marrying for money but now they were famous.
It was seven o’clock on a Saturday night. This was when she missed having someone to hang out with. Even Nigel. It seemed sad opening a bottle of wine with no one to share it. And she missed cooking for two. Or four, when the family had been together. ‘Oh, listen to yourself,’ she said aloud, remembering how she’d complained about being a skivvy, sometimes cooking separate meals for the children because she’d allowed them to become faddy eaters.
She opened the fridge door and ate a piece of celery while debating the options. Omelette. That was about it. She closed the door, grabbed a stash of flyers from beside the phone and ordered a takeaway sushi before flumping down on to the sofa and switching on the television, which felt wrong, considering the bright evening, but she hadn’t got the energy to walk to the shops, let alone gather food there.
The enormous beige linen sofa gathered her in, and a faint breeze from the window stirred the curtains. She half watched The Vicar of Dibley – it was an episode she’d seen a number of times, with Geraldine, Dawn French’s character, becoming a radio star. There was something strangely attractive about the owner of the manor, David Horton. Or was it his house? Or the fact that he was so capable?
The doorbell rang, and a man in a crash helmet handed her the sushi. She couldn’t have worked as a food deliverer, she thought. Couldn’t have coped with the semi-permanent helmet hair. And, luckily, I don’t have to. Yet. Standing in the kitchen, she ate the rice and fish with her fingers, rinsed them under the tap and wiped them on the tea towel, which she then threw into the laundry basket with a Note to Self that she should put it in the wash the next day.
She sniffed her fingers and went back into the bathroom to wash her hands with soap, sniffed again, then slathered on almond hand cream. The mirror reflected a face with a hint of suntan. Miranda leant forward to peer closer at her crow’s feet and the lines on her forehead. She was definitely going to get them done. Botox. That was the answer. All her friends looked so much younger than she did after their bi-annual visits to the doctor in Harley Street. Apart from Lydia, who was old school and didn’t even moisturise, let alone Botox. Hands like a pumice stone and the toes of a tree climber.
She got out a mirror that magnified by thirty and stuck it on the wall tile. When she had wanted to be a vet, she had asked for a microscope for her birthday and, for about six months, had studiously examined everything under it, from ants to scabs. But it was never as good as the science programmes where you could see the chomping hairy mandibles of a beetle or the inside of a wobbly pink human intestine. She loved her magnifying mirror, though. You could see only a little bit of your face at a time, which was fascinatingly hideous. Her eyebrows looked like spindly thorn thickets, with outlying stragglers. She plucked them and checked her chin to make sure nothing was growing there. Age, her grandmother had once told her, may give you wisdom but it also gives you excess hair and fallen arches. Age is not for wimps. God, it would be so easy to get depressed about everything drooping and growing hair.
Meanwhile, there was a nose to be attacked. Its pores were the size of bubbles in a yeasty bread mix and needed to be dealt with. That took a few minutes, and while it was relaxing after its pummelling, she peered up her nose. Bodies. So complicated. Hair inside nostrils to sift out particles in the air. Skin, with its pores opening or closing. She imagined her entire body as a vast collection of pulsating sea anemones, expelling and swallowing minute motes.
She dabbed toner everywhere, then mixed up a face pack with organic powder she had been given as a birthday present. It smelt of damp nappies, but was exceptionally good at calming down punished skin.
Back on the sofa, under a thick layer of night cream, she flicked through the channels. Telly was so boring on Saturday night. She shifted to Sky and rolled down the things she’d recorded, settling on a drama series about Sherlock Holmes, which had been getting good reviews. The cushions were comfy, the temperature was perfect and Dr Watson had a very good bedside manner. He had barely got his feet under the valance before she was fast asleep. She woke up as the credits were rolling and decanted to bed without cleaning her teeth.
The next day, Miranda woke up with a spring in her step and took a moment to remember why. Oh, yes. Towpath clearing. She quickly checked the time, having forgotten to set her alarm. It took her a moment to work out that the digital clock actually was showing five thirty-seven a.m. – the earliest she had woken up naturally since she’d last had jetlag.
She bounced into the bathroom and smiled at herself in the mirror. Natural light made you look so much better. She brushed her teeth with fennel toothpaste – bought because it was the sort of thing Nigel sneered at – then mint, because it felt fresher, and virtually skipped into the shower. ‘Oh, what a beautiful day,’ she trilled, as she shaved her legs.
She had two pieces of toast and a boiled egg, which she had undercooked so seriously that it looked like a jellyfish in a shell. She squiggled it around with a spoon to make it less offensive, then wolfed it down. She was ravenous so she followed it with a bowl of cereal and leapt into the car.
She arrived at the towpath with a tub of salad, a vegetable wrap, an apple, a banana, a smoothie and a bag of organic carrots.
‘Don’t tell me, you’re more hung-over than a quadruple bypass patient on an operating table,’ Alex commented, as she reeled off the list to him while they waited for the others to arrive.
‘Actually, no,’ she said primly. ‘I had an early night after dining on sushi.’
‘You were knackered?’ he sympathised.
‘Yes, I was.’ She smiled. ‘I know it sounds pathetic, but I really was a bit wiped out. A combination of fresh air and a little exercise.’
‘It’s what happens if you’re not used to it.’
‘And you?’
‘Well, I suppose I’m used to it.’
‘I meant what did you get up to last night?’
He hesitated. ‘I had to have a meeting with my father.’
‘Have a meeting with him? You mean you went to see your dad?’
‘No. It was a meeting – it’s complicated. But I didn’t get back till … erm, back until late, so I didn’t have a huge amount of sleep.’
‘And how was that?’ she asked idly, to keep the conversation going.
‘Fine,’ he said. And bent down to do up a shoelace that didn’t need tying. ‘So, no aches and pains, then? No massage required anywhere?’
‘You offering?’ she asked, addressing his ear.
He stood up. ‘I think I possibly am,’ he said, his green eyes alight.
He’s only saying that because he feels safe, she thought. Because I’m so much older. Because I’m no threat. Treating me like he would his mother. But she couldn’t prevent a tingle of excitement. ‘Shoulders could do with a rub, then, if you really don’t mind.’ She turned to present them.
His hands were strong and she winced a little as he worked on her.
‘Hey, can we all have one of those?’ asked Teresa, emerging from her scruffy Fiat with a cooler bag that contained her lunch.
Alex merely grinned and carried on massaging Miranda. ‘How’s that?’ he asked.
‘Me love you long time, meester,’ she responded, in a higher voice than she’d meant to use, actually feeling rather hot and bothered and trying hard not to be turned on.
Will’s Land Rover pulled up, drowning Alex’s response, but it appeared to signal the end of his ministrations and they got to work soon after.
It was a beautiful day and Miranda stood up frequently to stretch and look about her. On the canal, a shimmering drake was bothering a drab duck in an area of dark, still water. She knew she should be appalled by the huge expanse of green duckweed and algae bloom, but it was the most brilliant colour. It made the bank on the other side look positively dull.
She