Saving Miranda: A Love...Maybe Valentine eShort

Copyright

Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015

Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2015

Catherine Ferguson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008136086

Version: 2015–01–23

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Saving Miranda

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Saving Miranda

I’ve got that daft song lodged in my brain.

Always look on the bright side of life!

De-doo. De-doo-de-doo-de-doo.

It honestly couldn’t be less appropriate. Except if you take into account that when he sang it, Eric Idle was nailed to a cross. And I’m stuck up a tree.

So, same scary distance from solid earth.

I desperately need the loo but I can’t cross my legs because I’m balanced on the spindliest branch that will snap if I move an inch.

I’ve been stranded fifteen feet above the ground for what feels like hours. Every time the wind gets up and my perch starts to sway, I go rigid with shock and think: This is it! I’m going to die! I’m so numb with cold, I keep having visions of the latest Damart thermal-wear catalogue. And to top it all, hailstones the size of golf balls have just begun falling out of the sky and chipping at my head.

I risk a quick glance down and my head swims.

Always look on the bright side of—

Shut up, shut up!

Poppy ran off to get help. But how aware are eight-year-olds of the fragility of life? She could so easily have got distracted by a friend on the swings in the park or—

My heart leaps.

A familiar black car is travelling along the road that skirts the village green. It comes to a stop a hundred yards away, almost exactly level with my tree, and relief floods through me.

Thank God!

He gets out and I prepare to yell, ‘Up here! Up here!’ but a second later, the words freeze in my throat.

What I’m looking at makes my heart lurch with disbelief.

I clutch the branch more tightly as a wave of nausea floods through me.

*

One Week Ago

I’m lying in a blissfully deep bubble bath, eating a banana and sipping from a mug of builder’s strength Tetley’s, when the doorbell goes.

Bugger! Who …?

Perhaps I’ll pretend I’m out and just stay here luxuriating for a little while longer …

‘Miranda? Are you in there?’

Rufus! My heart pings.

Rufus is supposed to be in Berkshire, rescuing a pair of historical oak trees. He must have saved them in double quick time and driven back early.

I pull the plug and lurch from the bath so fast, a mini tidal wave follows me out, sloshing water all over the floor. A swift glance in the mirror reveals a slight case of panda eyes (could it pass as the ‘smoky’ look?) and a blonde ponytail all limp from the steamy bath. I rip out the hair tie, fluff out my locks then pull on my robe and abandon the chaos.

I’m closing the bathroom door firmly behind me just as Rufus walks in.

My heart performs its usual triple flip of pleasure.

Rufus Leybourne.

My boyfriend of five months.

Tall and dark. Gorgeous. Sexy. Dynamic.

Plus he’s absolutely brilliant at saving the planet.

‘Hey, gorgeous.’ He gives me that smile that makes my insides turn to melted chocolate and brushes my lips with his. ‘So what have you been up to dressed like that at two in the afternoon?’

‘Oh, nothing much.’ I slip my hands inside his jacket and snuggle against his favourite waistcoat. It’s made from one hundred per cent recycled worsted wool (whatever that is) and it’s a bit scratchy, but I don’t care because it’s imbued with that lovely Rufus smell: a blend of musk and lemon with a hint of something spicy. ‘I just had a shower – an, erm, very quick shower.’

A loud gurgling noise erupts from the next room.

‘A shower, eh?’ Rufus shakes his head in mock despair.

I smile foolishly.

The emptying bath sounds like the agonising death throes of a drowning monster.

I do try. Especially since meeting Rufus. He’s taught me so much about protecting the planet. I know full well that showering is the way to go if we don’t want our bad habits to affect generations to come. But sometimes I just long for a bath …

Furtively, I shove the banana skin deeper into my dressing-gown pocket. Bananas are a bit of a guilty pleasure these days. Rufus won’t have exotic fruit in the house. (It’s the air miles, you see. Utterly appalling. Carbon footprint and everything.)

He’s kissing me now. Urgently.

I once had a boyfriend who couldn’t work up the will to shag me if Arsenal lost. But if the team was riding high on the crest of a wave – well, lucky old me! In a similar way, Rufus is extremely passionate about the environment.

And when he pulls me into the bedroom and rips off my dressing gown, I can tell he’s had an astoundingly successful day rescuing trees.

*

The first time I saw Rufus, he was in vigorous form, compelling the wide-eyed attention of passers-by at my local shopping centre, handing out leaflets and passionate declarations under a banner that read: Stop Airport Expansion. It’s Just Plane Ignorant.

It was a Saturday morning in August and I was out shopping with my friend, Eliza.

She nudged me. ‘I need one of those leaflets. As a matter of urgency.’

‘Why?’ I shot her a look. ‘Are you intending to take all your clothes off and lie down on the runway?’

‘No, but I’d definitely lie down on him.’

I laughed and followed her gaze – and found myself transfixed.

It was his passion that got me.

He was practically roaring with fury at the injustice, slamming a leaflet with the back of his hand to emphasise the point. ‘We have to act before it’s too late! Did you know that aviation emissions are rising faster than in practically every other sector?’

We sidled over and a girl with long red hair, behind the little podium, passed a leaflet to Eliza, then one to me. But we were mesmerised by the main event. Two thirty-four-year-old adolescents with their tongues practically hanging out.

Suddenly, those furious dark eyes landed on me. ‘Guess how many people in the world actually get on a plane!’

I gulped. ‘What? Me?’ I glanced over my shoulder.

‘Yes. Go on. Guess! Give me a percentage.’

‘Er – fifty per cent?’

‘Wrong! It’s five per cent! That’s all. A measly five per cent! So the rich world produces the emissions but it’s the poor world that suffers most from the devastating effects of climate change. Where’s the fairness in that?’

I had to admit, he had a point. (And impressively broad shoulders.)

‘Are you interested in green issues?’ He moved closer to me and I flinched.

Yikes. Was I interested in green issues? Didn’t most people do their bit? I mean, I was fairly good about putting the right stuff in my recycling bin. And I sometimes reheated the previous night’s pizza and had it for breakfast. Did that count?

‘Er, yes, I am, actually. Passionately interested.’

Eliza snorted and turned it into a cough.

He was eyeballing me with great intensity, silently urging me to get all my environmental worries off my chest.

I glanced in desperation at the banner above his head.

‘Yes, I – erm – I say No! to airport expansion.’ I gave the air a feeble punch, which sadly was less hail the revolution and more what the hell was that? ‘No, I say! Because it quite obviously is an – erm – travesty of the highest order. I mean, really. Puh! Cuh!’

I turned to Eliza for help and she frowned in agreement.

Then we both nodded furiously, like a pair of Churchills desperate for a bone.

Rufus took me out to dinner that night, which made Eliza go all sulky on me. But I knew she wasn’t one to bear a grudge. And sure enough, next day she was on the phone pronto, demanding a blow-by-blow account and snorting with laughter at the unintended pun.

So I told her about Rufus picking me up at eight. And how he was obviously a little bit nervous because he talked non-stop, all the way to the restaurant, about the incredible anti-gas-guzzling properties of his brand new Prius.

Then I described how good it felt, staring deep into those dark, tortured eyes as he spoke about methane gas and cows’ farts and all manner of worrying things like that.

‘What does he do?’ Eliza asked. ‘Apart from single-handedly saving the planet.’

‘He – er – works for the council,’ I said, trying to dredge up the details. ‘He’s – um – spearheading a brand new initiative to improve recycling in the region.’

‘So he’s in charge of the bins, then.’

I let that pass. Definite whiff of sour grapes there.

No, Rufus was a man with fire in his belly. A man with a cause. A man who cared about the important stuff.

And I was finding that oh-so-sexy.

‘What did you eat? Details please.’

‘A posh burger. You know, with delicatessen cheese and exotic leaves dressed with truffle oil.’

‘Lovely.’

‘But I’m turning vegetarian.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Something Rufus said. Apparently for every hamburger that originated from cows grazing on rainforest land, fifty square feet of forest have been destroyed. Or something like that. I can’t remember the exact details, but I remember being shocked.’

That’s silenced her, I thought. I’d give her time to absorb the enormity of this dire situation.

‘Miranda.’ She sounded strangely calm. ‘We don’t have rainforest in Barnsley. Not the last time I looked, anyway.’

Might have known. Total ignorance when it came to ecological issues.

‘Eliza. That’s hardly the point.’

‘So what else did you talk about?’

‘Oh,’ I said airily. ‘This and that.’

Her scepticism was clear. Probably best not to tell her about the experiment Rufus was carrying out. He was endeavouring to shave precious minutes off his morning shower (for optimum energy savings) and we talked at length about the relative merits of using individual bottles of shampoo, conditioner and shower gel, as opposed to combi-products that did the whole job in one but perhaps not quite as effectively.

His energy and enthusiasm were irresistible. I could have listened for hours.

‘And then?’

‘We went back to mine for coffee. His suggestion.’

‘And?’

I laughed. ‘Well, that’s what was really lovely. He wanted coffee.’

‘I know. You just said that. But what happened?’

‘Nothing happened. We drank our coffee, he popped up to the loft to look at my insulation and then he left.’

Which wasn’t strictly true.

At the door, he slipped his hands round my waist, pulled me to him and kissed me so thoroughly I had to hang onto the door frame for support when he moved away.

‘Thanks for a lovely night,’ he murmured.

One flash of a stomach-flipping smile and he was gone.

*

‘When we first met, you told me you were passionate about the environment.’

‘I was. I am!’

We’re lying in bed after the bath debacle, well and truly tangled up in the sheets. He leans over and picks something up from the floor.

‘So what, may I ask, is this?’

My face turns pink.

It’s my box of tumble-dryer sheets. I’ve been keeping them hidden from Rufus in my knicker drawer. I must have forgotten to put them back. Careless.

I do a mock pout, leaning up on my elbow to look at him. ‘It’s just I hate having washing draped all over the place. I mean, I know tumble dryers are evil beyond belief but sometimes I can’t help myself. Am I forgiven?’

He leaps out of bed. ‘Go on, then.’ Grinning back at me, he strides into the bathroom and turns on the shower. ‘Get in here, you eco-disaster!’

And even though I’ve just had a bath, I don’t need asking twice. We always shower together at my place.

For obvious responsible reasons. And others, too. (Rufus, brilliant teacher that he is, has shown me it’s possible to save energy in the shower and at the same time, expend energy in lots of interesting and imaginative ways.)

I head happily out of the bedroom, a spring in my step. It feels so natural being with Rufus. Of course, because of his commitments, we can only get together once, maybe twice a week. But I’d rather have quality than quantity any day.

And anyway, he’s going to make up for it next week. We’re both taking time off work and he’s even hinted he might sweep me off for a couple of nights in a posh hotel. It also happens to be Valentine’s Day. I’m so excited, I’ve gone off my food, and believe me, that’s pretty unheard of.

I’ve already been shopping with Eliza for a sexy new dress, and when I tried it on in the changing room, she took a photo of me in it and suggested I get it framed and give it to Rufus.

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