Chloe had never been on the receiving end of an anonymous threatening phone call before. Shaken, she realized that someone had got completely the wrong idea about her friendship with Fenn. They were warning her off because they were jealous of the amount of time she and Fenn had been spending together…Good grief, how could they even think anything was going on between them?
It was worrying and embarrassing at the same time.
Dialing 1471 didn’t help. Predictably, all Chloe got was Number Withheld, which was frustrating because if she could have rung back whoever it was she would have been able to reassure them that there was absolutely nothing going on between her and Fenn.
Glancing at her watch, Chloe headed upstairs. She had promised to babysit for Bruce and Verity tonight and they wanted her there by six. Since she would be staying overnight, she needed to shower, pack a change of clothes and leave her own note for Miranda.
Chloe did this hurriedly, fifteen minutes later, without mentioning the phone call from one of Fenn’s disgruntled girlfriends. It was too complicated to explain in a note and she didn’t want Miranda to start winking and teasing her about the top-secret, red-hot, oh-so-passionate affair she must be having with Fenn.
Anyone with an ounce of sense would know at once that there was nothing like that going on between them, Chloe thought ruefully, but it was an undeniable fact that she had been spending a fair amount of time recently with Fenn. And that, clearly, could be misconstrued.
Maybe it was time to take a step backwards.
Cancel the Harrods trip, for a start.
And give that Thai curry a miss.
Snatching up the red pen and the note she had already scribbled for Miranda, Chloe added:
PS Visiting my mother tomorrow, straight from Bruce and Verity’s. Could you let Fenn know he’ll have to choose his own carpets.
Pausing to read through the message and experiencing a strange pang, Chloe discovered that she had been looking forward to the shopping excursion more than she’d realized. She went hot all over at the thought that her hormones could be about to start running amok, that she might be developing some form of sad, pregnant-woman’s crush on the first man in months to show her a bit of kindness…
Oh dear, all the more reason to put the brakes on, Chloe thought with a shudder of alarm. It simply hadn’t occurred to her before now that this had been on the cards. That anonymous caller had been absolutely spot-on after all.
And thank heavens she did phone, Chloe breathed a sigh of relief, because at least now I know I have to keep my distance before it gets all out of control and embarrassing.
Basically she had to stop seeing Fenn for her own protection.
Gosh, anonymous caller, whoever you are…thanks.
***
‘Coming in for a quick drink?’ offered Miranda when Fenn dropped her home after work.
Fenn said casually, ‘Okay.’
But the house was empty.
‘Gone!’ Miranda held up the two messages like an indignant ice-skating judge. ‘Gone, both of them, and left me all alone. I ask you, how selfish and uncaring is that?’
Fenn, who had spent the last couple of hours planning how he would invite Chloe out to dinner on the pretext of discussing…um, window boxes, said, ‘Actually, don’t worry about that drink. I should be getting back.’
Never mind, at least he’d be seeing her tomorrow.
‘Hang on.’ Miranda was busy scanning the rest of Chloe’s note. ‘This bit’s for you.’ She waggled it under his nose with irritating cheerfulness. ‘Hey, looks like you’ve been stood up. Want me to come and help you pick out new carpets? Nothing with glitter, I promise.’
‘Good of you to offer, but actually glitter was what I’d set my heart on. So thanks, but no thanks.’ Fenn smiled his cool, detached, boss-like smile because he would rather walk barefoot over burning coals than let Mersey Tunnel-mouth Miranda get an inkling of how disappointed he was about Chloe.
***
‘Ah, good evening, I’m conducting a survey on behalf of a well-known women’s magazine—’
‘Are you really? How exciting,’ said Miranda.
‘—and I wonder if you could tell me which men, in your opinion, make the best lovers: (a) zoo-keepers; (b) quantity surveyors; or (c) Formula One racing drivers.’
‘Oh dear, I’d love to be able to help you,’ Miranda sighed, ‘but I’m afraid I’m a lesbian.’
‘I’m sorry, that was the wrong answer. The correct answer was (c), racing driver. And I’d be more than happy to prove it to you if—’
‘How did everything go?’ Miranda broke in hurriedly, before he got carried away.
‘Mission accomplished. The practice sessions went brilliantly.’ As modest as ever, Miles added, ‘Starting from pole position tomorrow. Would you like to hear my lap times?’
‘I meant Daisy.’ Miranda knew he was teasing her but she had to know.
‘Didn’t I just tell you that? Mission accomplished. She’s gone.’
Oh my God, thought Miranda, her hands suddenly clammy with shock and relief. What have I done?
There was a pause.
‘You’ve gone quiet,’ said Miles. ‘Changed your mind yet about being a lesbian?’
‘Was she upset?’
‘I really hope you aren’t thinking of dumping me and running off into the sunset with Daisy.’
‘I wasn’t actually expecting this to happen.’
‘Too late to back out now. I wish I could see you tonight.’ Miles sounded regretful. ‘But I’d never get any sleep and you’d play havoc with my reflexes. Are you coming up tomorrow, by the way?’
‘To watch you race? I don’t know.’ Without warning, Miranda’s stomach contracted. The idea of cheering Miles on from the stand was all very well in theory, but when it actually came to it, she didn’t know if she could bear to watch. This was motor racing, not tiddlywinks.
It was dangerous.
‘I’ll drive carefully,’ said Miles. ‘Keep to the speed limit, follow the highway code, all that stuff, I promise.’
‘I still don’t think I can.’ Miranda braced herself, expecting him to call her a wimp. ‘Sorry.’
There was another pause, then Miles said, ‘Don’t be. I’m quite flattered. As far as Daisy was concerned, watching me race was basically a photo-opportunity that was too good to miss.’
His tone was dry. Miranda, who had never told him what Daisy had said to her friend on the phone that day in the salon, wondered if he had known all along. As she spoke, a lump came into her throat. ‘Good luck for tomorrow, unless it’s unlucky to wish you luck.’
Actors said break a leg, didn’t they? Maybe racing drivers said burst a tire.
Miles sounded as if he was smiling.
‘Wish me as much luck as you like. And put the TV on tomorrow morning. I’ve got a pre-race interview lined up and I want you to see it.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t argue,’ said Miles. ‘Just do it, okay?’
***
Miranda was on her fourth bowl of Cheerios the next morning by the time the racing commentator’s interview with Miles took place. Sitting cross-legged on Florence’s sofa, she squealed and dribbled milk down her chin when she realized why he had been so keen for her to watch.
Her copper pig was making his TV debut, attached to a narrow strip of leather and tied around Miles’s tanned neck. As he spoke, Miles idly unfastened the second button of his denim shirt and fiddled with the pig until finally the interviewer was forced to comment on it.
‘This?’ Miles grinned. ‘Oh, he’s a good-luck present from a close friend of mine.’
The interviewer, who was as famous for his faux pas as for his high-octane commentary style, said eagerly, ‘And that’s the very lovely lady in your life, Australian actress Daisy Schofield, am I right?’
‘Actually, no, but I do have a message for the lovely lady in my life.’ His tone light, Miles smiled lazily into the camera. ‘And that is, when you meet the right person, you know it. That’s what happened to me and I—’
‘Well, that’s all we’ve got time for,’ bellowed the interviewer, clamping his hand excitedly to the side of his head in final-lap fashion. ‘I hear through my earpiece that your team manager is waiting to speak to you down in the pits, so for now, Miles Harper, and on behalf of the rest of the nation, may I wish you the very best of luck for this afternoon’s titanic race!’
The cameras swiftly turned their attention to Miles’s great rival, an ugly Frenchman with a face like a walnut, and Miranda turned off both the TV and the VCR. Unable to watch the race, she wished she knew how she was going to get through the next few stomach-churning hours.
She wished the commentator hadn’t stopped the interview just as things had been getting interesting.
She really really wished he hadn’t used that word titanic.
***
Halfway through cleaning the kitchen floor—blimey, that was when you knew you were desperate—the doorbell went.
Wringing out her sponge and peeling the wet knees of her jeans away from her skin, Miranda went to answer it.
‘Oh no, not you again.’
‘That’s what I love about you, your unquenchable enthusiasm,’ said Danny. ‘Tell me, have you ever considered becoming a Samaritan?’
‘Have you ever considered becoming a stand-up comedian?’ Miranda parroted back. Heavens, sometimes a wet sponge was an awfully tempting thing to have in your hand.
Danny, reading her mind, said mildly, ‘This is my best suit. I’d rather you didn’t.’ He pulled her cheap sunglasses out of his pocket. ‘I only stopped by to drop these off. You left them at the pub on Friday night.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ Grudgingly, Miranda took the glasses from him.
‘I’m surprised you’re here,’ he went on. ‘Thought you’d be up at Silverstone. Isn’t there some kind of race going on today?’
‘I was asked. I didn’t want to go.’ God, that sounded feeble, even to her own ears. Danny clearly thought so too. Irritated by his knowing smirk, Miranda said crossly, ‘What’s the suit in aid of, anyway? Don’t tell me you’ve been to church.’
She would have died rather than admit that actually Danny was looking good. Only someone with his gypsy-dark coloring—and fat-free physique—could get away with a navy-blue suit teamed with a deep-red shirt and blue and gold tie.
‘You like it?’ Danny’s eyes widened in mock-alarm and he held up his hands. ‘Stop, better not answer that. And no, I haven’t been to church. We’re just on our way out to lunch.’
For a moment Miranda thought he was inviting her out. We as in you and me.
Then she realized he didn’t mean it like that at all.
Her gaze jerked automatically in the direction of Danny’s car. In the passenger seat a glamorous-looking blonde with swept-up hair and a low-cut top was reading a newspaper and calmly smoking a cigarette.