Read Online If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back by Claudia Carroll - Free Book Online
Authors: Claudia Carroll
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here doing good on earth. People down there will probably light candles to me, and whoever this hopeless case is, I’ll completely turn them into an honest, upstanding, kind to stray dogs/ doing meals on wheels at weekends/volunteering at soup kitchens/charity-giving-type person . . .
‘Just remember the golden rule, dear. We never, ever interfere with free will. Keep that to the front of your mind, and you’ll be just grand. Yes . . . here we are, I have the charge’s name here. You know, we generally assign to people that you already knew in the mortal plane, makes things so much simpler, really.’
How fab is this? I’m thinking . . . Mum? Kate? Fiona? Someone I don’t know all that well, but whose whole life I’m now about to transform for the better?
‘Right then. I see you know this person intimately, so that should help you a lot. It’s a Mr James Kane.’
Oh F******************************CK . . .
Chapter Four
JAMES
I have never been so totally and utterly shocked in my entire life. Sorry, death. What’s worse is, I can’t even do what I’d normally do, or what any normal person would: i.e., go straight to the nearest pub, order a double vodkatini, then knock it back in a single wrist flick. Because before I’ve even had a chance to a) splutter or b) hurl myself out the nearest window (sure, what the hell, I’m dead anyway) . . . I’m back at home. Bloody hell, I’ll tell you one thing. There is absolutely no arsing around on the angelic plane, that’s for sure.
Sorry, did I say I was back home? I meant back in James’s house, she sez through gritted teeth. In our bedroom, to be exact. I mean his bedroom. In my defence, though, can I just point out that, in the five years since I first moved in here, I’ve poured a lot of my own blood, sweat and tears into the place, so you’ll excuse me for sounding a bit territorial. So would you if you knew the sheer amount of man-hours I spent decorating/scrubbing Dulux’s Himalayan Blush off my clothes/waiting in for hours on plumbers whose entire work-schedule seemed to revolve around the FA Cup Premiership/guarding a ten-tonne skip at the front gate from kids setting fire to it.
You name it, I was that soldier.
I know, I know, technically it is James’s house; he’d bought it not long before we met, mortgaged up to the back teeth, but I was project manager on it because he asked me to be, both of us swept up in the romance of transforming what was then a semi-derelict shithole into a gorgeous period house, close to town, close to the sea, yadda, yadda yadda. Phase one in the taming of James Kane, was my reasoning. OK, so his sole contribution was to put in a Bang & Olufsen TV then leave the rest up to me, but I was more than happy to do it. I mean, everyone knows the direct mathematical correlation between buying a house and spending less time in nightclubs and more in Woodies DIY looking at outdoor decking, don’t they? We’ll be like a couple in a Homebase ad, I blissfully thought.
‘You and me could be so happy here,’ he used to say. ‘We’ll get engaged/exchange vows on a beach some-where/try for a baby really, really soon,’ he’d say.
‘Any idea how soon?’ I’d say, not really caring about which particular order these wondrous miracles would happen in, but understandably anxious to put some kind of time frame on it, without sounding too impatient.
‘Just as soon as this movie gets off the ground/right after I get the green light for this TV series/once I get investors on board/when the LA trip is out of the way,’ he’d say.
Always the dangled carrot, always the magical ‘when’, but there was absolutely no doubt in my mind what he really meant. That as soon as things settled down for him, at some unforeseen date, this would be our permanent home. So, I happily figured, no harm to put my own stamp on the place while I’m at it, sure, it’s an investment in the future, isn’t it? I can’t even explain my
‘Just remember the golden rule, dear. We never, ever interfere with free will. Keep that to the front of your mind, and you’ll be just grand. Yes . . . here we are, I have the charge’s name here. You know, we generally assign to people that you already knew in the mortal plane, makes things so much simpler, really.’
How fab is this? I’m thinking . . . Mum? Kate? Fiona? Someone I don’t know all that well, but whose whole life I’m now about to transform for the better?
‘Right then. I see you know this person intimately, so that should help you a lot. It’s a Mr James Kane.’
Oh F******************************CK . . .
Chapter Four
JAMES
I have never been so totally and utterly shocked in my entire life. Sorry, death. What’s worse is, I can’t even do what I’d normally do, or what any normal person would: i.e., go straight to the nearest pub, order a double vodkatini, then knock it back in a single wrist flick. Because before I’ve even had a chance to a) splutter or b) hurl myself out the nearest window (sure, what the hell, I’m dead anyway) . . . I’m back at home. Bloody hell, I’ll tell you one thing. There is absolutely no arsing around on the angelic plane, that’s for sure.
Sorry, did I say I was back home? I meant back in James’s house, she sez through gritted teeth. In our bedroom, to be exact. I mean his bedroom. In my defence, though, can I just point out that, in the five years since I first moved in here, I’ve poured a lot of my own blood, sweat and tears into the place, so you’ll excuse me for sounding a bit territorial. So would you if you knew the sheer amount of man-hours I spent decorating/scrubbing Dulux’s Himalayan Blush off my clothes/waiting in for hours on plumbers whose entire work-schedule seemed to revolve around the FA Cup Premiership/guarding a ten-tonne skip at the front gate from kids setting fire to it.
You name it, I was that soldier.
I know, I know, technically it is James’s house; he’d bought it not long before we met, mortgaged up to the back teeth, but I was project manager on it because he asked me to be, both of us swept up in the romance of transforming what was then a semi-derelict shithole into a gorgeous period house, close to town, close to the sea, yadda, yadda yadda. Phase one in the taming of James Kane, was my reasoning. OK, so his sole contribution was to put in a Bang & Olufsen TV then leave the rest up to me, but I was more than happy to do it. I mean, everyone knows the direct mathematical correlation between buying a house and spending less time in nightclubs and more in Woodies DIY looking at outdoor decking, don’t they? We’ll be like a couple in a Homebase ad, I blissfully thought.
‘You and me could be so happy here,’ he used to say. ‘We’ll get engaged/exchange vows on a beach some-where/try for a baby really, really soon,’ he’d say.
‘Any idea how soon?’ I’d say, not really caring about which particular order these wondrous miracles would happen in, but understandably anxious to put some kind of time frame on it, without sounding too impatient.
‘Just as soon as this movie gets off the ground/right after I get the green light for this TV series/once I get investors on board/when the LA trip is out of the way,’ he’d say.
Always the dangled carrot, always the magical ‘when’, but there was absolutely no doubt in my mind what he really meant. That as soon as things settled down for him, at some unforeseen date, this would be our permanent home. So, I happily figured, no harm to put my own stamp on the place while I’m at it, sure, it’s an investment in the future, isn’t it? I can’t even explain my
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