Marian Keyes is the international bestselling author of Watermelon, Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married, Rachel's Holiday, Last Chance Saloon, Sushi for Beginners. I found that 1 2 The stewardess tried to squeeze past Paul and Author: Marian Keyes. 97 downloads Views 2MB Size Report. DOWNLOAD PDF. contents of this proof may not resemble the finished book and under publication of the finished book without the publisher's consent. marian keyes.
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WATERMELON a novel. Marian. Keyes . Other books by Marian Keyes. Credits .. First of all he had to establish that I had read the book in question also. I wish this book had been around when I was 20, 25 or even One of the most perfectly pitched advcie books I've ever read: Buchanan comes across as. Making It Up As I Go Along by Marian Keyes Mammy Walsh's A-Z of the Walsh Family: An e-book Short by Marian Keyes. Anybody Out There by Marian Keyes.
Why did he take it all so seriously? And why would people want to leave before their two months were up? We expect your cooperation. I just wanted a nice, hassle-free rest. Then Dr. Billings went extra-weird on me. Do you want to be helped to recover from your addictions? Just not as OK as I had expected. To hell with it, I thought uncomfortably. Think of the magazine reading, the jacuzzis, the exercise, the sunbeds. Think of rubbing shoulders with celebrities.
Billings started to outline the conditions of my stay. You will be allowed to either make or receive two phone calls a week. A week? I had to speak to Luke and I might have to make lots of calls. Did it count as a phone call if I got his answering machine? And what if he hung up on me? Why do you say barbaric? I could probably psychoanalyze you. I fought back the urge to stare steadily at Dr. Two phone calls a week?
Drink a lot of it? Dammit, I thought in disappointment. Oh no! I wheeled around the little room in panic, looking for somewhere to get rid of my pre- 54 Marian Keyes cious little bottle or—far preferably—somewhere to hide it so I could retrieve it at a later date. But there was nowhere. No bin or sanitary-towel disposable thing, no handy little nooks and crannies.
It occurred to me that perhaps this dearth of hiding places was deliberate. I found out later that it was. How paranoid were they here? I thought in a burst of impotent anger. Fucking paranoid, fucking mad, fucking fucking fuckers! I stood with the bottle in my hand and felt lightheaded as anger swam into fear and back again. I had to get rid of it somewhere. My purse! I thought joyfully. I could put it in my purse! I looked around again, hoping that I might have missed something.
And quickly. At least not yet.
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I mean, he was bound to eventually, everyone in authority always did, but it was too soon, even for me. A voice in my head interrupted, urging me to get moving and remove any identifying details. I felt like a criminal. I had bigger worries. What was I supposed to do with the empty brown glass bottle?
There was no window that I could open and throw it out of. My purse. Oh no, I kept forgetting. My blood ran cold. They might do a body search. Look at how thorough they were being with my suitcase and handbag. How dare they! In the meantime, where on my body would I carry it? Hardly believing what I was doing, I lifted up my sweater and stuck it under my bra, between my breasts.
But that was agony because my chest was still so badly bruised, so I took it back out. There was nothing else for it, there was nowhere else it could go. I put it in my underpants. The glass was cold against my skin and I felt foolish in the extreme, but I took a couple of steps and it stayed secure.
I felt quite good until I caught a quick mental image of myself and something seemed wrong. How did I end up like this? Surely I was living in New York, young, independent, glamorous, successful? And not twenty-seven, unemployed, mistaken for a drug addict, in a treatment center in the back ass of nowhere with an empty Valium bottle in my underwear?
Drug addict, indeed! Billings interrupted my staring out the window and told me that the other clients, as he called them, were having their lunch. He just missed Helen making grotesque faces at him out the back window as the car disappeared. Despite Helen convincing me that the famous rich people would be segregated from the ordinary folk, hope jumped in my stomach like a frog.
And, of course, the crazy addicts and alcoholics and compulsive overeaters and gamblers who made up the rest of the clientele would be worth a look also. Even more of a pity. In fact the addicts seemed very friendly. They made a great show of making space for me at the table. Once I got a real look at the room, I found it was surprisingly unglamorous. Though it was always possible that the interior designer had meant the yellow, shiny, institutional walls in an ironic postmodern way.
And, of course, linoleum was very fashionable again. The fat old man on my right was shoveling food into his mouth. A compulsive overeater? The fat young one on my left introduced himself as Davy. I would keep a strict distance, but I would always be pleasant and polite, I thought. After all, I was sure that their lives were miserable enough. There was no need for me to add to it. He looked disappointed and stared down at his plate of food.
Mountains of turnips and potatoes and pork chops. I felt it was only polite. I had started something. Once you asked someone what they were in for, it had a domino effect and the whole place felt obliged to tell you the nature of their addiction. It was just like dinner in our house. At least, not yet. I craned my neck to get a good look at her.
Probably a housewife addicted to tranquilizers. Too bad. For a second I thought I might have someone to play with. I got a look at him and my blood quickened perceptibly. And he was really good-looking. But he looked like a bit of an acid casualty.
The bulgy, staring eyes and backcombed hair gave it away. The alcoholics outnumbered the drug addicts by about four to one.
But there was only one gambler, Davy. No wonder he was disappointed. A fat woman in orange overalls banged a plate of pork chops and potatoes down in front of me. I never heard the like!
So knock it off. I would have belted him. How could he be an alcoholic? Even though it might no longer be fashionable, I had been looking forward to fruit. Where was the salad bar? Where were the delicious calorie-counted meals? Where was the freshly squeezed fruit juice? I shoved my plate toward the fat man and it caused uproar. Billings said. They might get upset when they see my special dinner. Worried about me?
What on earth for? And you run the risk of cross-addiction. And what was crossaddiction? You may get the primary addiction under control but become addicted to another substance. No matter how much tinfoil she used, her turkeys always ended up shriveled and dehydrated.
Billings just shrugged. Even though I did. Billings ignored my obvious confusion. Sharing with? I thought, shock being heaped upon shock.
Nicely, of course. She extended a smooth, tanned hand. And why was she vacuuming? My heart sank. Billings called and made for the stairs. The look that Chaquie gave his disappearing back could, as they say, haunt a house. And off he went, up the stairs to the bedrooms, leaving me to carry my own bag. And it weighed a ton. Apart from the fact that it would have been funny when she opened her wardrobe and found every stitch she owned was gone, of course.
As I bumped and banged my way up the lino-covered stairs and past walls with peeling paint, I cursed my bad luck that my stay coincided with the Cloisters being redecorated.
He really was nuts, I thought in a sudden burst of rage. But in the meantime I was uncomfortably aware that it was more like a Dickensian orphanage. When I saw my bedroom I was even more disappointed. Downright puzzled, in fact. It barely held the two tiny single beds that had been shoehorned into it. As I walked past the bed, I heard a faint crackle of static and the hairs on my legs stood up.
There was no room for my pitiful couple of jars of Ponds. What would happen if I was late? Which bed was mine? Where would I get hangers? The bastard, I thought in fury. Lazy, unhelpful. I could have been very upset, you know. What a dump. Think of the jacuzzi, the massage, the seaweed treatment, the mud wraps, the funny stuff they do with the algae. OK, I said grumpily, reluctant to let go of my self-pity.
It had been quite a battle to leave the bedroom. I felt shy and self-conscious and suspected that all the others were talking about me. But, from what I could hear, everyone seemed to be sitting around drinking tea and laughing and chatting and very obviously not talking about me. I sidled in. It was just like going to a party and knowing nobody. A party where there was nothing to drink. I was quite happy to overlook the fact 66 Marian Keyes that his trousers were polyester and that he looked like a bull wearing a curly wig.
All I knew was that he had protected me from Sadie of the orange pinafore and he might thus be an ally. I did a quick scan of it and it seemed to be very full. His ugly face was like a slab of granite. It might have been funny to me, but it was probably a matter of life and death to these poor bastards. I forced myself to look interested.
I turned round. It was one of the short, tubby, middle-aged men that the place was awash with. Just how many brown acrylic sweaters could one building hold? His unexpected kindness made me feel like bursting into tears.
After a while he calmed down a bit and reached out his hand and shook mine. Although I would have preferred to punch him. Especially the terrible things. I would quickly grow to hate him. I was instantly surrounded by men, unfortunately none of them either young or good-looking, who wanted to know all about me.
A pajama top; yes, it was a pajama top. And a mustard-colored cardigan. His own hair was almost nonexistent, but despite that, he had some strands swept over his bald pate from the base of one ear right over to the other.
It 68 Marian Keyes looked as if it had been Superglued to his scalp. He gave me a sickly smile and moved slightly closer. Leave the girl alone. They all laughed at that. In and out. Befriend no one. Unless they were rich and famous, of course.
Offend no one. Misty, I presumed, was the beautiful girl who had strolled languidly across the room, her head held high. Even though she was just wearing jeans and a green sweater, she was stunning. I immediately felt overdressed. She had long red hair, so long that she could 70 Marian Keyes sit on it. If she was so inclined, of course. She sat down at the far end of the table, as far away as she could get from the rest of us, and ignored everyone.
I gazed at her until I was so engulfed by envy that I thought I might puke. I would have loved to be good at being aloof, but I always ruin it. Am I being aloof enough? It seemed as if the collection of men around me held their breath.
They gazed raptly at Misty as she took out a newspaper and started to do the crossword. I shook my head. Well, she did. Of course I had.
You know, behave very badly, then expect everyone to congratulate you when you stop. I was torn between excessive admiration and great jealousy. He sounded almost afraid. I nodded. Mike looked as if he might cry. Clarence sighed, a look of naked hungry devotion on his face. She looked up and smiled sweetly. Her red hair caught the light and became spun gold. She looked beautiful, vulnerable and appealing.
Mike obviously thought so 72 Marian Keyes too. He was so still that I was afraid to move while a long taut look stretched between the two of them. But wait! She was going to speak again! Smirking, she picked up her newspaper and slowly wiggled out of the room. All eyes were on her as she jutted one skinny little hip, then the other.
None of the men spoke until she had disappeared. Then, looking slightly dazed, they reluctantly turned their attention back to me. Even though, of course, I had no intention of getting involved with any of the people there. Despite myself, I was uncomfortably aware that I felt very much in awe of her beautiful aloof quality. Quick, Rachel, quick! I drew even nearer to him.
There were six inmates, most of whom I recognized from the dining room. My stomach went into a little knot when I saw Vincent because he positively bristled with aggression.
Either the pop stars had their own group, which seemed most likely, or they were in with Barry Grant or the Sour Kraut. Josephine arrived. I checked her out with great interest. She was a nun, but a modern hip one, or so she clearly liked to think. But she looked nice, sweet, actually. With her round, bright blue eyes she was just like Mickey Rooney.
As soon as she sat down, everyone stared at their feet in silence. All traces of the laughter and the conversation of the lunch had disappeared. The silence stretched on and on and on. I looked from one face to another in amusement. Why so anxious, everyone? John Joe was the old man. In fact, he was ancient, with huge eyebrows and a black suit that was shiny with age. I later discovered that this was the suit he wore on special occasions.
When would the shouting and recriminations start? I had thought that group therapy would be a lot more dynamic and nasty than this. He was brought up on a farm, had never married and now lived on the same farm with his brother. He read slowly and quietly. Another silence followed. More peeping. He was the kind of man who might hide in a bush when a car passed him on the road. A mountainy man. A man of the land.
Eventually, Josephine spoke. She sounded a lot more scary than her harmless exterior would lead you to expect. No mention of the cattle you sold without telling your brother? No mention of the second mortgage you took out on the land? I wondered in excitement. Who would have thought it? A harmless old man like him?
He sat as still as a statue, so I gathered it must be true. Even me for a moment. Tell the group about your drinking. I would have been raging.
In fact I was raging. After all, the poor man had done his best. John Joe just smiled that benign smile again. Tell me who had a drink.
How cruel. She was not so much Micky Rooney as Dennis Hopper. But trying to get information out of him was like trying to get blood out of a turnip.
He was all shrugs and not too many hard facts. More shrugs, more gentle smiles. He was even starting to irritate me now. There was bound to be a good Irish economic explanation. This one seemed to be a common problem in rural Ireland, cropping up again and again in agrarian folklore. I had spent a summer in Galway once, I knew about these things. On and on whittled Josephine, asking questions that were ever more brazen.
How could she ask such a thing? A man of his age? He gazed steadfastly at his boots. That John Joe had lost his virginity to a sheep? John Joe sat as if he were made of stone. The rest of us were much the same. I held my breath. The voyeuristic thrill was nearly canceled out by the feeling that I was trespassing. The silence stretched on forever. How awful to have such a cliffhanger end to a session.
It was like a soap opera, only worse, because it was real. I caught up with Mike. Josephine asks all kinds of questions in the hope that one of them touches a nerve. She casts her nets widely. I was used to the predictable drama prescribed by Hollywood.
Now do we go for the massages? I watched the others intently, anticipation zinging my nerve endings, to see where they were going. Down the corridor, round the corner and. Maybe they were just having a quick cup before rushing to their session in the sauna?
I sat down, perched on the edge of my chair, and refused a cup of tea. My eyes darted anxiously from one cup of tea to another. Come on, I urged silently, drink them quickly! But the tea was consumed with excruciating slowness. I felt like frantically grabbing the cups and drinking it for them.
Then, as they drained the dregs in unbearably relaxed fashion, I was aghast to see them languidly pick up a teapot and pour a second cup, which they sipped with lazy enjoyment.
OK, I reasoned nervously, maybe after the second cup? Maybe after tea was when it all happened? Perhaps I was afraid that the ordinary clients like Mike and John Joe would think I was shallow if I seemed too concerned with the luxury treatments or where the celebrities were housed?
In fact, I realized, they were probably expecting me to ask about them. That way they were bound to like me. I looked around the table. They were still at it, heaping spoonfuls of sugar into cups and knocking back tea and remarking on how nice it was. How sad for them. I was alarmed to discover that it belonged to Vincent, Mr. At least, not cigarettes. Oh, how I wished he would go away! He scared me, with his black beard and his big teeth. Lupine, that was the word to describe him, if lupine meant wolf-like.
I turned my back on Vincent as much as I could without seeming rude and found myself face-to-face with strange Clarence. Although I was afraid there would be a repeat of the hair-stroking incident, I reluctantly spoke to him. Because I would have actually liked to talk to him, he totally ignored me. I related my background countless times in the space of a couple of hours. I was in Prague before that. Three questions. It was unbearable. Whenever I came home from Prague on my holidays, I was a woman on the edge, tensed against hearing The Three Questions one more time.
Too wholesome, outdoorsy and undebauched for me. If there had been slightly less of the weekend skiing and hill walking and a bit more of the staying out till dawn in a succession of clubs, I might have liked it more. As I was being quizzed by Eddie, the man with the bright 82 Marian Keyes red face, about the price of everything in Prague, the goodlooking lad came into the dining room.
Christy sat down a couple of places away from me. This threw me into such excited confusion that I lost my conversational thread and told Eddie that beer was much more expensive in Prague than in Ireland. He looked very surprised and stepped up his interrogation. More expensive or cheaper? I just ummed and ahhed vaguely. I was too busy giving Christy a thorough if sidelong examination.
I had been right.
He was good-looking. Even outside the Cloisters he would be. A little voice protested that it still preferred Luke, but I immediately silenced it. I intended to fall for this Christy whether I liked it or not.
I could only spare one because Eddie was such a demanding conversationalist. I stared sidelong at Christy as he talked energetically to the Stalin-mustache man.
Christy had my favorite type of mouth. But in a highly appealing way. A quirky mouth, whose corners turn up or down as if they have a life of their own. People blessed with this type of mouth always look slightly wry. I continued giving Chris the discreet once-over. Even his hair was nice. Wheat-colored, and cut well. Despite his mobile, quirky mouth, he looked like a man, one you could depend on. I thought he was gorgeous, except, of course, for his height.
Which was a disappointment, but one I was familiar with. But despite that, there was some very pleasing body action going on. He was thin. Not in a pale, concave, weedy, toast-rack-for-ribs, baguettes-for-thighs kind of way.
Lean would be a better word to describe him. His sleeves were shoved up and he had strong-looking forearms that I wanted to touch. And he had great legs.
They were a tiny bit shorter than would be considered ideal. If I thought a man was good-looking, the addition of shortish legs pushed him into the realm of very sexy.
It might have had something to do with an indication of sturdiness. Or the suggestion of a thick willy. They were the caviar of the leg world. Men with lanky legs often put me in mind of giraffes and E. Christy was in no way effeminate. If we fell in love. And if he came back to New York with me and we met Luke.
And if Luke was devastated, and found out that he re- 84 Marian Keyes ally loved me and begged me to leave Christy. What Christy and I have is real.
Christy was one of them, which surprised me because in my head he was still humiliating Luke. What the. What on earth. What the hell were they doing? To my amazement, the inmates were setting the table! I had thought they were rattling the silverware to let the kitchen staff know they were ready for their tea. But, no. The rattling had merely been a prelude to the table being set. They ferried jugs of milk, sliced bread and distributed dishes of butter and jars of jam the length of the table.
Unlimited quantities, according to Clarence. I felt a cold hand clutch my heart and my loaded fork came screeching to a halt just before I stuffed it into my mouth. It was the sound of John Joe eating! It was really loud.
In fact, it was becoming louder. How come no one else seemed to notice? My ears had suddenly become like those powerful microphones used by documentary makers to record ants breathing. My shoulders got tenser and tenser until they were nearly up around my ears. The smacking and chewing be- 86 Marian Keyes came louder and louder until it was all I could hear. It was revolting.
I felt acute rage, boiling, killing anger. Instead I fantasized about turning to him and belting him really hard, swinging my arm across his chest and thumping the chomping noises out of him.
No wonder no one would marry him, I thought, in a fury. Serves him right for never losing his virginity. The noise of a particularly enthusiastic mouthful reached me. This was unbearable! I threw my knife and fork down on my plate with a loud clatter. I would not eat another mouthful under these conditions. To compound my annoyance, no one noticed that I had stopped eating. Least of all that stupid old slurpy bastard John Joe. As well as wanting to burst into tears.
Neither of which were like me. I was a happy-golucky person most of the time.
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And I was glad I was there. After the chips, there was cake. John Joe enjoyed it. They probably heard him in Peru. But then, while I sat hunched into a ball of tense anger, imaging John Joe being tortured, the brown sweater who had been sitting on my other side got up and Christy appeared in his place. Is it OK if I sit here for a while? His chlorine-bright eyes were so blue they looked as if the light must hurt them. Like me, like me! Where was I from, what age was I etc. No, you can get most things that you can get here.
It was gorgeous, wryness going on right, left and center. Luke just thought he was cool and dangerous and living on the edge. But he had nothing on Chris. I mean, Chris was a drug addict.
Beat that, Luke Costello! And while I was all for men being cool, and being drug addicts if need be, I was middle-class enough to be relieved that Chris was well-spoken and articulate.
Great theater, great fringe productions. It had bodypainting and nipple piercing actually live on stage. She begged Luke and me to come and provide immoral support, she even offered to pay for us. But the thing was so awful we left after half an hour, even Brigit. And went to the nearest bar, got drunk and made up pretend reviews.
I closed my mind to the feelings of loss as I remembered that evening. The inmates were scraping plates and loading them onto a trolley. Why are they doing it? I wondered in confusion. But then, as I ran up to my room to quickly redo my makeup in honor of whatever happened after tea, I passed the kitchen. She had to stand on a chair to do it.
I never felt that anything I did was right. But the other way around, with Misty helping, I felt lazy and worthless. So when I got back I tried wandering aimlessly round with a butter dish until one of the sweaters stopped me. I was delighted. I wondered what that meant. He was pulling my leg. The pain of his rejection increased from a background hum to acute misery.
I needed a distraction and fast. It must be time for the massage and the gym and all that, it really must. Hysteria rose from the pit of my stomach to contract my throat.
Sweat prickled my scalp and I was suddenly propelled into positive action. I found myself on my feet, looking for Mike. Strangely, I found that the great rage had left me breathless. I was torn between curiosity and reluctance to spend time with him. But he was already racing out of the room, so, still gasping for breath, I followed him.
First stop was the sitting-room. Like the rest of the place, it was in the middle of being redecorated.
All the furniture had been moved out except for a couple of threadbare couches and there were lumps of plaster on the carpet which must have fallen down from the ceiling.
The windows were being replaced, but in the meantime a bitter wind rattled through the room. There was only one person there. I was surprised there was anyone at all, considering the Siberian temperatures.
When we got closer I saw that it was Davy, the lone gambler. He was on the edge of the couch intently watching a game show. Davy jumped, he literally jumped, and hurriedly hopped up and turned off the television.
It too was being redecorated. Despite that, there was a good number of the inmates there. Even though it was called the Reading Room, they were all writing. What were they writing? Because that was what they were all doing. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and desperation. I was relieved to leave. What was he about to show me? The gym? The celebrity wing? The swimming pool? His bedroom actually. Now that my anger had receded I was left with feelings of shame and a desire to be very nice.
That was the usual sequence of events. And I could hardly believe what I saw! It was crammed with beds. Each bed was in contact with at least one other. I laughed. I thought he was funny. So back down we traipsed. Back to the dining room, where about ten of them were still sitting. Still drinking tea, still heaping spoonfuls of sugar into their mugs, still lighting cigarette after cigarette. They loved the dining room, it seemed to be some sort of spiritual home. They probably never even left the dining room.
None of them gave a damn about their bodies or the way they looked, that was glaringly obvious. Except for Chris. He had disappeared, and I was willing to bet I knew where he was. While I sat there I began to feel—there was no getting away from it—depressed. And thoughts of Luke were back in my head. The glamour that I was depending on to take my mind off him remained tantalizingly out of sight. Just as it occurred to me, accompanied by a violent lurch of my stomach, that there might be two Cloisters, and that I was in the wrong one, Clarence came in.
His face was bright red, his hair was wet and he was grinning ear to ear. With those words my heart leapt with joy. And, I had to admit, relief. Now that I had proof, my fears seemed silly. Laughable even. I feel really good after it. I recoiled in disgust.
I was revolted. What did he have to mention his jockeys for? Which was a pity, seeing as I had just started to like him. Clarence sat down and the conversation returned to whatever it had been before he arrived. I suddenly felt very, very sleepy and unable to concentrate on what the men were saying.
All I could hear was the murmur of their voices, rising and falling, as conversation waxed and waned. Our bedroom was just off the main room and my sisters and I would fall asleep to the murmuring voices of the local men who came to visit Granny. I wanted to go to bed, but I was paralyzed by the fear that I would draw attention to myself if I stood up and said good night. I had made a big mistake by ever sitting down.
I always hated being tall. This time it really was about my height and the fact that I hunched over so badly I was almost folded in two.
I mean, my own mother. As soon as she had gone, Claire burst into the room and grabbed me. Naturally, I believed everything she told me. I nodded solemnly. She was so wise! And I found it to be true. Fat chance! A special treat, the not-taking-off-mymakeup one, reserved for evenings of particular exhaustion. Or inebriation, of course. To my dismay, I found Chaquie already in the bedroom. She was sitting on her bed, elegant ankles crossed, as she gave herself what appeared to my untutored eye to be a manicure.
I had never needed a manicure to tidy up my nails. My lifelong habit of biting them to the quick did just as well. Would I have to talk to her. The noises that come out of that man. He must eat with the pigs at home. I was more lost than I had known it was possible for any human being to be.
The Other Side of the Story is an exploration of modern love, rivalry and the complexities of friendship. Witty and poignant, Angels is the third novel in the Walsh Sisters series by bestselling author Marian Keyes.
Twenty-seven, unemployed, mistaken for a drug addict, in a treatment centre in the back arse of nowhere with an empty Valium bottle in my knickers. So I avoid any stating of my age, like, ever, in the hope that if no one says it, no one will know about it and I can stay age- free until the end of time. It was the worst idea ever to admit my news to Maura, but she has a knack for getting the truth out of people.
We call her the Waterboarder. She can always smell a story. If only it was that simple. Letting him leave was my best chance of saving my marriage. I nod. When will the drama stop? Why are you all such disasters? Yes, I have an over-developed sense of responsibility but. My siblings and I like to joke that her husband TPB — The Poor Bastard — developed spontaneous mutism shortly after their wedding and that no one has heard him speak for the past twenty-one years.
She seems surprised. It takes a few moments for her words to sink in. Then, to my great surprise, something stirs in me, something hopeful that, after the last five horrible days, feels like the sweetest relief. In a small recess of my soul a tiny pilot light sparks into life.
Discover Marian's books. Walsh family books. Marian's latest book. Find out more. Marian's books Walsh family Spotlight Marian's latest book. The Break. download fromIt was really loud. The silence stretched on forever. It was hard enough to get him to say hello whenever I called home and it was one of the rare occasions when he answered the phone.
Work in the hotel where I was an assistant manager had become harder and harder to do. He sounded almost afraid. I was disappointed, but not too disappointed. This was unbearable! Fearfully, I tried to set things right. Brigit had heard about it through her job and apparently it would have a couple of famous, good-looking men and enough free drinks to sink a battleship.
After a while he calmed down a bit and reached out his hand and shook mine.
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