Miranda's Big Mistake

by Jill Mansell

  Darling Girls,

  Have been whisked away by a wicked vicar with a fetish for old women in support tights. Gone to Edinburgh, back in a week. Don’t do anything too naughty while we’re away!

  Florence had a whole new lease on life since she started seeing Tom. And it was all thanks to Greg, thought Chloe, marveling at the sneaky tricks fate could play.

  She made herself a cup of tea, tore the wrapper off a Wagon Wheel and wandered through to the sitting room, dying to examine her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and admire her new, improved hair.

  Hooray, it still looked great. All day in the shop, customers had been complimenting her on the cut. Now, swinging her head this way and that—and watching the hair swing too—Chloe experienced a surge of gratitude towards Fenn. The 1960s Shetland pony look had gone for good; he had improved her beyond recognition and boosted her confidence no end.

  And she knew he loved Thai curries. Maybe if he wasn’t doing anything tomorrow afternoon she could make one for him as a way of saying thank you.

  Still busy swishing her hair from side to side, Chloe picked up the ringing phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I know you’re the one he’s been seeing,’ hissed a furious female voice, ‘but you’re not having him, okay? He’s not yours, he’s mine, all mine.’

  Click, brrr.

  Chapter 48

  Chloe had never been on the receiving end of an anonymous threatening phone call before. Shaken, she realized that someone had got completely the wrong idea about her friendship with Fenn. They were warning her off because they were jealous of the amount of time she and Fenn had been spending together…Good grief, how could they even think anything was going on between them?

  It was worrying and embarrassing at the same time.

  Dialing 1471 didn’t help. Predictably, all Chloe got was Number Withheld, which was frustrating because if she could have rung back whoever it was she would have been able to reassure them that there was absolutely nothing going on between her and Fenn.

  Glancing at her watch, Chloe headed upstairs. She had promised to babysit for Bruce and Verity tonight and they wanted her there by six. Since she would be staying overnight, she needed to shower, pack a change of clothes and leave her own note for Miranda.

  Chloe did this hurriedly, fifteen minutes later, without mentioning the phone call from one of Fenn’s disgruntled girlfriends. It was too complicated to explain in a note and she didn’t want Miranda to start winking and teasing her about the top-secret, red-hot, oh-so-passionate affair she must be having with Fenn.

  Anyone with an ounce of sense would know at once that there was nothing like that going on between them, Chloe thought ruefully, but it was an undeniable fact that she had been spending a fair amount of time recently with Fenn. And that, clearly, could be misconstrued.

  Maybe it was time to take a step backwards.

  Cancel the Harrods trip, for a start.

  And give that Thai curry a miss.

  Snatching up the red pen and the note she had already scribbled for Miranda, Chloe added:

  PS Visiting my mother tomorrow, straight from Bruce and Verity’s. Could you let Fenn know he’ll have to choose his own carpets.

  Pausing to read through the message and experiencing a strange pang, Chloe discovered that she had been looking forward to the shopping excursion more than she’d realized. She went hot all over at the thought that her hormones could be about to start running amok, that she might be developing some form of sad, pregnant-woman’s crush on the first man in months to show her a bit of kindness…

  Oh dear, all the more reason to put the brakes on, Chloe thought with a shudder of alarm. It simply hadn’t occurred to her before now that this had been on the cards. That anonymous caller had been absolutely spot-on after all.

  And thank heavens she did phone, Chloe breathed a sigh of relief, because at least now I know I have to keep my distance before it gets all out of control and embarrassing.

  Basically she had to stop seeing Fenn for her own protection.

  Gosh, anonymous caller, whoever you are…thanks.

  ***

  ‘Coming in for a quick drink?’ offered Miranda when Fenn dropped her home after work.

  Fenn said casually, ‘Okay.’

  But the house was empty.

  ‘Gone!’ Miranda held up the two messages like an indignant ice-skating judge. ‘Gone, both of them, and left me all alone. I ask you, how selfish and uncaring is that?’

  Fenn, who had spent the last couple of hours planning how he would invite Chloe out to dinner on the pretext of discussing…um, window boxes, said, ‘Actually, don’t worry about that drink. I should be getting back.’

  Never mind, at least he’d be seeing her tomorrow.

  ‘Hang on.’ Miranda was busy scanning the rest of Chloe’s note. ‘This bit’s for you.’ She waggled it under his nose with irritating cheerfulness. ‘Hey, looks like you’ve been stood up. Want me to come and help you pick out new carpets? Nothing with glitter, I promise.’

  ‘Good of you to offer, but actually glitter was what I’d set my heart on. So thanks, but no thanks.’ Fenn smiled his cool, detached, boss-like smile because he would rather walk barefoot over burning coals than let Mersey Tunnel-mouth Miranda get an inkling of how disappointed he was about Chloe.

  ***

  ‘Ah, good evening, I’m conducting a survey on behalf of a well-known women’s magazine—’

  ‘Are you really? How exciting,’ said Miranda.

  ‘—and I wonder if you could tell me which men, in your opinion, make the best lovers: (a) zoo-keepers; (b) quantity surveyors; or (c) Formula One racing drivers.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’d love to be able to help you,’ Miranda sighed, ‘but I’m afraid I’m a lesbian.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that was the wrong answer. The correct answer was (c), racing driver. And I’d be more than happy to prove it to you if—’

  ‘How did everything go?’ Miranda broke in hurriedly, before he got carried away.

  ‘Mission accomplished. The practice sessions went brilliantly.’ As modest as ever, Miles added, ‘Starting from pole position tomorrow. Would you like to hear my lap times?’

  ‘I meant Daisy.’ Miranda knew he was teasing her but she had to know.

  ‘Didn’t I just tell you that? Mission accomplished. She’s gone.’

  Oh my God, thought Miranda, her hands suddenly clammy with shock and relief. What have I done?

  There was a pause.

  ‘You’ve gone quiet,’ said Miles. ‘Changed your mind yet about being a lesbian?’

  ‘Was she upset?’

  ‘I really hope you aren’t thinking of dumping me and running off into the sunset with Daisy.’

  ‘I wasn’t actually expecting this to happen.’

  ‘Too late to back out now. I wish I could see you tonight.’ Miles sounded regretful. ‘But I’d never get any sleep and you’d play havoc with my reflexes. Are you coming up tomorrow, by the way?’

  ‘To watch you race? I don’t know.’ Without warning, Miranda’s stomach contracted. The idea of cheering Miles on from the stand was all very well in theory, but when it actually came to it, she didn’t know if she could bear to watch. This was motor racing, not tiddlywinks.

  It was dangerous.

  ‘I’ll drive carefully,’ said Miles. ‘Keep to the speed limit, follow the highway code, all that stuff, I promise.’

  ‘I still don’t think I can.’ Miranda braced herself, expecting him to call her a wimp. ‘Sorry.’

  There was another pause, then Miles said, ‘Don’t be. I’m quite flattered. As far as Daisy was concerned, watching me race was basically a photo-opportunity that was too good to miss.’

  His tone was dry. Miranda, who
had never told him what Daisy had said to her friend on the phone that day in the salon, wondered if he had known all along. As she spoke, a lump came into her throat. ‘Good luck for tomorrow, unless it’s unlucky to wish you luck.’

  Actors said break a leg, didn’t they? Maybe racing drivers said burst a tire.

  Miles sounded as if he was smiling.

  ‘Wish me as much luck as you like. And put the TV on tomorrow morning. I’ve got a pre-race interview lined up and I want you to see it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t argue,’ said Miles. ‘Just do it, okay?’

  ***

  Miranda was on her fourth bowl of Cheerios the next morning by the time the racing commentator’s interview with Miles took place. Sitting cross-legged on Florence’s sofa, she squealed and dribbled milk down her chin when she realized why he had been so keen for her to watch.

  Her copper pig was making his TV debut, attached to a narrow strip of leather and tied around Miles’s tanned neck. As he spoke, Miles idly unfastened the second button of his denim shirt and fiddled with the pig until finally the interviewer was forced to comment on it.

  ‘This?’ Miles grinned. ‘Oh, he’s a good-luck present from a close friend of mine.’

  The interviewer, who was as famous for his faux pas as for his high-octane commentary style, said eagerly, ‘And that’s the very lovely lady in your life, Australian actress Daisy Schofield, am I right?’

  ‘Actually, no, but I do have a message for the lovely lady in my life.’ His tone light, Miles smiled lazily into the camera. ‘And that is, when you meet the right person, you know it. That’s what happened to me and I—’

  ‘Well, that’s all we’ve got time for,’ bellowed the interviewer, clamping his hand excitedly to the side of his head in final-lap fashion. ‘I hear through my earpiece that your team manager is waiting to speak to you down in the pits, so for now, Miles Harper, and on behalf of the rest of the nation, may I wish you the very best of luck for this afternoon’s titanic race!’

  The cameras swiftly turned their attention to Miles’s great rival, an ugly Frenchman with a face like a walnut, and Miranda turned off both the TV and the VCR. Unable to watch the race, she wished she knew how she was going to get through the next few stomach-churning hours.

  She wished the commentator hadn’t stopped the interview just as things had been getting interesting.

  She really really wished he hadn’t used that word titanic.

  ***

  Halfway through cleaning the kitchen floor—blimey, that was when you knew you were desperate—the doorbell went.

  Wringing out her sponge and peeling the wet knees of her jeans away from her skin, Miranda went to answer it.

  ‘Oh no, not you again.’

  ‘That’s what I love about you, your unquenchable enthusiasm,’ said Danny. ‘Tell me, have you ever considered becoming a Samaritan?’

  ‘Have you ever considered becoming a stand-up comedian?’ Miranda parroted back. Heavens, sometimes a wet sponge was an awfully tempting thing to have in your hand.

  Danny, reading her mind, said mildly, ‘This is my best suit. I’d rather you didn’t.’ He pulled her cheap sunglasses out of his pocket. ‘I only stopped by to drop these off. You left them at the pub on Friday night.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’ Grudgingly, Miranda took the glasses from him.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re here,’ he went on. ‘Thought you’d be up at Silverstone. Isn’t there some kind of race going on today?’

  ‘I was asked. I didn’t want to go.’ God, that sounded feeble, even to her own ears. Danny clearly thought so too. Irritated by his knowing smirk, Miranda said crossly, ‘What’s the suit in aid of, anyway? Don’t tell me you’ve been to church.’

  She would have died rather than admit that actually Danny was looking good. Only someone with his gypsy-dark coloring—and fat-free physique—could get away with a navy-blue suit teamed with a deep-red shirt and blue and gold tie.

  ‘You like it?’ Danny’s eyes widened in mock-alarm and he held up his hands. ‘Stop, better not answer that. And no, I haven’t been to church. We’re just on our way out to lunch.’

  For a moment Miranda thought he was inviting her out. We as in you and me.

  Then she realized he didn’t mean it like that at all.

  Her gaze jerked automatically in the direction of Danny’s car. In the passenger seat a glamorous-looking blonde with swept-up hair and a low-cut top was reading a newspaper and calmly smoking a cigarette.

  Chapter 49

  ‘Oh.’ Unable to think of anything else to say, Miranda asked in a high voice, ‘Where are you going? Somewhere nice?’

  ‘The Mirabelle.’ Danny indicated his striped tie. ‘Pretty smart, hence the suit.’

  ‘Pretty expensive too.’

  ‘Never mind, she’s worth it.’ Turning, Danny caught the eye of the blonde waiting in his car. She smiled and wiggled her fingers back at him, sex-kitten-style.

  Miranda felt her shoulders stiffen. It wasn’t jealousy; it really wasn’t. She just knew that Danny hadn’t really dropped by to return a pair of sunglasses that had cost all of two pounds fifty.

  ‘Right. I’d better not keep you.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Danny mused, ‘it just doesn’t seem fair, somehow. There’s Miles Harper, your secret boyfriend, about to take part in the biggest race of his life…and here you are, stuck at home like Cinderella scrubbing the kitchen floor.’

  Miranda gritted her teeth. ‘I’ve already told you, he asked me if I wanted to watch him race.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right, and you said no, you’d rather give Florence’s quarry tiles a good going-over.’

  ‘You still don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m making this whole Miles Harper thing up.’ Losing her temper—oh dear, again—Miranda flung the front door wide open and jabbed a finger in the direction of the sitting room. ‘Right, let me prove it to you.’

  Danny signalled to the waiting blonde that he would be two minutes and she nodded, evidently unperturbed.

  In the sitting room, Miranda grabbed the video remote and pressed Rewind. She was going to show Danny once and for all that it wasn’t a fantasy affair. The tape finished rewinding and she pressed Play, fingers trembling in her eagerness to wipe that hateful smug smile off his face.

  A close-up of a woman with a lot of amalgam fillings appeared on the screen. Her orange-lipsticked mouth was wide open and her epiglottis quivered as she drew breath.

  ‘“…All things wise and wonderful,”’ sang the woman in a trembling soprano as the camera panned back to reveal the rest of the congregation, ‘“…the Lord God made them alllll.”’

  ‘Morning worship from Norwich Cathedral,’ Danny observed. ‘Don’t tell me I’m about to catch a glimpse of you and Miles Harper sharing a hymn book at the back of the church—hey, don’t turn it off, I’m interested!’

  He was still laughing when she pushed him out of the front door.

  ‘Sweetheart, all you did was tape the wrong channel. It’s a simple mistake, could happen to anyone…in fact, it’s exactly the kind of thing you’d expect a racing driver’s girlfriend to do, because after all, video recorders are tricky things to understand.’

  ‘They’re tricky things to fit in people’s mouths, too.’ Miranda gazed pointedly at him. ‘But I could always give it a try.’

  Danny grinned.

  ‘When are you getting them done, anyway?’

  ‘What?’

  He nodded at the front of her T-shirt.

  ‘Can’t be a Grand Prix groupie with a chest that size. You’ll be wanting a couple of beach balls in there at least. The hair could be a problem too. What you really need is a Pamela Anderson wig.’

  The front door was still open. Across the road in Danny’s
dusty green BMW, the blonde was peering into the rear-view mirror, carefully touching up her lipstick.

  ‘You’re so funny,’ said Miranda. ‘Where did you find your girlfriend anyway? Hookers “R” Us?’

  ***

  The race started at two o’clock. Taping it—and this time checking neurotically at least a dozen times that she had the right channel—Miranda sprawled on the floor with a packet of Jaffa Cakes and forced herself to sit through the most boring Wimbledon men’s singles final in the history of tennis. Point by monotonous point the grunting, charisma-free pair slugged it out from their respective baselines. It was sheer torture—worse than being strapped to a chair and forced to watch two hours of folk dancing—but Miranda stuck it out to the bitter end. She had to, having managed to convince herself that if she changed channels, even for a second, this action would send Miles’s car spinning off the track.

  Finally, finally, one of the tennis players got into a muddle and started trying to hit his opponent’s grunt instead of the ball. He promptly lost his serve, went to pieces and flung his racquet to the ground as the winning ball hurtled past him. Game, set, match and…yes, championship! Miranda was so relieved it was over she could have kissed them both.

  The ball-boys and ball-girls trooped out. The officials formed an orderly line. The audience nudged each other to wake up. The obligatory royals made their entrance on court and attempted to make polite conversation with assorted tongue-tied ball-boys and girls.

  ‘Too slow, too slow,’ hissed Miranda, on her knees in front of the TV. ‘Come on, get a move on, for crying out loud, hurry up.’

  Only when the loser had received his medal, the winner had kissed his trophy, the photographers had taken fifty million photographs and both players had left the court did Miranda allow herself to turn over to the other channel.

  When she saw what was happening at Silverstone, her eyes filled with tears. He’d done it, he’d actually done it. Miles had beaten the Frenchman and won the British Grand Prix. There he was, up on the podium, spraying champagne over an ecstatic crowd. He was laughing, joking with the photographers and drenching his overjoyed support team. Miranda, sitting back on her heels, pressed her hands to her mouth. This had to be the best moment of his life, and it was all, all thanks to her. Because if she’d watched the race—or even one tiny bit of the race—she knew with superstitious certainty that Miles would never have won.