Miranda's Big Mistake (22 page)

It was even more depressing deciding to become an entrepreneur and having your brilliant new idea laughed at.

‘Miranda,' said Fenn when she had finished explaining it to him at work the next day, ‘you can't
do
that.'

‘Why not? It's recycling! Anita Roddick would be proud of me.' Miranda gestured at the floor with her broom. ‘You cut hair, I sweep it up, it gets chucked in the bin…can't you see how wasteful that is? We're talking famous hair here, Fenn. People would pay good money for hair belonging to their favorite celebrities. What I thought we could do was curl up little strands, set them in acrylic, and sell them as jewelry…say you were a huge Barry Manilow fan and you could wear a necklace containing a little piece of Barry Manilow…imagine the thrill!'

Silence. She had run out of breath.

‘And Corinne does our pedicures,' said Fenn. ‘She can save all the clippings. We could call them Toenails of the Rich and Famous.'

Miranda looked at him.

‘You're making fun of me.'

‘And then there's the waxing, we could call that Leg Hair to Treasure.'

‘This is the best idea I've ever had,' she wailed, ‘and you won't even take it seriously. We could be rich!'

Fenn, who was already rich, glanced over Miranda's shoulder as the salon door was pushed open.

‘Miranda, trust me, stealing other people's toenails isn't the way—'

‘Oh, now you're just twisting things.' Exasperated, Miranda could have kicked him. ‘All I said was hair. Stealing the toenails was
your
idea, not mine.'

Another stunned silence. Oh dear, maybe she'd been a bit loud. She really hadn't meant—'

‘Don't you just love it,' drawled an amused voice behind her, ‘when you overhear part of a conversation and can't imagine for the life of you what it's all about?'

Not only an amused voice, but a familiar one. Miranda felt all the hairs at the back of her neck leap to attention. She swung round, mouth idiotically agape, and came face to face with Miles Harper.

He was standing there laughing at her, wearing a black polo shirt and black jeans and looking so drop-dead gorgeous she had to struggle to breathe normally. Heavens, this was embarrassing, it was her turn to speak and she was terrified of trying to say hi in case it came out as something else altogether.

Something excruciating like, Oh, Miles, what are you doing wasting your time with that awful brain-dead Daisy Schofield when you could have me instead?

The name brought Miranda crashing back to earth with a thud. Damn, this must be why he'd come to the salon.

Her tongue magically untied itself.

‘She isn't here.'

‘Who?'

‘Daisy.' Oh, those wicked green eyes, how unfair was this?

‘I know she isn't here.' Miles grinned. ‘She's in Sydney.'

Floundering, Miranda said, ‘So, um, do you want to make an appointment?'

‘To see Daisy in Sydney? No thanks.' Miles was clearly enjoying himself.

‘Okay if I borrow her for a moment?' He raised his eyebrows at Fenn.

‘Hang on to your fingernails,' said Fenn.

Miles led Miranda away from the crowded central section of the salon. When they could no longer be overheard he said, ‘I came to see you.'

Miranda felt her knees begin to buckle. She leaned against the chair behind her, forgetting that it was a revolving one. With his legendary reflexes, Miles grabbed her in the nick of time.

‘I had to come.' His tone was soulful. ‘You never wrote, you never phoned. We were fantastic together, I thought we had a real future…but you were cruel, you tossed me aside like an old watermelon. You broke my heart in two…'

‘Like an old watermelon?' suggested Miranda. This was better, this kind of banter she could handle.

Smiling slightly, Miles shook his head. ‘Why haven't I been able to stop thinking about you?'

‘A good watermelon partner is hard to find.'

‘The trouble is, you think I'm joking. And I'm not.'

He was, he was, he was.

Oh crikey, wasn't he?

‘Everybody's l-looking at us,' Miranda stammered.

‘So?'

‘They're wondering what's going on.'

‘Me too. I asked you out and you turned me down. Nobody's ever done that to me before.'

‘You didn't ask me out. You got your friend to do it.'

Miles said sorrowfully, ‘Only because I'm so shy.'

Miranda jumped a mile as his arms slid around her waist.

‘That isn't a very shy thing to do…eek!' She let out an undignified squeal as he pulled her against him. ‘Neither's that!'

‘I've been working hard to overcome it. My therapist says I'm making pretty good progress.'

‘I'd say she's right.'

‘But I have to persevere. Practice, that's what I need. Lots of practice.'

His mouth was moving closer. It was hard to struggle, Miranda discovered, when your whole body had turned to custard. She didn't have to look to know the kind of effect they were having on the rest of the salon—she could hear the gasps.

Oh Lord, unless that's
me
.

‘You can't do this here!'

‘I must. It's the next step of my rehabilitation.' His breath was warm against her cheek. ‘You want me to be cured, don't you?'

‘But I'm embarrassed!'

‘Oh dear,' said Miles. ‘You need to meet my therapist.'

The kiss didn't happen. In a daze, Miranda found herself being dragged towards the back of the shop. A collective groan of disappointment went up around the salon as Miles Harper bundled her through the first available door and kicked it shut behind him.

Quite masterfully, for such a shy man.

Bev, every bit as enthralled—and envious—as the rest of the clientele, rushed over to Fenn.

‘Aren't you going to
do
anything?'

Fenn was cutting the hair of a new client, who was swiveled round in her chair gazing avidly at the closed door through which Miranda and Miles had disappeared.

‘Like what?'

‘Well…shouldn't you stop them?'

‘Don't you dare!' exclaimed the new client. ‘It's the most romantic thing I've ever seen in my life.'

‘But…but he's making a fool of her!'

‘Why don't we leave them to it?' Fenn calmly carried on cutting. ‘Miranda's had a miserable few weeks. If five minutes in the laundry room with Miles Harper cheers her up, that's fine by me.'

The client, her eyes still trained on the laundry room door, said happily, ‘I'm so glad I came here. Free coffee in fancy cups, that's all you get at Nicky Clarke's.'

‘There you go,' Fenn said dryly. ‘We aim to please.'

***

‘Look,' said Miranda, pulling away and hanging on to the tumble dryer for support, ‘I'm really flattered. This kind of thing hardly ever happens to me on a Tuesday morning. But I don't want you to kiss me.'

This was, of course, a big lie. What she really meant was, she didn't want him to think she was a complete pushover.

Miles Harper grinned and checked his watch.

‘Okay. I have to go anyway. So, what time do you finish work?'

‘Six. Why?'

‘I'll pick you up.'

Something weird was happening to Miranda's lips; she could feel them buzzing with excitement, clamoring for the kiss she had so meanly denied them. Heavens, her lips had turned into shameless groupies…

‘Unless of course you're busy.' Miles raised a challenging eyebrow. ‘Again.'

‘Well…'

‘Cooking fish fingers for your boyfriend, maybe.'

‘Nothing like that,' said Miranda hurriedly. ‘But—'

‘Good.' He stepped back and winked. Almost as if he knew the effect he was having on her squealing adolescent lips. She clamped them together before their frantic squeaks could become audible.

‘Thanks,' Miles told Fenn, depositing a dazed-looking Miranda back with him. ‘I'm glad we've got that sorted out.'

‘Any time,' said Fenn.

***

By ten past six Miranda's hair was finished.

‘I still think you're mad,' Bev said fretfully. ‘What's Miles Harper going to think when he sees you looking like this?'

‘It's not for him, it's for tomorrow.' Miranda inspected the end result in the mirror, tweaking a couple of stray spiky bits into place. ‘Anyway, Miles isn't going to turn up. Look at the time.'

Her stomach was in knots. It was hard to pretend you didn't care when every thud of your heart reminded you that another half-second had gone by and he still hadn't arrived.

‘But if he does turn up, how can he take you anywhere nice, with your hair like that?'

Bev was bothered by Miranda's attitude. When a man invited you out, it was your duty to look as good as you knew how. When Bev had a date she could spend anything up to four hours honing her make-up to perfection…

‘He isn't going to be taking me anywhere, because he isn't coming.' Miranda wished with all her heart that she hadn't told Bev about the supposed date. Miles Harper—rotten bastard—had either forgotten, or found something more exciting to do. ‘And anyway, if he does turn up, he'll be too late. Because I'm going home.'

Bev followed her to the door.

‘Maybe it's for the best. The last thing you need is to get involved with someone else who's going to muck you around.'

‘Is that meant to make me feel better?'

‘Come on, you know what I'm trying to say. Daisy Schofield's away…he's at a bit of a loose end…all he's looking for is someone to amuse himself with until she gets back.'

‘Thanks.'

‘But it's true!'

Of course it was true. Miranda knew that, she just wasn't in the mood to hear it. She was a nobody and Miles Harper was practically a national hero. She would be a bit of harmless entertainment for him, nothing more. Her crush on him would deepen—oh yes, she knew that too—and it would all end in tears.

Just for a change.

‘Anyway,' Bev said kindly as her bus loomed into view, ‘you'll have a brilliant time tomorrow.'

A brilliant time, thought Miranda. Have to look that one up in the thesaurus.

The bus eventually jerked to a halt beside them and Bev swung herself up on to the platform. Behind her, a car tooted its horn in appreciation of this slinky maneuver. Bev, smirking and flattered by the attention, couldn't resist a quick glance at the driver…

‘Where's Miranda?' Miles yelled at her above the roar of the traffic.

Bev's smirk faded. As the bus began to pull away, she pointed to Miranda standing on the pavement.

‘Jesus,' exclaimed Miles, grinning as he flung the passenger door open for her. ‘I didn't recognize you. What have you done to your hair?'

It was happening and there was nothing Miranda could do to stop it. Everything that Bev had warned her about was coming true, her crush was hurtling out of control like a runaway tank and she'd never been happier in her life.

Then again, maybe this was because she knew it wouldn't last. Like eating an ice cream really slowly and concentrating on every lick, thought Miranda, because first thing tomorrow you know you have to start that crash diet.

Bev would disapprove mightily, of course, but so what? I'm getting involved with someone I really shouldn't get involved with, Miranda told herself recklessly, and I don't care if I am making a fool of myself, or if I end up hurt. This is brilliant and I don't need a thesaurus any more to remind me what it means.

It was scary to think that another thirty seconds and they would have missed each other. Miles would have pulled up outside the salon just as she was disappearing down into the tube station and none of this would be happening now.

‘I have to say,' murmured Miles beside her, ‘I never thought I'd get to sleep with you on our first date.'

‘I'm not asleep.'

‘Are you cold? We could always zip these bags together…'

‘Then we'd definitely never get to sleep,' Miranda told him. ‘And we'd probably end up getting arrested.'

Miles was dismayed. ‘For a bit of harmless alfresco fornication? If anyone needs arresting, it's that tone-deaf chap who keeps singing “My Way”.'

Miranda stifled laughter.

‘He was here last year. And it wouldn't be alfresco, it would be altento.'

‘I've never done it in a tent before. Unless you count a wedding marquee.' He paused. ‘How many times have you done it altento?'

‘Thousands.'

Miles heaved a sigh.

‘Doesn't seem fair, somehow. You so experienced, me such a virgin—'

‘Tell you what,' said Miranda. ‘When Daisy gets back from Australia, I'll lend you my tent.'

Another mournful sigh. Followed by the sound of a zip being stealthily unfastened.

‘It's two o'clock in the morning,' said Miranda. ‘Do it back up.'

‘You're a hard woman,' Miles whispered. ‘Actually, that's quite a coincidence because—'

‘Ahem. The people in the next tent can hear you.' In the darkness, Miranda smiled to herself. ‘Go to sleep.'

***

When she woke up the next morning, the sleeping bag beside her was empty. There were sounds of laughter and plenty of activity outside. Moments later the tent flap was pulled back and Miles—in red shorts, Legionnaire's cap and wrap-around dark glasses—reappeared.

‘Morning, gorgeous. Breakfast.' He thrust a melting Cornetto and a can of Coke into Miranda's hands, and dropped a hot, foil-wrapped parcel into her lap.

Mystified, she unwrapped the foil.

‘Where did you get bacon sandwiches?'

‘Chap up the pavement's got a barbeque going, selling them for a fiver each.'

‘You paid ten pounds for two bacon sandwiches?' Good
grief
.

‘Nope, there was a queue.' Miles took off his glasses and flashed his wicked grin at her. ‘I bought them off a kid at the head of the queue for fifty.'

‘I'm a vegetarian,' Miranda told him, then lunged forwards squealing, ‘No I'm
not
,' as he tossed the sandwiches over his shoulder and out through the tent flap. A volley of joyful barks outside signalled their unhappy fate.

‘Fifty pounds!' wailed Miranda.

‘Worth it, to see the look on your face.' Miles kissed her. ‘And I knew you weren't a vegetarian. Now eat the rest of your breakfast—before it melts.'

The early-morning sun was already beating down on the tent. Miranda's ice cream dripped on to her bare legs and the dog out on the pavement—a boisterous chocolate-brown Labrador—poked his nose through the tent flap to see if they had any more bacon sandwiches they might like to fling his way.

‘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.

‘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.'