Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [104]
`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 adrenalin. `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 programme. `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, realisation 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