting position, found herself in a far corner of the garden. The next moment she flinched as Danny Delancey appeared beside her, holding out a packet of acetaminophen and a pint mug of orange juice.
‘Saw you waking up.’ He grinned down at her over the top of his sunglasses. ‘Thought you might need these. Want me to pop the pills out of the foil for you?’
‘I don’t understand.’ Moaning gently, Miranda shielded her own eyes from the sun. She had a pounding hammer-drill of a headache and—mysteriously—the most disgusting taste ever in her mouth. ‘The last thing I remember, I was sitting at that table over there, you weren’t here and Florence had long hair. The next minute,’ she frowned and held up her glistening arms, ‘I’m waking up on a sun-lounger with gloopy suncream all over me and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.’
‘And a knotted handkerchief on your head,’ Danny said helpfully. ‘Don’t forget the knotted hanky.’
‘Oh God.’ Miranda whipped it off.
‘Not to mention the cigarette butt lodged in your cleavage,’ he went on. ‘Well, I say cleavage…’
Great. Peering down, Miranda fished it out. How cool must she look?
She peered suspiciously up at Danny.
‘Did you put that there?’
‘I did not.’ He sounded amused. ‘According to Florence, you smoked eleven black Sobranies in seventy-five minutes.’
Oh well, that explained the diabolical taste in her mouth. Hmm, thought Miranda, won’t be trying that again in a hurry.
‘Two at a time, at one stage.’
‘Okay, okay.’ She flapped a feeble arm at him to give her a break. ‘It’s my birthday. You’re supposed to be nice to me.’
‘This is nice. This is me being extra-nice on your birthday.’
Miranda swallowed two of the acetaminophen, sloshed them down with orange juice and eyed him with suspicion.
‘What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t tell you it was my birthday.’
‘I know. I rang to fix up a date for filming in the salon.’ Danny sat down on the grass next to the sun-lounger. ‘Florence happened to mention it.’ He hesitated, his expression masked by his dark glasses. ‘She also told me about the…Greg thing.’
Oh God, the Greg thing.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ Miranda said flatly. She gritted her teeth, making a mental note to tell Florence that, actually, she’d prefer it if details of her private life weren’t blurted out to all and sundry the minute she sank into a drunken stupor.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Danny.
Miranda closed her eyes as the horrible details, like stampeding wildebeest, came thundering back over the horizon to haunt her all over again.
‘Well, there you go, another one bites the dust.’ Her voice was brittle. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if it was an Olympic sport?’
‘What—getting plastered, smoking a million fags and falling asleep with a hanky on your head?’
Miranda smiled briefly, because he knew that wasn’t what she meant. He was just trying to cheer her up, make her laugh.
‘Getting it wrong. Getting it completely wrong every bloody time. Honestly, I’m better at it than anyone else I know.’
‘Come on, that’s not—’
‘True? Of course it’s true,’ Miranda wailed. ‘Look at you, I was convinced you were married and you weren’t. Then with Greg it didn’t occur to me for one second that he might be married, and he is. So how clever does that make me?’
Since there was really no answer to that, Danny rose to his feet.
‘Look, come on over and join in the rest of your party.’ He held out his hands. ‘Hang on to me and I’ll pull you up.’
‘Ouch,’ Miranda grumbled as he hauled her, in turn, efficiently to her feet. Her arms, slippery with Ambre Solaire, had required a firm grip. ‘What time is it?’
‘Four o’clock.’
‘Already? Oh God, and Greg’s coming round to collect me at six.’ Feeling fragile, she allowed Danny to guide her across the daisy-studded lawn.
He cocked an eyebrow at her.
‘Cancel.’
‘No way! I want to tell him what I think of him,’ Miranda said bitterly. ‘Then I have to tear him limb from limb. And when that’s all done, I’ll finish with him.’
Florence beamed; this was celestial music to her ears.
‘Darling, back with us at last.’ Reaching up, she patted Miranda’s shoulder. ‘Feeling better now?’
‘Oh yes, tons.’ Miranda collapsed on to the wrought-iron chair next to her. ‘Two hours to blast-off. If my head wasn’t pounding so much, I’d be brushing up on my kung fu.’
Danny, sitting back down next to Chloe, took off his sunglasses.
‘We’ve been working out the best methods of revenge. Chloe thinks you should let her answer the door.’
‘Like in one of those creepy movies,’ Chloe explained, ‘where I say, “Miranda? Miranda who? I’m sorry, there’s nobody by that name living here, this is my house.”’
‘Gaslight.’ Florence clasped her hands with relish. ‘Charles Boyer and Ingrid Bergman. Such a good film.’
‘Who cut your hair?’ said Miranda, momentarily distracted.
‘Darling, what a question! You did, of course, just before you passed out.’
‘What? My God, did I really?’
Florence barked with laughter. ‘While you were nineteen sheets to the wind? What do you think I am, completely loopy? Fenn did it.’
Oh yes, Miranda vaguely remembered that happening now. She must have passed out before the end.
‘It’s great. Suits you.’
Florence preened; she already knew that.
‘Anyway, we’re not so sure Greg will actually believe he’s going round the twist,’ Chloe told Miranda, ‘but Danny’s come up with another brilliant idea—’
‘Look, don’t you think you’re all being a bit mean?’
Every head abruptly swiveled in Bev’s direction. There was a brief, astonished silence.
‘Don’t look at me like that.’ Bev’s tone was defiant. ‘I’m just saying it doesn’t seem very fair. You’re ganging up on him because he didn’t tell Miranda he was married, but she didn’t tell me she was seeing Greg, did she?’
Miranda stared at her. Was Bev seriously leaping to Greg’s defense?
‘That was because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings!’
‘So?’ Bev retaliated. ‘Maybe he didn’t want to hurt yours.’
‘He’s asked me to move in with him! Don’t you think it’s about time he took the risk?’
‘Don’t squeal at me.’ Bev sounded cross. ‘I’m just saying, you liked him a lot. Up until this morning you were ready to move in with him!’
‘And?’ said Miranda.
‘I think you should give him one last chance to tell you, that’s all. He might be gearing himself up for it. Teetering on the brink, that kind of thing.’
‘Shame he couldn’t teeter on the edge of a high building,’ Chloe heard Danny, next to her, murmur under his breath.