by Jill Mansell
‘If you can’t stand queuing,’ Miranda licked her fingers with relish, ‘you must be hating every second of this.’
‘If I was hating every second of this, I wouldn’t be here.’ Miles leaned back on his elbows, watching her with amusement. ‘In a tent the size and temperature of your average microwave. On a rock-hard pavement. Outside the All England Lawn Tennis Club, waiting for the gates to open with a girl who dyes her hair purple and green and won’t even let me join my sleeping bag to hers in case we accidentally have altento sex in the night, and who snores like a train—’
‘Oh God! Did I really snore?’ Mortified, Miranda clapped her hands over her eyes.
‘Ha, got you worried.’ He grinned and shook his head. ‘And no, I’m not hating every second. I’m loving it.’
Breakfast over, Miles donned his disguise once more and together they dismantled the tent. Miranda didn’t tell him that the only reason she hadn’t let him zip their sleeping bags together was because there was such a thing as too much temptation. Not on his side, on hers.
‘Can’t imagine Daisy doing this,’ Miles murmured when their overnight kit had been stuffed into bags.
Miranda, who did it every year, said, ‘She doesn’t know what she’s missing.’
He ran his fingers through her spiky purple and green hair.
‘Does this wash out?’
Quivering beneath his touch—heavens, and that was only her hair!—Miranda nodded. ‘I don’t suppose Daisy would do that either.’
‘She would,’ Miles’s mouth curled up at the corners, ‘if it was for the cover of Vogue.’ Idly, he took her hand, inspecting her short purple and green nails. ‘When you come to watch me race, will you do this for me?’
His team colors were orange and yellow ochre. For a dizzy millisecond Miranda pictured herself decked out like a satsuma, leaping up and down and cheering Miles on from the stand as he tore round the track at ten thousand miles an hour. Then she pictured Daisy, in a really short skirt, throwing her arms around him on the winner’s rostrum, flicking back her blonde hair and flashing her dazzling smile for the photographers…
‘We’re talking weeks away.’ Miranda kept her tone flippant. ‘You’ll be tired of slumming it by then.’
Miles tilted her face round to his. He lowered his dark glasses for a second.
‘I might not be.’
Oh dear, it wasn’t easy trying to be realistic when you were on the receiving end of that emerald-green gaze.
‘Okay,’ Miranda managed finally. ‘I might be bored with you.’
‘What if you’re not?’ He paused. ‘Is that what you think I’m doing? Slumming it?’
‘Look, it doesn’t matter, I’m not expecting anything to—’
‘Sshh.’ Miles pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. ‘I don’t want to hear this.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, don’t be such a pessimist. You never know, I could be a much nicer person than you think.’
‘In that case, you’ll be quite safe,’ Miranda told him ruefully. ‘I only fall for men who are complete pigs.’
***
‘Come on, I know you’re bored,’ said Miles several hours later. ‘Let’s go.’
He reached for Miranda’s hand. Without looking at him, she pinched it, hard.
‘Six games all,’ announced the umpire. ‘Tie break. Ladies and gentlemen, quiet please.’
The atmosphere on Centre Court was electrifying. The no-hope young British player was having the game of his life against this year’s number one seed and Miranda’s nails were bitten down to her knuckles. Now, at two sets to one up, victory was within his grasp.
‘I love you, I want to marry you,’ whispered Miles, ‘I want you to be the mother of my children.’
‘Ssshhh!’
A fraught ten minutes later, the number one seed smashed the ball into the net and the Centre Court crowd erupted. A great roar went up and wild applause drowned out the umpire’s attempts to relay the final score. Tears of joy were pouring down the young British player’s face.
‘What a nancy,’ Miles complained, his tone scornful. ‘Won’t catch me doing that when I win the world championship.’
Miranda, leaping up and down and screaming with delight, cannoned into Miles and threw her arms around him.
‘Wasn’t that fantastic? Wasn’t he brilliant! Oh God, that was so…so…’
‘Almost as good as watching you.’ Grinning, Miles steadied her. She was still trembling all over, awash with adrenaline. ‘I thought you were going to jiggle right off your seat.’
‘Don’t make fun of me. I get excited.’ Miranda wiped her eyes. ‘Oh, bless him, look, he’s signing autographs for the ball-boys…’
‘You squeaked,’ Miles told her, ‘every time he hit the ball.’
‘…and he’s still crying…’
‘That’s because he knows he’s going to be knocked out in the next round.’
‘Heavens, the next round! Who’s he going to be playing?’ Feverishly Miranda scrabbled in her bag for her program. ‘Yikes, that massive Russian.’
‘Oh well, in that case he’s going to need all our support.’ Miles gave her a nudge. ‘You’ll have to sleep with me again.’
She heaved a sigh of regret.
‘I can’t.’
‘You can, I’ll get tickets for us.’
‘I mean, I’m not able to take another day off work. I’ve used up all my leave. And you can’t just buy tickets for the show courts.’ Kindly, Miranda explained the rules. ‘You either apply for them by ballot about a hundred years beforehand, or pitch a tent out on Church Road.’
‘Or become a racing driver,’ said Miles, ‘and mention to one of your sponsors that you wouldn’t mind a couple of Centre Court tickets for the men’s semi-finals.’
Miranda stared at him, realization slowly dawning.
‘You mean…what you’re telling me is we didn’t have to queue up overnight?’
Miles shrugged.
‘Of course we didn’t have to. But you kept insisting it was more fun. You said,’ he reminded her, ‘that sleeping on the pavement was the only way to do Wimbledon, that it made you appreciate the tennis all the more, that people who didn’t pitch a tent didn’t know what they were—ouch.’
Miranda thumped him again for good measure, because if he was laughing it meant she hadn’t hurt him enough.
‘I only said that because I’ve always had to sleep on the pavement,’ she wailed. ‘It’s called making the best of a situation. Because I’ve never’—thump—‘had any other’—thump—‘choice.’
‘Oh.’ Miles was still laughing and rubbing his arm. ‘Should have said.’
Miranda shook her head, marveling at his lack of intuition. Otherwise known as male-ness.
‘Should have known.’
‘But you were right. It was more fun.’
‘Only because you did have the choice.’
Miles nodded, put his arm around her indignant shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.
‘You’re right. I’m a thoughtless pig, and I’m sorry. Let me get tickets for the semis.’
Pride welled up.
‘I still can’t. Work.’
If Fenn could hear her now, Miranda thought, he’d be astounded.
‘The final, then.’ Miles hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t be able to make it, but you could bring a friend.’
Of course he wouldn’t be able to make it. Daisy would be back by Sunday. Feeling like a small child being placated with sweets so the grown-ups could go off and enjoy themselves, Miranda shook her head.
‘Don’t worry, I couldn’t make it on Sunday either.’
‘Tell you what. You cancel your arrangements and I’ll cancel mine.’
Oh yes, terrific idea.<
br />
‘Daisy wouldn’t be thrilled.’
‘What’s Daisy got to do with it?’ Miles grinned at her. ‘I’m racing at Silverstone.’
***
It was eight o’clock by the time they reached Tredegar Gardens. Expecting a goodbye peck on the cheek and a vague see-you-around, Miranda raised her eyebrows when Miles jumped out of the taxi with her and paid off the driver.
‘Are you Miles Harper?’ The cab driver peered at him suspiciously; with that Legionnaire’s hat and those dark wrap-around glasses it was impossible to tell, but on the journey back from Wimbledon he had definitely heard them talking about next Sunday’s Grand Prix.
‘Don’t I wish.’ Miles’s reply was cheerful. ‘I wouldn’t say no to his money.’
It wasn’t him. Disappointed, the driver said, ‘Not to mention the birds.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t do so badly.’ Miles grinned.
Miranda, hot and dusty and desperate for a shower though she was, thought indignantly that there was no need for the driver to look at her with quite such blatant disbelief.
‘It was the hair,’ Miles told her when the cab had moved off.
‘Why aren’t you going home?’
‘Friendly.’ He hauled the backpack containing their tent and sleeping bags on to his shoulder. ‘Because I’m not bored with you yet.’
‘I might be bored with you.’ Miranda’s tone was challenging.
His mouth twitched.
‘No you’re not.’
Chapter 43
Inside, the house was empty. So typical, thought Miranda. Where were Florence and Chloe when you were bursting to show off to them? It was like waking up on Christmas Eve, finding Father Christmas in your room and knowing that in the morning nobody was going to believe you.
‘Nice place.’ Miles gazed with pleasure around Florence’s bohemian sitting room.
Patting the back of the sofa, Miranda said encouragingly, ‘Sit down, put the TV on if you want. Give me ten minutes to shower and change, and we’ll be off.’
Miles didn’t sit down.
‘What’s your room like?’
Eek!
‘Messy. Very messy. This one’s much nicer.’
‘Don’t be so boring. I like messy rooms.’ His mouth twitched at the corners. ‘You can explore in them.’
There was clearly no stopping him; he was already heading up the stairs. Running after him, Miranda panted, ‘Better put on your Indiana Jones hat, then. And no snooping.’
Miles raised a teasing eyebrow as she pushed open the door to her room.
‘Not even in your knicker drawer?’
‘Especially not there!’
He grinned.
‘Is that where you keep all your old love letters?’
‘Actually it’s where I keep my knickers.’
And pretty old some of them were, too. The thought of Miles Harper having a good rummage and dragging out her precious I Love Bros pants with the pictures of Matt and Luke on the front wasn’t a relaxing one. If she wanted to enjoy her shower she was going to have to cart the whole drawer into the bathroom with her.
‘I won’t snoop,’ promised Miles. ‘How about a look at your CD collection—would that be safe?’
Actually, not very. Matt and Luke featured in there too. Really wishing she had more glamorous taste in music—a bit of Ella Fitzgerald here, a dash of Shostakovich there—Miranda shrugged and said, ‘All right.’
At least she couldn’t be charged with possession of the dreaded Celine Dion tape; that was safely back with Bev.
But when she reemerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later with her hair back to its normal—well, relatively normal—color and her crocus-yellow Lycra dress clinging to her still-damp skin, she found Miles inspecting the contents of the blue glass bowl on top of her chest of drawers.
Oh well, could be worse; he could have been lying naked in bed…no, no, mustn’t even think those kind of thoughts—
‘I’m in love,’ said Miles.
Not with Bros, surely.
Miranda braced herself, then saw what he was holding.
‘That’s my lucky pig.’
‘How do you know he’s lucky?’
‘I tucked him into my bra before my math GCSE exam.’
He sounded impressed. ‘And you passed?’
‘God, no, failed miserably.’
Miles shook his head, mystified.
‘So why was that lucky?’
‘My math teacher suggested I gave a career in nuclear physics a miss and went into hairdressing instead.’
He laughed.
‘Two hours inside your bra, you say? Can’t get much luckier than that. Definitely a pig after my own heart. Can I borrow him for next Sunday’s race?’
‘For luck?’ Miranda hesitated. ‘You want to tuck him inside your bra? Won’t he ruin the line of your Teflon fireproof suit?’
‘You don’t want me to have him.’ Sensing reluctance, Miles dropped the pig back into the bowl.
Miranda wavered. She loved her copper pig.
‘No, no, you take him.’ She nodded to show she meant it. ‘Just don’t blame me if you don’t win. It could be his way of telling you to become a mechanic instead.’
***
‘Where are we going?’ said Miranda as their cab bowled through the back streets of Putney.
‘To the rescue. I’m the Lone Ranger, you’re Tonto.’
‘Where’s Silver, stuck down a canyon?’
‘I promised Johnnie we’d meet him. Tricky first-date scenario,’ Miles murmured and lowered his voice. ‘If he starts talking about star signs, it means the girl’s a disaster and we have to get him out of there.’
Miranda frowned.
‘If she’s a disaster, why did he invite her out in the first place?’
‘Tonto, you’re on form. Okay,’ he admitted, ‘it’s more of a blind-date scenario. But don’t make a big thing of it—Johnnie’s never been on a blind date before and he’s sensitive about it.’
The restaurant was tucked away at the end of a narrow mews, safe from passing trade and the likelihood of Johnnie bumping into anyone he knew. The look of relief on his face when he saw Miles and Miranda told them all they needed to know, but just to be on the safe side he pumped her arm with enthusiasm and said, ‘Miranda, great to see you again! Hmm, good firm handshake. Pisces, am I right?’
‘Gemini.’ Gingerly Miranda retrieved her mangled hand. ‘Intelligent, beautiful, and excellent at falling into swimming pools with my clothes on.’
‘And this is Alice. She’s Sagittarius.’ Johnnie rolled his eyes fractionally as he spoke but Alice didn’t notice. She was too busy braying with laughter at Miranda’s swimming pool remark.
‘That’s so funny! Well, Geminis are funny, aren’t they? Did you just make that up or did you copy it from someone on TV?’
‘Um…’
Alice beamed at Miles. ‘I heard a really funny joke on The Generation Game once. I wrote it down and told the other girls at work.’ She leaned forward, her pale-blue eyes bulging. ‘And guess what? It was awful, they didn’t laugh at all! I felt like writing to Jim Davidson to complain!’
Behind them, a waiter hovered eagerly. Miranda couldn’t decide who she felt sorrier for, Johnnie or poor honking Alice.
With an edge of desperation in his voice, Johnnie said, ‘I wonder what Jim Davidson’s star sign is?’
‘I just can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to Miles Harper the racing driver,’ Alice squealed. ‘This is such a thrill…wait till I tell the girls in my office, they’ll just die!’
‘Hadn’t you better tell Johnnie why we’re here?’ prompted Miranda, because Miles was clearly starting to enjoy the awfulness of
the occasion.
‘What? Oh, no hurry, that can wait. So Alice, did you crochet that amazing waistcoat yourself?’
Johnnie looked as if he’d quite like to bring a dinner plate crashing down on Miles’s head. If you couldn’t trust the Lone Ranger to get you out of trouble, who could you trust?
Tonto rode valiantly to the rescue.
‘It can’t wait.’ Miranda’s voice was firm. ‘I’m sorry, but your godmother phoned up twenty minutes ago,’ she told Johnnie. ‘It seems she’s had a bit of a mishap with a pair of handcuffs and somehow managed to get herself manacled to her Nautilus machine. She needs you to sort things out. Apparently you’re the only one with a spare key.’
***
A disappointed—but understanding—Alice was dropped off outside Parson’s Green tube station. Miranda winced with sympathy as she heard Johnnie, outside the car, awkwardly mumbling his way through the it’s-been-great-and-I’ll-ring-you routine.
‘Yes, but when?’ Eagerly Alice clutched at his arm. ‘Tomorrow morning, tomorrow evening?’
‘That was a nightmare,’ Johnnie groaned, collapsing back into the driver’s seat. As they sped away, he lit a cigarette. ‘And you were no bloody help, you pillock.’
‘She’s still waving.’ Miranda peered over her shoulder at the sad, droopy-hemmed outline of the figure on the pavement. Since nobody else was going to, she waved back.
‘We turned up, didn’t we?’ Miles grinned. ‘I knew she’d crocheted that waistcoat. Jesus, you won’t be doing that again in a hurry.’
‘Isn’t this a bit mean, dropping her at the tube?’ complained Miranda. ‘Couldn’t you at least have given her a lift home?’
‘My godmother’s handcuffed to her Nautilus machine. No time to lose,’ said Johnnie, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Thanks, by the way,’ he told Miranda. ‘If it hadn’t been for you we’d still be there, discussing crochet stitches and bloody horoscopes.’
‘Who set you up?’ Miranda marveled. ‘I mean, I don’t get it. Which of your friends seriously thought you two lovely young people would get on like a house on fire?’