Read Online A Bad Bride's Tale by Polly Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Polly Williams
Ads: Link
the table, picking up her Saturday morn- ing task of shelling peas from the garden. Stevie glared and said, “Privacy?” But Patti didn’t take the hint.
“Stevie, Stevie . . .” Jez sounded distraught. “What’s the matter? You sound terrible.”
Jez was choking on his words, trying to speak. Then he took a deep vibrato breath and composed himself. “Stevie, Dad’s dead.”
“Dead?” Stevie’s hands tingled around the telephone receiver.
Impossible.
“A heart attack at Sainsbury’s, about an hour ago,” he said, as if he scarcely believed it himself. “The freezer aisle. He died in the freezer aisle. Before the ambulance got there.”
“Oh, God. Oh, I am so sorry. Oh, Jez . . .” Stevie didn’t know what to say. It couldn’t be. Not Colin. Not now. “I can’t believe it.”
“It feels like a sick joke.” “Oh, Jez . . .”
“Come home.” Jez’s normally booming voice was barely a whis- per.
“I’ll leave now. Hang in there.”
“Hurry up, babe.” Jez sniffed loudly. “I need you. I really need you, right now.”
EIGHT Æ
despite being locked into his own bubble of grief, like a hamster in a plastic exercise ball, Jez Lewis couldn’t help but notice the tall, lithe blonde scissoring past him on West- bourne Grove, coffee sloshing from a Starbucks cup as her shocking green heels impacted the pavement. She had a small, hard, firm bot- tom, perfectly molded and separated by a pair of skinny dark jeans. Jez Lewis felt his inner caveman stir. He watched for two more too- brief seconds before he continued his sad amble toward the less fashionable end of Bayswater, near Queensway, to his mansion flat on Moscow Road.
Perfect timing. Outside the flat, turning the key in the lock, was Stevie, hair tousled, in baggy boyfriend jeans and one of her prissy vintage silk blouses. “Stevie . . .”
Stevie turned, pulled him toward her. “Jez, I’m so sorry.”
Jez fell into the reassuring dough of her arms. “He’s gone, Stevie.
Dad’s fucking well gone.”
“I know.” Stevie held his hand tight, guiding him up the stairs to their spacious two-bedroom, thirtysomething flat. They stepped
over Jez’s twenty-four-pair trainer collection, which had been in the process of being edited when the news broke. Jez kicked a pair of black Pumas against the wall before collapsing onto the gray, nub- bly Conran sofa. Stevie sat next to him, pressing herself against his side, as if she could suck some of the hurt out of his body into hers. Jez slid down the sofa back, ruching his blue short-sleeved checked shirt, and leaned his head into Stevie’s lap, his bald spot a pale pink disk surrounded by wavy strawberry-blond hair.
Stevie stroked his hair. His head felt unusually heavy on her knee, as if Jez were no longer using any muscles to support himself. His skin was even paler than normal, a Tube map of veins visible in his forehead.
“Why me? Why my dad?” mumbled Jez. “He was only sixty- five.”
“Too young,” said Stevie, suddenly aware that she, too, could die at sixty-five and that meant she still had thirty-one years left, al- most a life again. It seemed quite a long time. “It’s so sad.”
“But he ignored the doctor’s advice last year, didn’t he? Bloody- minded bastard. Went on with his morning sherries and smearing butter two inches thick on his toast, like he was the only person in the world that mattered. But he’d never fucking listen to anyone, would he?” Jez dug thumb and index finger into the bridge of his nose and squeezed so hard it left a red welt.
“He had his ideas about how he wanted to live. And he lived how he wanted. That’s a good thing, I think,” said Stevie quietly, trying to massage some of the grief out of Jez’s shoulders. The knots upset her more than his tears. She’d never felt them so tight or seen Jez—loud, laid-back Jez—so defeated. Or so angry.
“Did he? Did he, really? I don’t think so. Mum and him . . .
Well, it was
“Stevie, Stevie . . .” Jez sounded distraught. “What’s the matter? You sound terrible.”
Jez was choking on his words, trying to speak. Then he took a deep vibrato breath and composed himself. “Stevie, Dad’s dead.”
“Dead?” Stevie’s hands tingled around the telephone receiver.
Impossible.
“A heart attack at Sainsbury’s, about an hour ago,” he said, as if he scarcely believed it himself. “The freezer aisle. He died in the freezer aisle. Before the ambulance got there.”
“Oh, God. Oh, I am so sorry. Oh, Jez . . .” Stevie didn’t know what to say. It couldn’t be. Not Colin. Not now. “I can’t believe it.”
“It feels like a sick joke.” “Oh, Jez . . .”
“Come home.” Jez’s normally booming voice was barely a whis- per.
“I’ll leave now. Hang in there.”
“Hurry up, babe.” Jez sniffed loudly. “I need you. I really need you, right now.”
EIGHT Æ
despite being locked into his own bubble of grief, like a hamster in a plastic exercise ball, Jez Lewis couldn’t help but notice the tall, lithe blonde scissoring past him on West- bourne Grove, coffee sloshing from a Starbucks cup as her shocking green heels impacted the pavement. She had a small, hard, firm bot- tom, perfectly molded and separated by a pair of skinny dark jeans. Jez Lewis felt his inner caveman stir. He watched for two more too- brief seconds before he continued his sad amble toward the less fashionable end of Bayswater, near Queensway, to his mansion flat on Moscow Road.
Perfect timing. Outside the flat, turning the key in the lock, was Stevie, hair tousled, in baggy boyfriend jeans and one of her prissy vintage silk blouses. “Stevie . . .”
Stevie turned, pulled him toward her. “Jez, I’m so sorry.”
Jez fell into the reassuring dough of her arms. “He’s gone, Stevie.
Dad’s fucking well gone.”
“I know.” Stevie held his hand tight, guiding him up the stairs to their spacious two-bedroom, thirtysomething flat. They stepped
over Jez’s twenty-four-pair trainer collection, which had been in the process of being edited when the news broke. Jez kicked a pair of black Pumas against the wall before collapsing onto the gray, nub- bly Conran sofa. Stevie sat next to him, pressing herself against his side, as if she could suck some of the hurt out of his body into hers. Jez slid down the sofa back, ruching his blue short-sleeved checked shirt, and leaned his head into Stevie’s lap, his bald spot a pale pink disk surrounded by wavy strawberry-blond hair.
Stevie stroked his hair. His head felt unusually heavy on her knee, as if Jez were no longer using any muscles to support himself. His skin was even paler than normal, a Tube map of veins visible in his forehead.
“Why me? Why my dad?” mumbled Jez. “He was only sixty- five.”
“Too young,” said Stevie, suddenly aware that she, too, could die at sixty-five and that meant she still had thirty-one years left, al- most a life again. It seemed quite a long time. “It’s so sad.”
“But he ignored the doctor’s advice last year, didn’t he? Bloody- minded bastard. Went on with his morning sherries and smearing butter two inches thick on his toast, like he was the only person in the world that mattered. But he’d never fucking listen to anyone, would he?” Jez dug thumb and index finger into the bridge of his nose and squeezed so hard it left a red welt.
“He had his ideas about how he wanted to live. And he lived how he wanted. That’s a good thing, I think,” said Stevie quietly, trying to massage some of the grief out of Jez’s shoulders. The knots upset her more than his tears. She’d never felt them so tight or seen Jez—loud, laid-back Jez—so defeated. Or so angry.
“Did he? Did he, really? I don’t think so. Mum and him . . .
Well, it was
Similar Books
