Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [123]
`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 beachballs 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 minor, 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 morns 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 theball. 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.
He phoned her an hour later, yelling above a background of tumultuous noise.
It's chaos here! Did you see me do it? Miranda, can you hear me? Did you watch the race?'
`I'm watching it now. You're on lap twenty-three.' She looked down at her nails, bitten to shreds even though it was only a video rerun. `God, I really hope you win.'
He laughed.
`I can't wait until tomorrow.'
`Me