man.’ She couldn’t help putting on an accent. Like that actor in the sketch show. Who was he? She couldn’t remember his name. Someone dressed as an old woman, ogling the man who came round to fix the boiler. Fix the boiler – oh, that’s a good euphemism, she thought.
Feeling a little discombobulated, she concentrated on the camper van ahead.
They pulled off at a crossroads and within ten minutes were in the car park of a pretty pub with a bright display of hanging baskets at the front and a little beer garden at the back. ‘Why don’t you grab a spot outside and I’ll get you a drink?’ Alex said, holding her door open as she got out of the car.
‘All right. Could I have a half of whatever the local beer is, please?’
‘Crisps?’
‘Salt and vinegar, please.’
‘An excellent choice, madam. They’ll complement the ale beautifully.’ He flashed her a big smile and walked into the saloon bar.
Miranda sat on one of the benches under a stripy umbrella. There was a slight breeze and her hair danced. She closed her eyes to enjoy the moment. It was delicious. There was a soft murmur of bees and the susurrant sound of plants drifting in the gentle wind. She could hear a couple chatting at another table, but not loudly enough to disturb the rustic peace.
Bit annoying about Nigel and the books, though. If she hadn’t had children with him, she could quite happily never speak to him again. She hoped there wouldn’t be any marriages just yet. The ex-wife of the father of the bride. Or the father of the groom – although it was unlikely that Jack would be tying the knot any time soon. And Lucy? Miranda loved her daughter, but she could be trying, and her boyfriends had almost always been annoying. Although, to be fair, not annoying to Nigel.
She opened her eyes and turned to the young couple she’d heard talking. They were holding hands over the wooden table with empty glasses in front of them. She thought wistfully of her lost youth. Had she ever looked like that? She supposed she must have done when she first met Nigel. Or had she? Her head had been full of other things, like not having to work unless she wanted to. And Nigel had been the human equivalent of the wardrobe full of fur coats in the Narnia books, a window on to a different world. A world of adults making adult decisions, like where to buy a house. Organising a mortgage. Choosing stuff that wasn’t crockery and cutlery, saying things like, ‘Oh, yes, a king-size bed is much more suitable,’ and knowing that they were married, so it was a proper marital bed. Then, of course, the ultimate grown-up thing – even though you could get pregnant from the age of about twelve: having a baby. It had been odd telling Dad. Absolute proof that she was having sex. That a man was actually … she searched for the word that Nigel had used … ‘banging’? Or was it ‘slamming’ her?
‘What’s making you smile?’ asked Alex, ending her reverie with his arrival.
‘Nothing. Rambling through memories. Can’t even remember now. Pff!’ She clicked her fingers. ‘A moment that’s gone in a flash of – What beer have I got?’
‘That is one interesting flash,’ he dropped a packet of crisps in front of her, ‘and it’s called Brakspear. A fine drop of ale, if I do say so myself.’
She downed half of it in one. ‘Excuse me. A bit thirsty.’
‘Can I interest you in a thinly sliced potato drenched in a delicious marinade of sea salt with a hint of balsamic?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ She reached into the bag and took a few.
‘England on a balmy evening like this is heaven, don’t you think?’ He necked a pint of very pale apricot liquid.
‘Gorgeous. Why would anyone be anywhere else?’
‘All we need now is the thwack of leather on willow.’
‘That’s the sort of dodgy thing they get up to in the shires,’ she said.
‘Not a cricket fan, I take it?’ he asked.
‘You are?’
‘Love it. A game of strategy. The only thing my father taught me,’ he said, and stopped.
‘He must have taught you more than that.’ Miranda tucked a stray curl behind her ear.
‘Not much,’ he said curtly. ‘What will you be doing next week?’
Miranda raised her blue eyes to his leaf-green ones. ‘Something rather akin to what your father taught you … not much. I’ve got a few friends I’ll be meeting up with, and a play at the Barbican that another friend has press-ganged me into seeing. It sounds like one of those experimental pieces where I’ll spend the entire evening wondering whether I’ve missed the point, and concentrating desperately to see if I can grasp something to talk about intelligently afterwards. And no doubt coming up with the stock word … “interesting”. Apart from that, same old, same old.’
‘You should get more involved with the eco side of things then,’ he said, taking another long sup of his drink.
‘Maybe. Is that lime and lemonade?’ she queried.
‘Lime and soda with a dash of Angostura bitters. Tastes almost alcoholic, but allows me to retain my driving licence. You have children, I think you said?’
‘Two. One in banking, the other on a rather extended gap year.’
‘As in?’
‘As in over a year now, and not much to show for it,’ she said, with a sigh.
‘Except that he can probably hold his own with anyone, has a better view of the world than those who don’t travel more than ten miles from their own door, and speaks a few languages?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m very proud of him. My ex-husband thinks he’s wasting his life.’
‘I’ve got a friend whose parents thought exactly the same. He now runs one of the biggest student travel agents in the world. Hugely successful. Rolling in dosh. Gives loads of it to charity.’
‘And now has ecstatic parents?’
‘And now has ecstatic parents,’ he echoed.
‘Not that Jack’s doing much at the moment. If his emails are anything to go by, he’s learning how to surf in Indonesia.’
‘A necessary survival skill. Imagine how useful that could be if there was a sudden deluge and your house was washed away.’
‘I’d be in the house, surely.’
‘And he’d be coaxing you out of the window on to his surfboard as you were heading for the weir.’ He nodded sagely.
She laughed. ‘Is that how you ended up doing this canal-clearing thing?’ She gestured airily.
‘No. I did it to – erm – annoy someone,’ he said.
‘Your father?’
‘Yes. He thinks it’s all about capitalism. We don’t always see eye to eye.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a long story. And you have to get home, you said.’
‘Did I? I meant I can’t drink much because I have to drive home. I can certainly make time for what sounds like an interesting story. There’s nothing I like better than hearing about other people’s complicated home lives.’
‘Since you have one of your own?’
‘Well, it doesn’t sound as exciting as yours. But I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’
‘Depending on where we start with the life history, it’ll take a lot longer than one drink,’ he said, his eyes crinkling attractively.
She put her head on one side, considering. ‘Fine,’ she said, after a few seconds. ‘And what would you suggest in that case?’
‘Have dinner with me,’ he pronounced, his even white teeth showing between