critically in the mirror, she was in two minds about whether she was mutton dressed as lamb since she could see her bra through the shirt. But without a husband or children to declare either way, she decided to go with it.
She breakfasted on two pieces of toast, one with marmalade and the other with Nutella, which looked a little funny – she’d probably bought it when Jack was about eight, and a lot of buttery crumbs had gone under the bridge since then.
With a cup of tea in hand, she opened her computer, checked her emails and hovered over the Google search space. What should she put? Maybe, she thought, I should get into the habit of having a job before actually applying for one. It was a bit scary, the idea of an interview. And she was a bit long in the tooth to be asking for work experience.
In the absence of anything springing to mind, she typed ‘Constructive Things to Do’ and clicked on the first result. A list of twenty-five possibilities popped up, including updating your MP3 player and throwing out clothes. Very therapeutic, but not what she was after.
Another suggested learning how to spin a pencil round your thumb. Not now. Although it would be a good trick – and certainly an advance on dating.
An hour later, Miranda had got herself on to a website advertising eco-produce. She went and made herself another cup of tea, and opened the kitchen cupboard to see if there was anything that might help it go down. There wasn’t. That was the flip-side of living on your own – there was never a biscuit when you wanted one.
Back at the computer, she chose a different heading for Google: ‘Constructive Things to Do In Your 40s’.
One word stuck out: ‘Volunteering’.
‘By Jove, I think she’s got it,’ she said, double-clicking on a link. By lunchtime Miranda Blake, divorcee, forty-three, had volunteered for canal clearing in the Cotswolds.
She printed off the list of suggested items to take with her, ticked off those she had, and ringed those she hadn’t. What on earth was a ‘wicking shirt’ when it was at home? She Googled it. Oh, right, she thought. What we used to call Aertex when we were at school and forced to play hockey in inclement weather.
Her mobile phone rang. ‘Hi, Lydia.’
‘Miranda,’ said Lydia, the wife of one of Nigel’s friends. ‘Wondered how the date with James went last night.’
‘Erm. Fine. But I don’t think he’s right for me,’ answered Miranda, suddenly remembering she had told James she would be on an early flight.
‘Oh?’
‘You know. Not really the same sense of humour. And things,’ she ended lamely.
‘Handsome, though,’ stated Lydia, in her clipped way.
‘Yes. Oh, yes. Definitely,’ said Miranda, shaking her head vigorously even though Lydia couldn’t see.
‘And he’s loaded.’
‘Yes.’ She had noticed his very expensive watch and the new Aston Martin.
‘So, are you going on a second date?’
‘Well … no,’ said Miranda.
‘But you’d be perfect together,’ pronounced Lydia.
In what way? wondered Miranda. Perfect together as in chicken and Lego? ‘Mm,’ she said, debating where to go from here. ‘Thing is, I don’t think it would work. He’s sort of similar to Nigel.’
‘To Nigel?’ Lydia almost shrieked.
‘Banker. Square?’ she essayed.
‘Square?’ repeated Lydia.
There was a silence while Miranda tried to form a sentence that wouldn’t antagonise her friend. Or was she a friend? Would a proper friend have set her up with such a – such a muppet? ‘I think what I’m looking for, Lydia, is a change,’ she finally tried. ‘Someone who isn’t in the banking world, maybe. Someone to be silly with. Carefree with. A diversion.’
Lydia of the carefully styled coiffure was not having that. ‘What you need is someone who is going to look after you. And that means a man with a solid career. Money in the bank. James ticks all the boxes – and he doesn’t have any children to get in the way. As I told you, he’s newly out of a long relationship with a concert pianist. Which means he can be arty. And so on and so forth.’
Really! How could she have a friend who would say ‘and so on and so forth’? She typed into the computer: ‘How to End a Friendship with Someone Dull’.
‘Are you typing?’ asked Lydia.
‘No,’ responded Miranda, swiftly, smiling to herself at the options listed. She would read them all later.
‘I think he’s worth a second stab.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ lied Miranda. ‘Leave it with me and I’ll have a little think.’ Anything to end this conversation. ‘Now,’ she added, ‘I have to sort myself out. I’m going on an expedition and I reckon I need some wicking shirts and a pair of gaiters. I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Shall I tell James to call you?’
‘No. I’ll call him myself. ’Bye.’ Why had she said that? Damn. She pursed her lips, then sent a text: James. Thanks for dinner. All the best, Miranda. No self-important alpha male could possibly take that as anything but a brush-off. Particularly not when he found out from Lydia that she was definitely in town and not in the Czech Republic.
She grabbed her list and her bag and left the house with a spring in her step. It was a beautiful day and she decided to walk to Kensington instead of driving. After all, she was going to have to get used to being in the fresh air, and it wasn’t always going to be this sunny.
CHAPTER TWO
On Saturday, having told nobody about her new career as an ecobod, Miranda woke up to the alarm and wondered whether she should cancel. She’d bet loads of people did, what with one bronchitis or another. She lay in bed for a minute, luxuriating in the beauty of being alone under her king-size duvet. No man-smells here, she thought. If Nigel had been there, he would have farted, scratched his scrotum and demanded breakfast in bed. And possibly nudged her with his early-morning broom handle, emerging from below his distended stomach. Urgh. Just the thought of it got her out of bed.
She meandered over to the curtains and threw them back. Damn. Raining. Typical. Maybe she wouldn’t bother to wash her hair, after all. She checked the time. An hour to get ready. She pottered into the bathroom and turned on the shower, catching sight of herself in the big mirror over the bathroom sink as she reached for her toothbrush.
Whoa. What was that? She peered closer. Bollocks. A spot at my age, she thought. That is just so unfair. And then she smiled at her reflection. She was sounding remarkably like her daughter going through puberty. The difference was that Miranda would leave the spot to do its own thing and not fiddle with it, unlike Lucy who would dig and squeeze until it virtually needed stitches and a few weeks to heal. It was amazing that Lucy’s face had survived without a scar.
Miranda stepped into the shower – and couldn’t get out again because of a severe bout of water-induced inertia. She was in the zone, just wanting to stand there for ever letting the water cascade down her back and creep round the front. What would snap her out of it? She had to make a move. Any move. A move that would break the spell. No. It wasn’t going to happen. She’d be found on Wednesday by the cleaner. Blown up from water absorption and with five days’ hair growth on her legs. Would there be maggots? Are there always maggots? ‘Yuk,’ she said, and reached for the shaver.
There was something wonderful about stepping out from a long shower into a warm mist, and it was even better not being able to see herself in the fogged-up mirror. She moisturised every available inch of skin, covered the spot with concealer, then hovered over the perfume. Was there any point? She sprayed some on the back of her neck.
She