Chapter Fifty
Miranda
‘Settle into a comfortable position and close your eyes,’ Tatiana the yoga instructor says, quietly closing the blinds so that the sunlight pouring through the windows of the fitness studio is temporarily dimmed. ‘Let your breathing slow, let your mind become empty.’
It’s Tuesday morning, sixteen hours since Imogen’s flight landed and the sisters were reunited. Miranda can’t remember a hug that has ever lasted longer than the one they shared in the arrivals area. It was the sort of hug that began tentatively, perhaps with the mutual acknowledgement of Things have been shit, haven’t they, before tightening to incorporate the sentiment of, I’ve missed you so much. God, it had felt good; a real homecoming of a hug– right until the moment they drew apart and Imogen burst into tears anyway. ‘My marriage is over,’ she had sobbed, standing there in the echoing barn-like space of the airport, while irritated passengers swerved enormous brightly coloured suitcases around them. ‘And Ireally, really loved him.’
Miranda had held her sister and rubbed her back, saying, ‘Iknow you did’ and ‘You’ll get through this’ and ‘You’re going to be okay’.They’d eventually made it into a taxi for the hotel, where Miranda ordered them both room service and wine, there was a lot more crying and hugging, and then Imogen fell asleep for ten hours straight.
This morning, the two of them have come to a yoga class in the hotel’s cool airy fitness studio, Imogen’s suggestion. So far, they’ve both given it their all throughout the sun salutations, warrior poses and grim-faced balances, but now they’re lying down in savasana, which is always Miranda’s favourite bit. Later on, she’s booked them facials and massages at the spa, then they might get in the car and go sightseeing. Alternatively, they might lie by the pool and soak up some rays. It’s Imogen’s call. Miranda wants her sister to find peace here, as she has done. To get away from everything.
Ting! Ting! At the front of the class, Tatiana is gently clinking two little brass cymbals together and telling everyone to wiggle their fingers and toes, open their eyes and move, slowly, slowly, back into a seated position.
‘Thank you very much,’ she says, once they’ve all intoned, ‘Namaste’ and the class is over. She has the body of an Olympian in a bright pink Lycra bralet and shorts, with her long black hair swept back in a ponytail. ‘ Efcharisto . Hold on to the peace and serenity you have felt just now for as long as you can. Be grateful to your bodies for what they have done for you. Have a wonderful day.’
Miranda and Imogen smile at one another as they wipe down their yoga mats and return them to the pile at the back of the room. ‘Ineeded that,’ Imogen says. ‘Can we do the same tomorrow, do you think?’
‘Of course we can,’ Miranda replies. ‘Hey, and I’ll take you paddleboarding too, one day, now that I’m such an expert. You’ll love it.’
Before Imogen can answer, a middle-aged woman has appeared in front of them. ‘Sorry to intrude,’ she says. ‘But. . . Are you Miranda Vallance?’
Miranda’s serenity starts to dissipate immediately. She isn’t wearing one of her wigs today, having imagined the embarrassment of it falling off during a downward dog pose, and she tucks a strand of her own hair behind one ear self-consciously. ‘Um, yes,’ she says guardedly.
Imogen cuts in, stepping forward so that she’s marginally in front of Miranda, like a human shield. ‘She is, but she’s on holiday, so. . .’ she says protectively, eyeing up the woman as if considering taking her down.
‘Sorry– you’re quite right, and you’re probably sick of nosey parkers like me,’ the woman replies, flushing and moving back. She’s tall and dark-haired, a snake tattoo coiling around one arm. ‘Just to say, Ilove Amberly Emergency , and Ithink you’re really great in it. And I’m sorry that you’ve been so hounded lately. Including by me, right now.’ She pulls an awkward face. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbles again.
‘It’s fine,’ Miranda tells her. ‘That’s very nice of you. Iappreciate it.’ Gosh, check her out, being so magnanimous, she reflects, feeling amused. Perhaps it’s because she won’t have to put up with the dazzle of the spotlight for much longer, she thinks, as she and Imogen head back to the room to shower and change. Yesterday, while she was waiting for Imogen’s plane to land, she had a call from Helen saying that the Amberley team were extremely sorry about what had happened, and, under the circumstances, they would be happy to have Miranda return to the show as soon as was convenient.
In reply, Miranda had taken a deep breath, and then said, that was nice of them but she’d decided to leave anyway. ‘The break has made me realise that I’d rather do something different,’ she told Helen. ‘Maybe go back to the theatre for a while.’
‘That was gutsy of you,’ Imogen had commented when she mentioned it over dinner last night. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ Miranda said, knowing it was the right decision. The money won’t be as good, nor will the certainty of having a role in a long-running series, but she’s looking forward to that particular rush of adrenalin that comes from walking out onto a stage again. Playing to an audience every night, being there in the moment, fully alive. She can’t wait.
She loops an arm through Imogen’s as they walk towards the accommodation block. ‘May Ijust remind you,’ she says in a low voice, ‘that you are in charge of a two-tonne killing machine: your butthole. Iheard that downward dog fart in yoga, lady, and don’t even think about denying it.’
Imogen bursts out laughing. ‘That was not me,’ she protests. ‘It wasn’t! That was probably your weird super-fan having some kind of orgasm over you.’
‘Denial is a dreadful thing, Imogen,’ Miranda teases, holding on to her sister a little tighter as Imogen tries to wrestle her arm away and push her. ‘A dreadful, dreadful thing.’
Oh, but it’s so nice, being under the warm Greek sunshine, having a stupid play-fight with her sister again, after the bad times they’ve both gone through. She finds herself thinking of the two little girls on the beach in Assos, the bigger one hauling up the little one, the two of them holding hands as they rushed back to the safety of the sand. She’ll always be your sister, she remembers Gramps saying in his text, and joy overwhelms her. Thank God, she thinks. Thank God for that.