Chapter Twenty-Seven
Miranda
Miranda should have known from the start that Felix was trouble. From that first morning, five or so years ago, when Imogen unexpectedly appeared with him at their parents’ house for Christmas. ‘Everyone, this is Felix!’ she’d cried, gazing at him adoringly as if his presence was the greatest of all gifts. By then, the whole family had heard about this mysterious man– the adorable meet-cute of them both staying at the same quirky Lisbon hotel, where she’d been for a hen do, and he for his best mate’s stag. They knew how he’d whisked Imogen off her feet, wining and dining her, when she’d returned home; how handsome and funny and dynamic he was; how she had never felt so in love. Then there he was, suddenly in the family hallway, like some kind of hunky catalogue model, wearing a fisherman’s jumper and jeans, one arm slung round Imogen’s shoulders. Miranda, who was halfway downstairs, still in pyjamas and with atrocious bed-hair (she’d just come off a taxing ten-day-straight shooting schedule, all right?), was unable to escape this ill-timed moment of introduction.
‘Felix, this is Mum and Dad– Tracey and Paul to you. Seb, my brother, and his wife, Gabrielle. Miranda, my– oh my God, have you only just got up, or something? My big sister.’
There were several aspects of this phrasing that displeased Miranda, not least the ‘big sister’ part, when she was swathed in a vast padded dressing gown and probably looked twice the width of sylph-like Imogen. Afterwards, she’d wished that she could have said, ‘A week of night shoots takes its toll!’ or something equally cool and impressive, instead of blushing hotly, but everyone else was saying hello to Felix, and the moment vanished.
‘Greetings, Vallances,’ said the man himself, brandishing a Selfridges bag in the direction of Miranda’s parents. ‘Have some festive gifts; my shameless attempt to bribe you all into liking me.’
‘Ooh,’ said Tracey, taking it eagerly from him and peering inside. ‘Gosh, Felix, you shouldn’t have. Well– consider me bribed! It’s lovely to meet you. Come in, both of you. There’s some gingerbread just out of the oven– do you like gingerbread, Felix?’
‘What sort of a question is that?’ he laughed, following her. ‘Ilove gingerbread, especially if it’s home-made and still warm. Christmas starts now!’
Miranda had been left to traipse heavy-footed back upstairs, cheeks burning, and dive into the bathroom to make herself presentable. But she couldn’t feel awkward for long. Felix slotted right into the family as Imogen’s boyfriend– faultlessly charming towards their parents, bonding with Miranda and Seb by affectionately taking the mick out of Imogen over the dinner table. In fact, the first time Miranda felt his foot pressing against hers beneath said table, she assumed it must have been accidental. Because in every other way he seemed the perfect addition to the Vallance clan: funny, confident, comfortable in his own skin. Lucky, lucky Imogen, Miranda thought– until she realised, the second time she felt his foot nudging against hers, that actually, no, the contact between them appeared to be deliberate. As was the way he tended to stand a bit too close to her sometimes, or brush past her unnecessarily when they were in the same space, touching her body with his. Or he’d give her a private smile now and then, one meant only for her, as if they were in on an intimate joke together. Conspirators.
It was all incredibly discomfiting. Because although he was– is– heart-stoppingly gorgeous, and under any other circumstance she’d have flirted right back, he was also– is also– with her sister. What was she supposed to do? Maybe she was reading too much into it, and he was just one of those shamelessly flirty people, winking and giving the eye to everyone. But surely a partner’s sister should have been off-limits?
Having tied herself in knots over it for ages, Miranda finally broached the subject with Tracey when she was home for the weekend a few months later. ‘Mum, have you ever felt there’s something a bit. . . off about Felix?’ she’d asked. It was a sunny April day and they were both in the garden, pegging out a load of laundry on the line. Her mum had almost dropped the peg-bag with surprise. ‘Felix? No, not in the slightest!’ she’d cried, looking perplexed. ‘Ithink he’s fabulous– and so does your sister. Why do you ask?’ The words had turned to dust in Miranda’s throat and she’d been unable to come out with her misgivings, especially as each instance of him overstepping the line had been a tiny, blink-and-you’d-miss-it moment, the sort Felix could easily deny with a feigned look of bewilderment. ‘No reason,’ she’d mumbled in the end, and turned to peg up a wet pillowcase, feeling her mum’s baffled gaze on her back.
The next time it happened, she confronted him directly. It was the end of May, Tracey’s birthday, and the family had assembled, even Seb and Gabrielle, to celebrate with lunch at her favourite restaurant. Having left the table to go to the loo, Miranda had walked out of the Ladies to find Felix leaning against the wall, apparently waiting for her. ‘Ithink we’re alone now,’ he’d said, deadpan.
‘Is this a joke to you?’ she’d asked, glaring at him. ‘Because Idon’t think Imogen would find it very funny if Itold her.’
‘If you told her what? Idon’t know what you mean,’ he’d replied, wide-eyed.
‘If Itold her– and I will if you don’t pack this in– that you’re harassing me. Trying it on. You know exactly what Imean.’
He’d burst out laughing and she’d flushed bright red in the face of his mockery. For an awful moment she’d wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing, if she was deluded. ‘Ithink you’ve had a bit too much to drink, Miranda,’ he’d chuckled. ‘Trying it on indeed. In your dreams, love!’
‘Just leave me alone,’ she’d snapped, and barged past him, revolted by his vile power games. Cursing herself too for having said anything in the first place, and dreading him reporting the incident back to Imogen. No doubt he’d only twist the narrative so that it looked as if Miranda was the one at fault; acting weirdly out of some jealous desire, maybe, or merely spite. ‘Oh dear, Ithink your big sister’s got a bit of a deranged crush on me,’ she imagined him saying, and felt sick.
Nothing seemed to deter him, and she learned, over the years, to avoid being near him at a dinner table, to make sure they weren’t ever alone in a room together, to act in a deliberately stiff, formal way around him, rebuffing any friendlier relationship. Surely if she kept ignoring him, refusing to play this game, he’d get bored and stop? In the meantime, as Miranda kept making excuses not to be at birthdays or other get-togethers, a wedge formed between her and Imogen. How she hated this wedge! How she missed having her sister there at the end of the phone, her most loyal confidante, the one person in the world who truly understood her. She threw herself into touring theatre productions that meant she was travelling for months at a time, she busied herself with her own boyfriends too, even if none of them stayed around for very long. But then Felix proposed to Imogen, and preparations for their wedding got under way– preparations that Miranda found herself dragged into, like it or not.
First there was the hen do, a drunken weekend in a Somerset spa hotel, which began with a blow-out boozy afternoon tea. By the time they were emptying the last drops of champagne into their glasses, Imogen was pissed as a fart. ‘Here’s to me and my happy ever after,’ she cried, looking around for a member of staff so that she could order another bottle. ‘And my sexy, wonderful husband-to-be. Even if she doesn’t like him!’
This last was directed at Miranda, and instantly turned what had been a gooey-eyed celebratory ‘Aww!’ moment into a surprise attack. ‘What?’ cried the other hens, rallying to Imogen’s side. ‘How could anyone not love Felix?’
‘Ido like him!’ Miranda had protested. ‘What are you on about? Of course Ido!’
‘We both know you don’t,’ Imogen retorted, nose in the air, ‘but that’s okay because Ilove him. And he loves me.’
‘Absolutely!’ the hens chorused, some of them flashing accusatory glances at Miranda. ‘You two are perfect together, babe! This is going to be the wedding of the year!’
Thankfully, a waiter appeared with more champagne, taking the heat out of the exchange. The moment passed, becoming largely forgotten as the cork was duly popped, more bubbles poured, and someone asked a question about Imogen’s dress. Miranda didn’t forget, though, and spent the rest of the weekend dreading a reprisal of the charge. She even felt as if she’d let her sister down, for not managing to hide her difficult feelings about Felix. She of all people should have been able to play the part convincingly.
Fast-forward a few weeks, and it was Imogen and Felix’s wedding– a lovely ceremony, a sunny day, both bride and groom looking gorgeous and elated in the photos– and Miranda made sure to smile and look happy throughout too. Even when the photographer urged them jokily to ‘Come on, guys– squeeze up, pretend you like each other if you have to!’ during one of the family photos, and she felt Felix’s hand slide onto her bottom. It took every ounce of her drama school training to keep a smile on her face for the agonising seconds before the photographer pronounced himself satisfied. How dare he? she fumed, shaken and upset. On his wedding day ! To her sister ! It left her feeling as if he was mocking her and Imogen, and she was powerless to react. How could she say anything now? If only she had been more assertive from the get-go, she might have nipped this whole unsavoury side of him in the bud, established better boundaries. But now she wondered if he might have interpreted her silence to be acceptance. Encouragement, even. Was this actually her fault, for letting it carry on at all? How would she ever be able to stop him? She was only able to relax once the bride and groom finally left for their wedding night to a raucous round of cheers.
Two more years went by and she still didn’t tell anyone, just tried her hardest to compartmentalise the situation by staying away. Imogen had enough to deal with anyway, what with trying (unsuccessfully) to get pregnant, plus the demands of her job as a mental health nurse. Miranda was busy too, with the Amberley Emergency job lifting her into the public glare and the resulting flurry of invitations to glitzy events. Men seemed more interested in her too, all of a sudden, and she enjoyed a series of flings with minor celebrities. Meanwhile, she resigned herself to the fact that she had basically lost her sister. It was awful, but on a practical level it was at least more straightforward than having to deal with her gaslighting brother-in-law.
Imogen didn’t seem quite so willing to let her go, though. ‘Imiss you,’ she wailed one Christmas when they’d both sunk quite a lot of Baileys. Everyone else had gone to bed, and it was just the two of them left standing– or rather, slumped into opposite corners of their parents’ saggy red sofa. ‘Inever see you, Min. Don’t you like me any more?’
The question had all but broken Miranda’s heart. ‘I love you,’ she had said raggedly. ‘It’s just. . .’ Then she’d shut her mouth, aware of the cliff-edge ahead.
‘It’s Felix, isn’t it?’ Imogen had persisted. ‘Iknow you don’t like him. But why? Ican’t bear it, my two favourite people in the world not adoring each other like Iadore you both.’
Oh God. The big question, the one that she simply couldn’t answer, not now. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she’d said in the end, because it seemed the only safe option.
Things came to a crunch in June. It was Imogen’s thirty-fifth birthday and, because they’d had a tough time of it (still no pregnancy news, poor Imogen), Felix announced to the rest of the family that he was pushing the boat out for his beautiful wife and treating everyone to dinner at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons for the occasion. ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ Tracey had sighed down the phone to Miranda, and it had taken a moment for Miranda to reply, because the words were lodged in her throat. ‘I’m glad he’s doing this for Immie,’ was what she managed eventually.
She should have known that Felix Anderssen would never do anything without his own agenda in play, though. And she should have borne this in mind on the night in question when she nipped out alone for a quick vape between courses. Blame the champagne going to her head, she’d thought afterwards. That, and the fact that she was there with her latest beau, Maxim, a beautiful-but-dim footballer, and Felix had barely looked her way all evening. It was such a relief. Had he changed his ways, maybe? Got over his creepy little power play? Evidently not, she realised with dismay when he appeared behind her a whole two minutes later.
‘Look at you, Sexy Miranda, star of the fucking show, as ever,’ he’d said, putting a hand on her waist and speaking low-voiced into her ear. ‘Ican’t take my eyes off you.’
She whirled round at once and stepped back from him, almost falling into the lavender in her haste. Rage roared up inside her. Enough was enough. ‘Get off me,’ she hissed. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Come on,’ he said, his words slurring. He’d been drinking heavily all evening. ‘You’re not fooling anyone. We both know what’s going on here.’
She took another step back, loathing that he had put her in this position. ‘No,’ she told him, glaring. ‘You’re so wrong. Because I’m with Maxim– and you’re married. And if you ever dare touch me or speak to me like that again, Iam going straight to Imogen, your wife, and Iwill tell her what you’ve been doing. Do you understand me?’
He gave a jeering laugh, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He was loving this, she realised. Euphoric that he’d finally provoked a reaction. ‘What, and you think she’ll believe you over me, do you? Dream on, Miranda. She’s already told me how jealous you’ve always been of her. How you’ve never been able to stand it when she does things better than you.’ He winked, moving towards her. ‘Still, Ican think of a way you can get one over on her, can’t you?’
It still makes her shudder, even now, months on from that night, to replay the nightmarish scene in her head. Talk about twisted. How ugly he really was beneath that handsome facade. How grotesque. ‘Idespise you,’ she’d said, and barged past him to return to the restaurant. ‘Babe, do you mind if we go now?’ she’d asked Maxim in a low voice when she was back at the table, and he’d leapt up gratefully at once. (‘Your family are, like, well intense,’ he’d said later on in the cab.) ‘So sorry, everyone, but I’m coming down with a migraine,’ she’d told the others, putting the tips of her fingers to her temple and wincing. ‘We’re going to have to leave before it gets any worse, I’m afraid.’ Then she had hugged Imogen, whispering ‘Happy birthday, Ilove you,’ into her ear, feeling like her heart was breaking. Especially when both Imogen and her mum looked disappointed in her for leaving so early, before they’d even had a chance to think about dessert. But how could she have stayed?
With a groan of regret, Miranda sits up in bed now, her head jangling with the movement and reminding her of all the wine she drank the night before. Evelyn is a surprisingly bad influence for an 82-year-old, she reflects as she reaches for the bottled water on her bedside table and drains it with a few parched gulps. Maybe she’ll tell Evelyn about the Felix situation today, she thinks to herself. So far she has proved to be a really good person to talk to, when she’s not trying to matchmake Miranda with this so-called godsend of hers, anyway.
She picks up her phone, squinting at the screen, to see that a message came in from her gramps in the early hours of the morning. He’s a terrible insomniac, like her. She opens it and gives a little moan when she sees that he’s sent a picture of her and Imogen as little girls, both with the same godawful Tracey-cut fringes, beaming as they stand with their arms round one another. She’ll always be your sister, he’s written, as if he can see into Miranda’s mind. I’ve told her as much too. By the way, between you and me, Inever thought much of that Felix fella. Bit of a creep, in my opinion. And Jackie’s! But don’t tell anyone Isaid that. Hope you’re having a lovely holiday. Love Gramps xx
Miranda winces, imagining Imogen’s response if he’s sent her the same picture. She’ll have deleted it with brutal speed if so, or printed it out and stuck it on the nearest dartboard. She rubs her eyes, knowing that dwelling on the situation is hopeless. Imogen has chosen to stick with Felix, and that’s the end of it. She’s made it quite clear that she never wants to see or hear from Miranda again. Then she remembers that, according to Tracey, Imogen is booked in for a difficult doctor’s appointment today, about why she’s been struggling to conceive. It’s the sort of appointment that, in a parallel universe without Felix in their lives, Miranda might have accompanied her to; or at least she might have been waiting in the wings with sisterly support. She hesitates, knowing that Imogen won’t welcome her contact but unable to resist reaching out anyway. They’ll always be sisters, as their grandad just pointed out. Hope it goes well today she messages. Imiss you , she wants to add but doesn’t, loathe to reignite the argument. Mind you, she’s pretty sure Imogen has blocked her number and hasn’t received, let alone read, the many texts she’s already sent. That’s what you get for opening your big mouth.
She texts Evelyn next, focusing on the day in hand. Morning! she writes. Last night was fun, Ihope you’re feeling better than Iam right now. Still up for Argostoli later? Let me know when you want to go. M xx
A message comes back a minute later. So sorry, Evelyn has written. I’m not feeling great this morning. Can we go tomorrow instead? X
Miranda slumps back in bed, actually rather disappointed. Selfishly, she would have liked to see Evelyn again today, if only to talk to her about Imogen and Felix, and have Evelyn’s passionate condemnation of his awfulness. In the meantime, it looks as if she’s got a day to herself. Of course we can, she replies. Hope you feel better soon. X
She’ll miss her feisty travelling companion, she reflects, but the chat can keep until tomorrow. And at least this way she doesn’t have to listen to any more bloody Bach in the car.
She’s about to drag herself out of bed and into the shower when she remembers she hasn’t yet replied to her grandad. Reading the message again, she frowns. Gramps’ dementia means he sometimes gets muddled up, but she can’t help wondering what he meant about Felix. Nobody in the family has ever said a bad word about him, to her knowledge. Why is Gramps calling him a creep? she wonders. And who the hell is Jackie?
Thanks, Gramps, she types . Having a lovely time. Drove all over the island yesterday seeing the sights– photos attached!
Then she hesitates. How does she ask what she wants to ask? She knows that sometimes her mum reads Gramps his messages aloud when she pops in to see him; the last thing Miranda wants is for Tracey to see a message that could be construed as stirring the pot. But if Gramps knows something, then she damn well wants to find it out. PS Who’s Jackie? she writes in the end, and presses Send before she can change her mind.