Miranda's Big Mistake - Jill Mansell [31]
The one in the multicoloured trunks had by this time clambered out of the pool. `Over here!' he bellowed, pointing to his forehead.
`Don't!' Miranda clapped both hands over her eyes as her teammate took aim. `You'll knock him unconscious.' `Nothing knocks Johnnie unconscious.'
He was right. The melon came off worse. The force of the impact split it in half, and seeds and juice exploded in all directions like shrapnel.
`Ouch,' said Johnnie, scooping a lump of orange melon flesh off his shoulder and popping it into his mouth.
`You killed it,' Miranda said sorrowfully. `I'm reporting you to the MLF.'
`Too late,' murmured her playing partner as Fenn appeared on the terrace. `Looks like they're already here.'
Chapter 13
Miranda sat huddled on one of the kitchen chairs with a towel around her shoulders and a spreading puddle of chlorinated water at her feet. Her teeth chattered dramatically against the rim of her coffee cup. Her hair, which had been subjected to a cruelly brisk towel-dry by Fenn, stood out in spikes.
`I can't take you anywhere.'
`It wasn't my fault,' Miranda protested. `Blame melon-head. He was the one who threw me in.'
`But why does it always have to happen to you?' Mystified, Fenn shook his head.
`I don't know. Stuff just does.' Even as a child, Miranda gloomily remembered, her despairing mother had called her incident-prone.
`Those naughty boys,' said Tabitha, appearing in the doorway with an armful of dry clothes. `I'm going to give them a good talking-to. Here you are, darling, pop upstairs to my room and get yourself out of those wet things.'
In Tabitha's bedroom, Miranda peeled off her sodden clothes, dried herself and changed into a white sweatshirt and leggings. Sitting on the edge of the bed to pull on a pairof pink angora socks, she felt something crackle behind her and pulled out a copy of the Daily Mail from under the rumpled bedspread.
Tabitha had even left it lying open at the Dempster page, which was handy. One sock on and one sock off, Miranda leaned over to find out exactly what Daisy Schofield had been up to on Wednesday night.
There was a knock on the door.
`Are you decent?'
`As I'll ever be.'
The bedroom door swung open. Her teammate, now fully dressed and with his blond hair slicked back from his face, said, `Is your boss furious with you?'
`No, but I'm not too thrilled with you.' Miranda recognised him at once with his clothes on. She pointed an accusing finger at the photograph in the paper. `What were you doing on Wednesday night with Daisy Schofield?'
He grinned.
`Are you sure you want to know?'
No wonder he had looked familiar. Miles Harper, Formula One racing driver, had burst on to the motor-racing scene less than a year ago, but the publicity he attracted was unrelenting. With his extravagant good looks, undoubted talent and laid-back personality, he was being touted as the new James Hunt.
`I'm not interested in gory details. I meant, why was she with you?'
`Probably because she fancies me.' Miles Harper winked. `Oh dear, don't tell me you're jealous.'
`Daisy Schofield was meant to be at a cocktail party. She cancelled, said she was ill. Or rather you did,' Miranda
pointedly remarked, realising that the mystery man who had spoken to Elizabeth Turnbull on the phone must have been him. She frowned. `You lied. Wasn't that a bit of a mean thing to do?'
`You went to the party, I take it?'
`Yes.'
`Was it dull?'
Miranda hesitated. She'd been okay, she'd met Greg. But if she hadn't, it would have been crashingly dull.
`There you are then.' When she didn't immediately reply, Miles Harper shrugged, unconcerned. `That's why she didn't go.'
`But she was a celebrity guest.' Miranda wanted to make him understand. `You wouldn't like it if you organised a charity event and nobody else bothered to turn up.'
`Oh.' He had the grace - at last - to look ashamed. `I didn't know it was for charity.'
Miranda wasn't sure whether or not she believed him.
`Anyway, what are you doing here?' Changing the subject, she wriggled the angora sock on to