Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [103]
`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 Lilt 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 colours were orange and yellow ochre. For a dizzy millisecond Miranda pictured herself decked out likea satsuma, leaping up and down and cheering Miles on from the stand as