by Jill Mansell
Another pause, a longer one this time.
‘Hang a left,’ said Miles. ‘We’ll go to my place. Miranda wouldn’t let me jump into the shower at hers.’
‘That’s because you wanted to jump in with me.’
‘Save water, shower with a friend, that’s what I always say.’ Miles thought for a second. ‘So long as it’s a female friend. Wouldn’t catch me sharing a shower with Johnnie boy here. Hairy backs.’ He shook his head. ‘Always a bit of a turn-off.’
‘That’s the other reason I wouldn’t let you in,’ Miranda told him. ‘So you wouldn’t see mine.’
***
Miles’s flat was on the ground floor of a four-storey Edwardian house just off the King’s Road. In the living room the walls were chestnut-brown and hung with framed prints of Formula One cars old and new. The highly polished wooden floor was strewn with multicolored rugs. Miranda was relieved to see that Miles didn’t go in for putting photographs of himself on display.
The sofa, in burnt-orange soft leather, was Olympic-sized, as were the TV, the hi-fi and the bookcase housing every motor-racing book known to man.
‘Very tidy.’ She nodded at the stacks of magazines in serried piles beneath the glossy walnut coffee table.
‘Only because my cleaner’s been in.’ Amused by her evident astonishment, Miles pulled his white sweatshirt up over his head. ‘My turn for a shower. Johnnie will get you a drink. Unless you’d rather keep me company in the bathroom, stop me getting lonely…?’
‘Johnnie can get me a drink.’ Miranda bounced on to the sofa, which was impressively squashy. ‘Gosh, you could sleep on this thing.’
‘You can do all sorts on it.’ Miles winked as he headed for the bathroom. ‘But don’t try anything too exotic before I get back.’
‘Can I have a look around while you’re gone?’
‘Feel free, snoop all you like. Nothing embarrassing in my drawers,’ said Miles. ‘No ancient knickers with pictures of pretty-boy pop stars on them in this flat.’
Miranda hurled a cushion at him. Laughing, he exited, singing, ‘When, will I, will I be famous?’ in a breathless falsetto.
It was no good, some things were just too humiliating to hang on to. Those pants were going to have to go.
In the kitchen Johnnie was wrestling with a bottle of Pinot Noir and a hi-tech corkscrew. Her stomach by this time growling with hunger, Miranda admired the range of nifty appliances on show, then peered into a few cupboards.
‘This kitchen is all mouth and no trousers,’ she announced. ‘There’s no food.’
‘Plenty to drink though.’ Johnnie showed her the fridge, stacked with lager, vodka, champagne and fruit juice. ‘We’re lads,’ he added defensively. ‘We eat out. Real men don’t cook.’
‘I’ll tell Gordon Ramsey you said that. He’ll come round and beat you up.’ Miranda held out a glass and watched him pour. ‘The last time I saw you, you were practically naked and covered with bits of watermelon.’
‘I hope you also noticed that I don’t have a hairy back,’ said Johnnie.
Following him through to the living room, she threw herself back down on the sofa.
‘So who set you up with Alice?’
‘Hmm?’ Johnnie had his back to her. He was busy with the midi system, pressing buttons and flicking through a pile of CDs.
‘Okay, put it this way,’ said Miranda. ‘Did you answer her ad or did she answer yours?’
Chapter 44
Miranda watched the back of Johnnie’s neck flush brick-red. Finally he turned round.
‘Bloody Miles, I told him not to say anything.’
‘He didn’t. I worked it out. Basically, because nobody who knew the two of you would ever try and fix you up. Plus,’ said Miranda, feeling quite Sherlock Holmes-ish, ‘the reason you didn’t give her a lift home was because you don’t know where she lives.’
Johnnie sighed and pushed a CD into the machine. He came and sat down next to her.
‘Don’t laugh at me, right? It isn’t easy being Miles Harper’s best mate. When we go out on the town, girls don’t tend to look at the two of us together and say, “Cor, I fancy the fat ugly one.”’
He said it jokily, but the expression in his grey eyes was bleak.
‘You’re not fat!’ protested Miranda. Hurriedly she added, ‘Not ugly either.’
‘Compared with Miles I am. Oh, what the hell.’ Johnnie shook his head, clearly regretting his moment of weakness. ‘It’s not as if I’m desperate to settle down anyway. Plenty of time for that when I’m old and knackered. I was drunk when I answered the ad.’ He looked rueful. ‘I suppose everyone cheats like crazy, but Alice did make herself sound terrific on paper. No mention of the fact that she had a laugh like a baboon and all the charisma of a severed foot—good grief, what is that?’
He stared at Miranda in astonishment. Her tummy, rumbling like a brick-filled concrete mixer, obligingly did it again.
‘It’s all right for you.’ About to give his protruding stomach a prod, Miranda stopped herself in the nick of time. ‘You’ve eaten already. But it’s six hours since my last ice cream and I’m practically on my knees here.’
‘There’s a really good Chinese round the corner,’ said Johnnie. ‘Tell me what you want and I’ll pick up takeout.’
Miranda, who liked to scrutinize every item on the menu—otherwise who knew what you might miss?—leapt up.
‘I’ll come with you. Got a pen?’
***
When they returned, Miles was lying across the sofa watching the highlights from Wimbledon and frowning over the crossword in the Evening Standard. He held up Miranda’s note and read aloud: ‘“Dear Miles, I have left you and run off with your much better-looking friend. Love, Miranda. PS Where do you keep your chopsticks?”’
She plonked a red-hot carrier bag into his lap.
‘You can’t expect to impress a girl with an empty fridge, you know. We need more than ice cream to keep us going.’
‘I was about to take you to Orsini’s,’ Miles protested. ‘A romantic dinner for two, lobster and champagne—’
‘Too late, we’ve got mushroom dim sum and teriyaki chicken instead. And we aren’t going anywhere,’ said Miranda. ‘Johnnie and I are playing Trivial Pursuit.’ Leaning over, she pulled a prawn cracker out of the bag and crunched it with relish. ‘You can join in if you like.’
***
Johnnie had finally left at one o’clock.
‘What are you doing?’ Miles looked perplexed.
Miranda, who was on her knees hunting under the sofa for her shoes, located them at last.
‘Going home.’
‘Can’t you stay?’
‘No, it’s been a long day.’
‘It’s been a long date.’ Miles pulled her up on to the sofa next to him. ‘A thirty-one-hour date. I’ve known marriages shorter than that.’
‘I still have to go home.’ Help, now he was tickling the back of her neck. Suppressing a quiver of lust, Miranda willed herself to be strong. ‘Could you call me a cab?’
He took her copper pig out of his shirt pocket and turned it over in his hand, his expression doubtful.
‘Are you sure this is a lucky pig? He doesn’t seem to be doing me any favors.’
‘You’ve only just met him,’ said Miranda. ‘Give him time to get to know you.’
‘I’ve only just met you.’ Miles half smiled. ‘Properly, anyway. But I already know how much I like you.’
Oh dear, this was more than she could cope with. Desperate to make him laugh, Miranda held up one hand, her thumb and forefinger three-quarters of an inch apart.
‘This much?’
Miles raised an eyebrow.
‘You still think I’m joking. And I’m not.’
�
��I don’t think you’re joking. I think you’re just trying it on.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Where does this come from?’ parried Miranda. ‘The Miles Harper Seduction Manual? Chapter Six: How to Convince Gullible Girlies that This Time It’s For Real?’
Miles sat back and heaved a sigh.
‘You have no idea how frustrating this is. When I don’t give a toss about a girl, you can guarantee she’ll leap into bed faster than you can say Murray Walker. But when I meet someone I really like…’ He threw up his hands in defeat.
‘Chapter Eight,’ Miranda recited, pulling on her shoes. ‘How to Play the Wounded Soldier: Going For the Sympathy Vote.’ She rolled her eyes soulfully. ‘Next, you’ll be telling me you’re impotent.’
He raked back his hair. ‘You really won’t stay, will you?’
‘No.’ Feeling proud of herself, Miranda stood up. ‘Now, are you going to phone that cab for me or not?’
‘Phone that cab?’ Miles parodied her brisk tone. ‘No, I won’t.’ He paused, then broke into a broad smile. ‘I’m giving you a lift home.’
***
It was twenty to two in the morning when he turned the corner into Tredegar Gardens and pulled up outside Florence’s house.
Nobody up, thought Miranda, to peer out of their windows and see me, in a silver Porsche, getting a goodnight kiss from Miles Harper.
Nobody in the entire street, dammit.
Honestly, what was the matter with the people in this neighborhood?
‘Can I see you tomorrow night?’ As Miles spoke, his mouth lingered over hers.
Daisy isn’t due back until Friday, Miranda reminded herself. He’s at a loose end. I’m a stopgap, that’s all.
Oh, but when they were together she really didn’t feel like a stopgap.
And if she said no, what would she do instead? Watch EastEnders? Flick through old copies of Hello! drawing warts and moustaches on photographs of Daisy Schofield? Clear out her underwear drawer so that the next time she managed to lure a drop-dead-gorgeous racing driver into her bedroom he wouldn’t be able to tease her about her less-than-stylish back catalogue of knickers?
Frankly it wasn’t much of a contest.
In the semi-darkness Miranda nodded.
‘Okay.’
‘No Johnnie this time,’ Miles promised. ‘Just the two of us.’
‘No sex either,’ she reminded him.
His warm mouth brushed her cheek. ‘Why are you being so cruel to me?’
Miranda knew why. It was to make up for the fact that she had offered herself to Danny Delancey—well, pretty much hurled herself at him—and been turned down. This was an attempt at restoring her shattered dignity, proving to herself that she really wasn’t some sad, pitiful character so desperate for sex she was reduced to begging for it.
That was the difference between men and women, Miranda realized. She cringed every time she recalled that excruciating scene in Danny’s car, when she had pleaded with him—extremely loudly—to make love to her. Yet men, who spent practically their entire lives trying it on, simply shrugged and laughed when their efforts were rebuffed. Okay, so it hadn’t worked, but at least they’d given it their best shot.
Would it even occur to them to cringe?
Of course not.
Life is so unfair, thought Miranda.
‘I’m not being cruel.’ She gave Miles a consoling pat on the leg. ‘You’re just too ugly for me.’
He laughed, picking up her hand and kissing it.
‘Remind me again. Why is it I like you so much?’
‘I’m just an all-round lovely person,’ said Miranda.
***
‘Don’t forget what I told you,’ Bev said bossily the next morning when she had expertly dragged every last detail of the date out of Miranda. ‘He’s only playing around while Daisy’s off the scene. It’s not serious, you do know that, don’t you?’
Bev was starting to sound like a stuck record. It was like being lectured by a teacher—deep down, you knew they were right, but it was still deeply irritating having to sit and hear them out. Particularly when what they were telling you was that, basically, you had about as much chance with Miles Harper as Dot Cotton did with Brad Pitt.
Keen to get off the subject, Miranda said, ‘You’ve got a run in your tights.’
‘Oh damn!’ Bev, who never went anywhere without a spare pair of Donna Karans, reached for her bag. ‘I’ll have to go and change.’ Hooray! ‘Just so long as you don’t sleep with him, okay?’
‘I’m not going to.’ The words came out through gritted teeth.
‘Are you seeing him again?’
‘No.’ Miranda prayed her nose hadn’t just grown an inch longer.
Bev nodded, pleased to be proved right. Miles Harper was evidently bored with her already.
‘Well, it’s for the best. If you don’t get involved, you can’t get hurt, can you?’
Too late for that, thought Miranda. Aloud, dutifully, she said, ‘No.’
Bev hesitated. ‘What’s his friend like anyway?’
Oh, for heaven’s sake, did the girl never stop? Miranda tried hard to imagine Bev and Johnnie—the ultimate lad’s lad—together. It would be even more of a disaster than his blind date with poor droopy Alice.
Bev was looking hopeful.
Miranda shook her head.
‘Definitely not your type.’
***
When she arrived at Miles’s flat at seven o’clock Miranda spotted a photographer lurking on the pavement outside. Following Miles’s instructions, she strolled past his house, turned left into Percival Mews, hopped over his neighbor’s wall, made her way across their back garden and jumped over another wall on to Miles’s patio.
He opened the French windows, stripped to the waist and laughing, and drew her swiftly inside.
‘All this subterfuge and we aren’t even sleeping together.’
‘I feel so sleazy,’ Miranda protested.
‘Sounds promising.’ Miles surveyed her with amusement. ‘Is that an invitation?’
‘No, and your phone’s ringing.’
She tried not to listen to him on the phone, but it was horribly obvious who was on the other end.
Oh God, what am I doing here? Miranda closed her eyes. Why am I such a masochist?
‘That was Daisy,’ said Miles.
‘I guessed.’ She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans in don’t-care fashion.
‘She’s flying back tomorrow night. I have to meet her at Heathrow at eight. And wear something decent,’ he added wryly, ‘because her agent’s arranged for a few photographers to be there, to witness our touching reunion.’
Please, please, thought Miranda, don’t ask me to iron one of your shirts.
‘You don’t mind staying in this evening, do you?’ said Miles.
‘Why?’ Miranda raised her eyebrows. ‘Where are you going?’
He smiled and led her through to the kitchen.
‘I thought I might stay in too, if that’s okay with you. Quality time together, with no interruptions. Besides, my team manager gets twitchy if he sees pictures in the press of me gallivanting round town when I should be taking it easy, preparing for the next race.’
‘I don’t suppose Daisy would be too thrilled either.’
‘Sshh, I don’t want to talk about Daisy now. Anyway,’ Miles’s mouth twitched, ‘I’ve got something to show you that I think you might like.’
‘And I’ve already told you, I don’t want to see it.’
But when he pulled open the fridge door with a flourish, Miranda had to admit that she was impressed.
‘This is good. Very good.’
‘Last night you cast aspersions on my kitc
hen. You said some extremely hurtful things about this fridge.’ Miles gave the top a consoling pat. ‘When I came in here this morning it was very upset, let me tell you. It cried out, “Use me! Fill me! I can hold food, I know I can!”’
Miranda gazed at the dozens of packs of Marks & Spencer ready meals, the wicked selection of puddings, the exotic fruits and cheeses…
‘I bought it all myself,’ Miles told her. ‘Wheeled the trolley up and down the aisles, did the conveyor belt thing at the checkout, stuffed everything into bags, the works.’ He looked proud. ‘I didn’t know what you’d like, so I…’
‘Bought the lot,’ Miranda marveled, ‘by the look of it.’
‘I’m just desperate to impress you. I’ve never filled my fridge for anyone else, you know.’ He gave her a soulful look. ‘It must be love.’
Luckily, she was starving.
‘Oh dear, I just wish you’d told me earlier,’ she teased him. ‘I’d never have had those two Big Macs.’
Chapter 45
Miles dropped her back at Tredegar Gardens at midnight. Switching off the ignition, he turned in his seat to face her.
‘I’ve decided I’m going to convince you I’m serious.’
‘Really?’ Miranda looked interested. ‘How? More snogging and smutty talk? Chapter Eleven: When All Else Fails, Beg?’
Miles calmly ignored this.
‘I know what your problem is.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Miranda. ‘Chapter Twelve: Tell Her She’s Frigid.’
Miles took her perspiring hands in his before she had a chance to wipe them on her jeans.
‘Your problem is Daisy.’ He paused. ‘You think I only want you as my bit on the side.’
‘I d-don’t think that at all,’ squeaked Miranda.
I do, I do!
‘So if I finish with Daisy, will that convince you that I’m serious?’
Oh, good grief, steady on a minute. Deep breaths, deep breaths.
‘You’re panting,’ Miles observed. ‘Wouldn’t be with lust, by any chance?’
‘You don’t mean this.’ Miranda was floundering, hopelessly out of her depth. He couldn’t mean it, surely. It was just another ploy, like married men promising their mistresses they’d leave their wives.