Read Online Friends Like Us by Siân O'Gorman - Free Book Online

cool and everything but I am so excited. I mean, it’s only Versace, isn’t it. Haw haw! I need more of this.’ She drank more coffee. ‘So here I am. Little old me. And it’s fab-u-lous. Worth waiting for. Can’t wait to show you!’
    Steph realised that if she endured one more nanosecond of this assault on her senses then she might combust. I’ve put up with her for years, she thought. And I haven’t said anything. I’ve allowed us to be friends and I’ve allowed this situation to happen. No self-respecting woman would have put up with this. Why have I? Even if she isn’t shagging my husband then I must get away from her for the sake of my sanity.
    â€˜By the way, you are coming, aren’t you? You didn’t respond to the RSVP… I know how busy you are with… with… you know… whatever. Anyway, it’s at two p.m. But don’t bother coming to the church bit – bore-issimo! We’ll just see you at the house for the real event. Haw haw haw . ’ Miriam’s epiglottis dangled like a condemned man (or woman).
    â€˜Yes, yes, sounds lovely,’ said Steph, hating herself even more. And hating herself for suffering the witterings of the most life-sapping woman on earth. Jesus Christ alive. What had happened to Steph Sheridan, arts history graduate, confident, happy, surrounded by proper friends, people who liked her and weren’t shagging her husband? And who was this joke in her place – Steph Fitzgerald cuckolded wife, fool of the century and general laughing stock?
    Steph zoned out watching Miriam’s mouth move frantically. She would have thought, she mused, that Rick would have better taste. Obviously not. She wondered about Angeline, and what Miriam would say if she knew about her. Did she think they were exclusive? Or was it possible to be exclusive if you were having an affair? A moral conundrum for the modern era.
    â€˜So,’ Miriam was saying, ‘Totally Cheffilly are doing the food – they did Hugh’s fortieth. Remember? God, that pavlova was to die for. No gluten, you get me? Now, is pavlova alkaline?’
    Steph shrugged. ‘Not the foggiest,’ she said, caring not one jot what the pavlova was (except delicious, of course).
    â€˜Anyway, I’ll just have the teensiest crumb of it.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜So, let me tell you this, the nude Jimmy Choo just weren’t right.’ Miriam was on to shoes now. I used to love art and culture. I once wrote essays on Giotto and Giacometti and Gaugin, and now I was listening to drivel about diets and shoes. ‘So Lisa is ordering them from Jimmy himself. Such a sweet man. I met him in London last year. At his workshop. Not exactly Bond Street but full of a-may-zing shoes. My feet are so tiny, he says, like a bird’s, apparently.’
    â€˜Bird’s feet? Aren’t they claws? Is that a good thing?’ She high-fived herself in her head. Small victories had to be acknowledged.
    â€˜Totally, haw-haw, but you know what I mean.’
    I ought to be ashamed of myself, thought Steph. Where’s my pride, where’s my fucking pride.
    Steph watched Miriam quickly re-smear her lips with lipstick, smack them together, and gather her bags. ‘Gotta go, you know,’ said Miriam. ‘Wish I could sit round all day drinking coffee like you but I am just so busy, right? But see you Saturday? And Rachel too. Aoife would die if she didn’t come. And Ricky, too, of course!’
    Ricky?! And she thought she could get away with having an affectionate nickname for my husband. Rick hated being called Ricky. He said once it’s what his (weird and narcissistic) mother used to call him whenever she bothered to be around. Steph wondered if Miriam just used a pet name for him to annoy her, like they had something intimate between them. As though Steph hadn’t a clue just how intimate. And Miriam was the one to bombard