Free Miranda's Big Mistake by Jill Mansell

alcoholic footballers…’ she gestured carelessly in the direction of poor Wayne Peterson, ‘but if even he could manage to get here on time, I don’t see why I should be made to look a fool by a third-rate Australian model-cum-actress.’
    â€˜Maybe she’s on her way,’ Miranda suggested. As someone not famous for getting to places on time herself, she felt obliged to leap to the other girl’s defence. ‘She could have been held up in traffic.’
    Her nasal passages were by this time becoming accustomed to the scent cloud. Either that, Miranda decided, or they’d gone into self-preservation mode and given themselves a general anaesthetic.
    â€˜Hmmph,’ Elizabeth snorted, ‘that’s what I was hoping, until the phone call ten minutes ago. Man’s voice, wouldn’t give his name, ringing to tell me Daisy was unwell. Said she was in bed with a viral illness and that she wouldn’t be able to make it tonight.’
    â€˜But you don’t believe him?’ said Miranda.
    â€˜He wasn’t exactly going out of his way to sound believable. He treated the whole thing as a joke: “She’s in bed with a virile—oops, sorry, viral illness.” And she was there, I could hear her, giggling away in the background like a silly teenager playing truant from school.’
    â€˜Daisy Schofield’s nineteen.’ Miranda remembered reading this in one of the salon’s glossy magazines. Feeling incredibly ancient—at twenty-three—she said, ‘She is a silly teenager.’
    â€˜People have come here tonight expecting to meet her,’ Elizabeth replied frostily, ‘and she’s let us down. That girl needs to get a grip.’
    Frankly, if Daisy was in bed with a virile male, Miranda thought, getting a grip was probably what she was doing right now.
    ***
    By nine o’clock Greg Malone was beginning to wish he hadn’t dragged Adrian along to this party. When Ade got it into his head to be argumentative there was no stopping him. God, it wasn’t as if either of them was even interested in meeting some bleached-blond, obsolete travel show presenter.
    â€˜It’s breach of promise though, isn’t it?’ Adrian was enjoying the organizer’s discomfort. ‘We paid good money for these tickets’—big lie—‘and you haven’t delivered. No Carol Newman—’
    â€˜Caroline,’ Greg murmured.
    â€˜She was here,’ the organizer insisted. ‘She had to leave early.’
    â€˜And no Daisy Schofield. I mean, how fair is that?’ Adrian tilted his head accusingly. ‘We came along to meet celebrities and instead here you are, palming us off with a roomful of…nobodies.’
    Stung, the woman said, ‘We’ve got Wayne Peterson.’
    â€˜Oh big deal,’ Adrian drawled. ‘He’s sober .’
    This was true. Having been given the mother of all talking-tos by—well, his own mother—Wayne Peterson was here tonight on his very best behavior. Miserably clutching his seventh glass of Perrier—and trying hard not to burp—he was currently doing his best to appear interested in some old bore’s blow-by-blow account of the 1966 World Cup.
    Sadly, Wayne was only fun when he had fourteen pints of Newcastle Brown inside him. Without the aid of alcohol, he was a personality-free zone.
    Even Elizabeth had been sorely tempted to spike his water with vodka.
    â€˜Look, I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.’ She struggled to appease her two difficult guests. ‘Let me get you another drink—’
    â€˜Never mind another drink,’ said Adrian. ‘How about a refund?’
    â€˜He doesn’t mean that,’ Greg put in hurriedly. God, Adrian could be a pain sometimes. ‘Of course we don’t want a refund. And yes, another drink would be great.’
    Typically, there wasn’t a circulating waiter in sight.