Read Online Do You Want to Know a Secret? by Claudia Carroll - Free Book Online
Authors: Claudia Carroll
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this? A little more upscale and a little less flammable.’
‘Right, just for that, we’re starting with Vicky. Ladies, please set your bladders to “off”.’
‘Excuse me, did you say
starting
with me?’ I say, peering over the top of the fridge and simultaneously trying to bash ice cubes out of a tray for the drinks.
‘If I could jog your sieve-like memory, this caper was entirely your idea, Vicky, so yeah, you’re up first,’ says Barbara, fishing what looks like a shopping list, scribbled on the back of a gas bill, out of her handbag. ‘No point in raising your eyebrow at me either, honey, I missed an entire repeat episode of
Oprah
doing this list out for you. I’m taking my project-management role here very seriously, so you might as well just shut up and listen.’
‘Good girl,’ says Laura, nodding at her, impressed. ‘You not watching daytime television is always a step in the right direction.’
‘Right then,’ Barbara goes on, ignoring her and referring down to her gas bill, sorry, I mean notes. ‘Here’s the way I see it. Oh yeah, and you also have to remember that I’m saying all of this from the standpoint of love.’
‘That an Oprah-ism too?’ asks Laura, one eyebrow raised.
‘Do you mind? As project manager, I’m officially telling you that if you interrupt once more, I’ll make you go into what WILL be the state-of-the-art jacks, and grout tiles for the rest of the night. You’ll get your turn later. Anyway, I think we all know how much you want to be with someone, Vicky . . .’
‘The
right
person,’ I correct her, slowly pouring the drinks out of the cocktail shaker and into three little picnic-sized plastic beakers. ‘Please, dear God, no more emotionally unavailable messers, commitment-phobes, bores that I’ve nothing in common with and I’m only dating out of my pathological fear of being left alone, eejits, half-wits or, worst of all, most damaging of all, the nice guy, the DSM. You know, the one I actually think could be a runner, a keeper, who, after a few perfectly nice nights out, and a few nice kisses and some nice phone calls etc., drops me like a hot snot. Would you like me to back this up with examples, girls? You’ve only to ask, I’ve about two dozen at my fingertips.’
And if I sound like I’m ranting, you’ll excuse me. It’s only because this particular, painful subject is something of a well-worn hobby horse at this stage. The girls, thankfully, are well-used to me.
‘I certainly do take your point about that lethal species, the
nice guy
,’ says Laura, emphasizing her words. ‘At least if you know in advance that a man is a complete bastard, then if nothing else, you’re prepared for heartbreak when it inevitably comes. It’s the
nice guys
that ought to come with a government health warning. Well, I married what I thought was a
nice, decent guy
, didn’t I? And just look how that turned out for all concerned.’
‘So if you can find me a life-partner that fits into the category “none of the above”, I’d be eternally grateful,’ I say. I’m not quite ignoring Laura, but, at the same time I am hoping to avoid getting into a slagging-off-her-soon-to-be-ex-husband marathon, which, let’s face it, could easily go on into the wee small hours. I hate to sound selfish or anything, but we’ve all devoted so much airtime to that particular subject over the years, and it’s most definitely NOT why we’re gathered here tonight.
‘OK, Vicky, I’m stopping you right there,’ says Barbara, firmly. Or at least as firmly as it’s possible to sound, given that she’s also stuffing her face with tortilla chips and a dribbly blue-cheese dip. ‘Just look at what you’re attracting!’
‘I’m not exactly attracting anyone, now am I? Can I just point out that it’s Saturday night and here I am, at home, dateless, living in a building site and sitting on patio furniture borrowed from my mother.’
‘At least you’re working and earning
‘Right, just for that, we’re starting with Vicky. Ladies, please set your bladders to “off”.’
‘Excuse me, did you say
starting
with me?’ I say, peering over the top of the fridge and simultaneously trying to bash ice cubes out of a tray for the drinks.
‘If I could jog your sieve-like memory, this caper was entirely your idea, Vicky, so yeah, you’re up first,’ says Barbara, fishing what looks like a shopping list, scribbled on the back of a gas bill, out of her handbag. ‘No point in raising your eyebrow at me either, honey, I missed an entire repeat episode of
Oprah
doing this list out for you. I’m taking my project-management role here very seriously, so you might as well just shut up and listen.’
‘Good girl,’ says Laura, nodding at her, impressed. ‘You not watching daytime television is always a step in the right direction.’
‘Right then,’ Barbara goes on, ignoring her and referring down to her gas bill, sorry, I mean notes. ‘Here’s the way I see it. Oh yeah, and you also have to remember that I’m saying all of this from the standpoint of love.’
‘That an Oprah-ism too?’ asks Laura, one eyebrow raised.
‘Do you mind? As project manager, I’m officially telling you that if you interrupt once more, I’ll make you go into what WILL be the state-of-the-art jacks, and grout tiles for the rest of the night. You’ll get your turn later. Anyway, I think we all know how much you want to be with someone, Vicky . . .’
‘The
right
person,’ I correct her, slowly pouring the drinks out of the cocktail shaker and into three little picnic-sized plastic beakers. ‘Please, dear God, no more emotionally unavailable messers, commitment-phobes, bores that I’ve nothing in common with and I’m only dating out of my pathological fear of being left alone, eejits, half-wits or, worst of all, most damaging of all, the nice guy, the DSM. You know, the one I actually think could be a runner, a keeper, who, after a few perfectly nice nights out, and a few nice kisses and some nice phone calls etc., drops me like a hot snot. Would you like me to back this up with examples, girls? You’ve only to ask, I’ve about two dozen at my fingertips.’
And if I sound like I’m ranting, you’ll excuse me. It’s only because this particular, painful subject is something of a well-worn hobby horse at this stage. The girls, thankfully, are well-used to me.
‘I certainly do take your point about that lethal species, the
nice guy
,’ says Laura, emphasizing her words. ‘At least if you know in advance that a man is a complete bastard, then if nothing else, you’re prepared for heartbreak when it inevitably comes. It’s the
nice guys
that ought to come with a government health warning. Well, I married what I thought was a
nice, decent guy
, didn’t I? And just look how that turned out for all concerned.’
‘So if you can find me a life-partner that fits into the category “none of the above”, I’d be eternally grateful,’ I say. I’m not quite ignoring Laura, but, at the same time I am hoping to avoid getting into a slagging-off-her-soon-to-be-ex-husband marathon, which, let’s face it, could easily go on into the wee small hours. I hate to sound selfish or anything, but we’ve all devoted so much airtime to that particular subject over the years, and it’s most definitely NOT why we’re gathered here tonight.
‘OK, Vicky, I’m stopping you right there,’ says Barbara, firmly. Or at least as firmly as it’s possible to sound, given that she’s also stuffing her face with tortilla chips and a dribbly blue-cheese dip. ‘Just look at what you’re attracting!’
‘I’m not exactly attracting anyone, now am I? Can I just point out that it’s Saturday night and here I am, at home, dateless, living in a building site and sitting on patio furniture borrowed from my mother.’
‘At least you’re working and earning
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