‘Miranda!’ Her mother’s eyes darted to the next table.
‘Oh, all right, not lesbian, then,’ said Miranda, wanting to voice the L-word again. ‘Fat.’ What was it about being with her mother that always made her sound like she was seven? ‘The point is, I’m going to go and volunteer again – and I met a rather scrumptious man, who I’m going to have dinner with on Wednesday.’ There. It was out.
‘From canal clearing?’
‘Mum, you’ve done that face where you look like Lamb Chop eating a pretend carrot.’ She laughed. ‘I think he might be mixed race. He’s got dreadlocks. Down to here.’ She gestured to her waist. ‘And now you’re doing what Butter and Marg did when they wanted feeding,’ she said, talking about the goldfish she had won at a fair. They had lived in a bowl that eventually went a livid green and killed its occupants.
‘Does Nigel know?’ she eventually asked.
‘Mum, I’m not married to him any more. I’m a free agent, just like he is. He doesn’t have to tell me about his latest floozy, and I don’t have to tell him what I’m doing.’
‘Have you told Lucy? Or Jack?’
‘Nope. They’ve left home. It’s nothing to do with them.’ Yet. ‘And it’s a dinner date, not a wedding.’
‘But mixed race.’ Her mother shook her head.
‘Mmm.’ Miranda reached for the teapot. ‘He might not be, though. I have no idea. Doesn’t matter either way, though, does it? I think he lives in a camper van. Or that seems to be what he lives in. I don’t know very much about him. I will by Thursday, if you want me to keep you posted?’
Her mother tightened her lips, realising she was being baited and refusing to capitulate.
Miranda left the Lanesborough feeling rather as she had on leaving school, a combination of exhilaration and trepidation. Her dad wouldn’t approve of Alex either. He approved of Nigel and men like Nigel. He read the Daily Telegraph and believed there was too much immigration and that too much of what he paid in tax went to social-security scroungers. On the other hand, they had a cleaner from the Philippines and he kept quite a lot of his money in offshore accounts. ‘If it wasn’t for the stupidly generous state handouts encouraging people to sit at home watching television and producing more children, there would be people available to do the jobs,’ he would declare, to anyone who would listen. ‘As it is, we allow thousands of people to come here and most of them are instantly able to access stuff that we pay for. Why should they be able to go to our hospitals for treatment when they’ve contributed nothing, and send their children to our schools when they don’t even speak English?’
Who was it who said you were only an adult when your parents were no longer around?
Maybe she was having a mid-life crisis. How do you know whether it’s a mid-life crisis or something you’d have done anyway? A friend’s husband had done a classic: he’d run off with a twenty-year-old Norwegian student, spent all his money on renting a smart flat and buying a Porsche, and started wearing low-slung jeans and tight-fitting shirts that looked ridiculous with his mini pot-belly. He’d come crawling back two years later, wanting to be part of the family again.
But Miranda had always had a nice car. And she tried to be on trend if not trendy – maybe she’d have a look for a funky top in one of the high-street shops for Wednesday. Aha, and that’s how the mid-life crisis starts. She smiled. ‘You can drop me here on the corner.’ She handed the cabbie a twenty-pound note. ‘Keep the change.’ It was odd, she thought, how you tipped cabbies and hairdressers, waiters and waitresses, but not gas fitters, car mechanics, salespeople, hospital porters. All of them did you a service, but only some got a little extra cash. And, actually, the waiters and hairdressers she tipped were often bloody annoying.
She would have liked to be the sort of person who had the balls only to tip those who deserved it – the sort of person who took the service charge off the bill or demanded to see the manager. She had done it once and got so hot and sweaty that in the end she had meekly paid up.
Her mobile rang as she was searching for her house keys. Wedging the phone between shoulder and ear, she carried on rifling through her enormous handbag.
‘Hi, Miranda. Wondered if you fancied going to a play tonight? I’ve been let down at the last minute so I’ve got a spare ticket.’
‘What play?’
‘I think it’s called Spurt of the Moment or something like that. Written by some young person. You know me, I book them up so far in advance. Check on the Internet. It’s at the Royal Court. Should be good.’
Amanda Drake was one of Miranda’s closest friends. They had met at antenatal classes when having their first children and done instant bonding, having constantly answered to each other’s names. Amanda’s house was Miranda’s second home, the place where she felt most comfortable. It was full of squashy sofas, huge televisions, palatial bathrooms and a light, airy kitchen where much gossiping was done over bottles of wine. It had been there that Miranda had done her sobbing before, during and after the divorce.
‘I’m desperately trying to get into my house, and can’t find my keys in this stupidly large bag. I’ll call you in a moment,’ Miranda mumbled, unaware that her chin had hit the mute button. She put her bag on the doorstep and took out its contents one by one. It was only when the objects were strewn around her that she remembered she had put the keys in the tiny front zipped compartment while she was in the taxi, so that she could reach them easily.
She piled everything back in and semi-shuffled into her house, turning the alarm off with concentration. She had set it off again the week before, and if there was one more accident, she would lose her police response. No one had told her that, had they, when she’d spent a fortune putting it in?
Miranda was on her way to the bin in the kitchen to throw away drooping roses from a vase on the dining-room table when Amanda rang back.
‘Oh, sorry. I was going to phone you. Got sidetracked by a bunch of past-their-sell-by-date flowers. Is there anything sadder than a wilting rose?’
‘Erm. A child with its leg blown off by a landmine?’
‘Oh, make me sound callous, why don’t you? I meant is there a flower sadder than a wilting rose?’
‘A depressed daffodil? A weeping willow? A lethargic lily? A suicidal scarlet pimpernel?’
‘Oh, enough of the aliteration!’ laughed Miranda. ‘And is there truly a scarlet pimpernel? I thought it was an eighteenth-century spy.’
‘That too.’
‘Let me look at my diary. I’m flicking through the pages as we speak. I’m almost sure I haven’t got anything on … fnaw, fnaw …’
‘Naked at four thirty of a Monday afternoon, eh? Who have you got round there, you saucy minx?’ asked Amanda, in a raunchy voice.
‘Ha. No one. But remind me to tell you of a rather naughty prospect which may be coming up. Literally. On Wednesday. Now. Diary. Here it is.’
‘No. You can’t do that. Tell me about the naughty prospect first.’
‘Shan’t. I’ll check my diary, and if I’m seeing you tonight, I’ll give you all the gory details later. And here we are. Nope. Totally free for – oh, look – the rest of my life. That is shabby. Really. Nothing in the diary apart from tea with Mother, and some dreary dinner party at Sally Thurston’s next week.’
‘Why do you say yes?’
‘Habit. She means well. She’s kind.’
‘Kind of boring, you mean,’ said Amanda.
‘You’re