They’re both breathing hard. His cheeks are red. His mouth is redder. Miranda wonders if she looks as crazed as he looks.
“You’re shivering,” he says.
“Of course I’m shivering! It’s freezing out here! And you won’t come inside. Because,” Miranda says, panting, shivering, all of her vibrating with cold and with want, want, want, “it’s against the rules!”
Fenny nods. Looks at her lips, licks his own. Jerks back, though, when Miranda tries to kiss him again. She’s tempted to pick up a handful of wet snow and smush it into his Honeywell face.
“Fine, fine! You stay right here. Don’t move. Not even a inch, understand? I’ll get the keys to the Tiger,” she says. “Unless it’s against the rules to sit in old cars.”
“All of this is against the rules,” Fenny says. But he nods. Maybe, she thinks, she can get him in the car and just drive away with him. Maybe that would work.
“I mean it,” Miranda says. “Don’t you dare go anywhere.”
He nods. She kisses him, punishingly, lingeringly, desperately, then takes off in a run for the kitchen. Her fingers are so cold she can’t get the door open at first. She grabs her coat, the keys to the Tiger, and then, on impulse, cuts off a hunk of the inviolate Christmas cake. Well, if Elspeth says anything, she’ll tell her the whole story.
Then she’s out the door again. Says the worst words she knows when she sees that the snow has stopped. There is the snow-blotted blanket, the joint, and the Mars-bar wrapper.
She leaves the Christmas cake on the window ledge. Maybe the birds will eat it.
* * *
Daniel is still asleep on the couch. She wakes him up. “Merry Christmas,” she says. “Good morning.” She gives him his present. She’s made him a shirt. Egyptian cotton, gray-blue to match his eyes. But of course it won’t fit. He’s already outgrown it.
* * *
Daniel catches her under the mistletoe when it’s past time for bed, Christmas night and no one wants to go to sleep yet, everyone tipsy and loose and picking fights about things they don’t care about. For the sheer pleasure of picking fights. He kisses Miranda. She lets him.
It’s sort of a present for Elspeth, Miranda rationalizes. It’s sort of because she knows it’s ridiculous, not kissing Daniel, just because she wants to be kissing someone else instead. Especially when the person she wants to be kissing isn’t really a real person at all. At least not most of the time.
Besides, he’s wearing the shirt Miranda made for him, even though it doesn’t fit.
In the morning, Daniel is too hungover to drive her down to the village to catch the bus. Elspeth takes her instead. Elspeth is wearing a vintage suit, puce gabardine, trimmed with sable, something Miranda itches to take apart, just to see how it’s made. What a tiny waist she has.
Elspeth says, “You know he’s in love with you.”
“He’s not,” Miranda says. “He loves me, but he’s not in love with me. I love him, but I’m not in love with him.”
“If you say so,” Elspeth says. Her tone is cool. “Although I can’t help being curious how you’ve come to know so much about love, Miranda, at your tender age.”
Miranda flushes.
“You know you can talk to me,” Elspeth says. “You can talk to me whenever you want to. Whenever you need to. Darling Miranda. There’s a boy, isn’t there? Not Daniel. Poor Daniel.”
“There’s nobody,” Miranda says. “Really. There’s nobody. It’s nothing. I’m just a bit sad because I have to go home again. It was such a lovely Christmas.”
“Such lovely snow!” Elspeth says. “Too bad it never lasts.”
* * *
Daniel comes to visit in the spring. Two months after Christmas. Miranda isn’t expecting him. He shows up at the door with a bouquet of roses. Miranda’s aunt’s eyebrows go almost up to her hairline. “I’ll make tea,” she says, and scurries off. “And we’ll need a vase for those.”
Miranda takes the roses from Daniel. Says, “Daniel! What are you doing here?”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Daniel says.
“Avoiding you? We don’t live in the same place,” Miranda says. “I wasn’t even sure you knew where I lived.” She can hardly stand to have him here, standing in the spotless foyer of her aunt’s semidetached bungalow.
“You know what I mean, Miranda. You’re never online,” he says. “And when you are, you never want to chat. You never text me back. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No,” she says. Grabs her bag.
“Don’t bother with the tea, Aunt Dora,” she says loudly, “We’re going out.”
She yanks at Daniel’s hand, extracts him violently from her life, her real life. If only.
She speed walks him past the tract houses with their small, white-stone frontages, all the way to the dreary, dingy, Midlands-typical High Street. Daniel trailing behind her. It’s a long walk, and she has no idea what to say to him. He doesn’t seem to know what to say, either.
Her dress is experimental, nothing she’s ever intended to wear out. She hasn’t yet brushed her hair today. It’s the weekend. She was planning to stay in and study. How dare he show up.
There’s a teashop where the scones and the sandwiches are particularly foul. She takes him there, and they sit down. Order.
“I should have let you know I was coming,” Daniel says.
“Yes,” Miranda says. “Then I could have told you not to.”
He tries to take her hand. “Mirandy,” he says. “I think about you all the time. About us. I think about us.”
“Don’t,” she says. “Stop!”
“I can’t,” he says. “I like you. Very much. Don’t you like me?”
It’s a horrible conversation. Like stepping on a baby mouse. A baby mouse who happens to be your friend. It doesn’t help that Miranda knows how unfair she’s being. She shouldn’t be angry that he’s come here. He doesn’t know how she feels about this place. Just a few more months and she’ll be gone from here forever. It will never have existed.
They are both practically on the verge of tears by the time the scones come. Daniel takes one bite and then spits it out onto the plate.