Fallen Women
From the author of GUILTY CREATURES comes a novel of family life turned upside downKate’s got her life sorted out, with her own business, run from her trendy townhouse in London, where she’s lucky enough to have best friends in the same street, a workable marriage, two kids, the occasional visit home to her roots. But all this is changed by a phone call one night: her widowed mother has fallen over and is in hospital.Things aren’t as they seem. Far from being a fragile old lady in desperate need, it transpires that Kate’s mother has tripped down the stairs after too many lunchtime cocktails and is being only too well looked after by her gorgeous toyboy lodger. Miffed, Kate returns to London – to discover that her best friend has been sleeping with her husband. Where does that leave her?A novel of trust betrayed and lives rebuilt, internet dating and the strange comfort of returning home after life in the fast lane, this will win Sue Welfare even more dedicated fans.
Читать Fallen Women онлайн беплатно
SUE WELFARE
Fallen Women
This book is dedicated with love to all the usual suspects, in particular Susan Opie at HarperCollins, Maggie Phillips at Ed Victor, and Mike Bell in Oakington, but most of all to my mum, who – with her impeccable sense of timing – managed to break her ankle three months after I began writing this book … although as yet there are no signs of her trading my father in for a toy boy.
Contents
‘So, how tall do you want this dream man to be then, Chrissie?’ Kate scanned down the form on the computer screen, her face blank with concentration.
‘You can specify height as well? Jesus,’ said Bill, who’d been helping fill in Chrissie’s profile. He popped the top on another can of Bud. ‘And there’s you girls always telling us that size doesn’t matter.’
He said it in a sly, sarky way, which made Chrissie and Kate both turn round to give him a withering look. Grinning, he held up his hands in surrender, while Kate’s attention moved back to the screen.
‘Okay, so what have we got here? 5′ to 5′5″, 5′6 to 5′8″, 5′9″ to 6′00″,’ Kate read, ‘small, medium or large. Mr Right comes in several handy sizes apparently.’
‘Not in my experience he doesn’t,’ said Chrissie bitterly. She was half way through her second large glass of Archers and orange juice, the glow from the screen picking out cheekbones that only appeared when she was seriously depressed. Leaning over Kate’s shoulder, she peered myopically at the what are you looking for wish list. ‘Or over 6′4″? Good God no, I’d have to take a stepladder out with me every time I wanted a snog.’
‘Up to about 6′?’ suggested Kate.
Chrissie nodded.
‘How about hair?’
‘I’m getting bored with this,’ whined Bill. ‘It’s Friday, end of the week. I want to – to …’
They all looked at him.
‘What?’ snapped Chrissie. ‘Cut loose? Get lucky? Get laid? What did happen to What’s-her-name anyway?’
‘Oh, meow. Did you ever get that job in personnel?’ Bill growled right back.
‘No, I’m still flogging frocks; they decided I wasn’t fit to be let loose on real people.’
‘Hair,’ Kate said, attempting to whip them in.
‘Is that a straight choice between without or without?’ asked Joe, Kate’s husband, who had been watching the three of them. He ran his hand back over a crew cut that couldn’t quite disguise the fact he hadn’t got an awful lot of hair left.
Joe had been idly picking out a riff on the guitar in his lap, making out he wasn’t at all interested in what was going on. Since Kate first knew him Joe had constantly doodled with music; living with Joe was like having your very own incidental music, a soundtrack to all life’s little ups and downs.
‘What is that?’ said Bill, taking a pull on the beer. ‘Fleetwood?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not. It’s a jingle for a margarine commercial that I’ve been working on for one of Kate’s clients.’ He picked at the strings again, with more determination this time, transforming something sensual and bluesy into a hayseed cartoon sound. ‘Why don’ all you good folks rush down to y’local convenience store and buy our delicious yella spreadable fat,’ he mugged in a southern-style deep-fried accent.
‘Yes, very nice. Now about hair,’ Kate said impatiently, dragging everyone’s attention back to the task in hand.
‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’ Joe snapped peevishly. ‘I’m not a bloody expert on cyberdating. What does it for you in the hair department, Chrissie? Bald, a mullet, football boy perm? Early Jon Bon Jovi?’
Kate glared at him, not that it did a lot of good.
It was Friday evening in early summer in a semi-detached off a little side street on the Muswell Hill Road. Kate’s home was a mix of tasteful and cosy, cream walls hung with good prints, generous chairs and sofas upholstered in autumnal shades of orange and reds, the whole place dotted with plants. It was a house that encouraged you to lie back and linger
Tonight the whole place was full of the smell of tikka masala and Bombay potatoes. The supper party was a cheering up, new start, relaxing after a long rough week kind of an evening – or at least that was what Kate had in mind when she’d invited them round.
The four of them were sprawled around Kate’s office while Kate and Joe’s two boys were watching TV and creaming assorted life forms on the Playstation upstairs.
Working from home was a mixed blessing. Under normal circumstances the office was the holy of holies. Kate worked very hard to maintain a boundary where domestic life stopped and earning a living began, in case clients thought it implied a lack of professionalism, but tonight, for Chrissie, who was currently getting over some heartless bastard who had cut her up, made her cry and generally messed her around just three short months after being declared Mr Right, she was prepared to make an exception.
