Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [124]
`No, listen, I meant I'm not going to wait. I'm getting out of here as soon as I can and coming to pick you up. Christ knows when, probably not until around nine… can you manage that?'
Anything, anything! Giddy with delight and ridiculously flattered, Miranda said, `Couldn't make it nine thirty, could you? Only I've got a bit of ironing to get through first.'
She heard the sound of champagne corks being popped in the background, punctuated by screams of laughter. How many stunning blondes was Miles currently surrounded by? Stunning blondes with breasts like giant beachballs, Miranda reminded herself, and teeth so dazzlingly white they glowed in the dark like neon…
`You do realise I had to win this race,' Miles told her. `I thought you wouldn't be interested in me any more if I didn't.'
`You're right, I wouldn't have been. I'm fickle like that.'
`What?' The noise level was diabolical. It was hard to be laid-back and witty, Miranda discovered, when only the occasional word was managing to percolate through the din.
`Never mind. I'll see you later.' A thought suddenly struck her. `During the race - were you wearing the pig?'
`Who's a pig?' Miles's voice grew faint. `Hang on, the signal's going, this is a useless phone.'
`See you later,' Miranda yelled again, as he began to crackle and break up. "Bye!'
No Florence, no Chloe. Damn, not even Danny Delancey, thought Miranda as nine o'clock approached. When he was the last person you wanted to clap eyes on, he could be guaranteed to turn up. But when you wouldn't actually mind seeing him - in order for him to witness the glorious spectacle of you being swept off your feet by one of the most gorgeous, glamorous men ever - well, then you had… how much chance? Well, exactly. None at all.
Instead, Danny was off out somewhere with Rent-aTrollop, no doubt regaling her with the rib-tickling tale of the blue-haired girl so pathetic and deluded that she'd actually convinced herself she was involved with Miles Harper…
Typical, thought Miranda, frustrated. Just when I'm looking so fantastic too.
Nine o'clock came and went.
Then ten and eleven o'clock.
Miranda could forgive him for being late. He had just won the Grand Prix.
At midnight, she squirted on a bit more scent, brushed her teeth again and carefully redid her lipstick.
At half past midnight she spilled orange juice down the front of her white velvet vest. Doggedly refusing to believe that Miles might not, after all, be on his way, Miranda scrubbed the orange juice stain out of the top with neat Ariel, washed it, blasted it dry with Chloe's hairdryer and put it back on.
At ten past one anxiety turned abruptly to relief. Hearing the tick-tick sound of a black cab pulling up outside the house, Miranda grabbed her bag and raced to the door faster than a greyhound out of a trap. Okay, so he was late, but she didn't care. What did four hours of agonised waiting and serious nail-biting matter? Miles had turned up, hadn't he? So much for the race-track groupies, Miranda thought joyfully, wrenching open the front door. Not all men were enthralled by the sight of beachball breasts. Ha, some actually preferred ping pong-
'Hi,' panted Chloe, dragging her overnight bag into the hall. `You're up late - just got in from somewhere nice? Oof, I'm shattered, a day with my mother's worse than any triathlon.' Pulling a face, she unzipped her bag. `Wait until you see how much stuff she's knitted for the baby.'
Miranda couldn't speak. Disappointed wasn't the word for it. Biting her lip, she watched Chloe pull a stream of doll-sized matinйe jackets, cardigans and bootees out of the bag like a conjuror.
`Can you believe it? I think she even knits in her sleep,' Chloe marvelled. `And this is only the stuff I could carry. Seven hats, I ask you, how many heads does she think this baby's going to have? Gosh, my throat's dry, let me put the kettle on.' She squeezed past Miranda, heading for the kitchen. `Fancy a cup of tea?'
`Um, no thanks.'
`Florence not back yet? Honestly, she's turned into