Read Online If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back by Claudia Carroll - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Claudia Carroll
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rationale: maybe that by picking out soft furnishings, curtain poles and tablecloths that matched the napkins, I’d somehow seal the deal for him and me. That the Cath Kidston catalogue was all it would take for him to commit to me.
And now I’m back.
I catch my breath and nervously look around the bedroom, not having the first clue what to expect. Nope, everything looks just the way I left it when I was last here, God knows how long ago. The last time I remember everything being normal. Which, given what’s happened in the meantime, is beyond weird. So funny to think that I would have hauled myself out of bed that morning as usual, hopped into the shower, got dressed, gone out the door, worried about a contract that should have arrived at the office the previous day but hadn’t, wondered if I’d be home that night in time for The Apprentice , debated about whether or not I’d cook that night or else leave it to James, who fancies himself as a bit of a Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen, right down to all the effing and blinding. All the normal thoughts and cares and worries that go through our minds every day. And then in the space of one short afternoon, I managed to lose everything. Boyfriend, lover, home, job . . . life. Unbelievable.
I must be alone because the house is so quiet. Whenever James is around, it’s always like a three-ring circus: mobiles going off (he has one for LA and one for Europe, for absolutely no reason that I can see, other than to show off with), people banging at the front door, and him always searching for something he’s lost, demanding to know where it is at the top of his voice. A misplaced script/passport/car keys/a Pop Tart he was eating that’s now vanished into thin air. Honest to God, there are five-year-olds out there who are probably able to take better care of themselves. And the sad thing is that up until my whole life turned upside down, I used to find that carry-on sweet and endearing.
Absolutely nothing has changed. There’s still a squeezed-out tube of cleanser belonging to me lying on the dressing table. An old Hello! magazine with Kate Middleton on the cover that I bought weeks ago is strewn across the bedside table, even some underwear is exactly where I left it: shoved down the back of a radiator. And it’s not the good, sexy La Perla stuff either, it’s a knackered old bra and knickers, gone grey from several thousand washes. (Not my fault, I mean it’s not like I went into Marks & Spencer and said, ‘Do you have anything faded and droopy with hooks missing at the back?’)
Suppose somebody was here and they saw that? is the completely irrational thought that goes through my addled brain, like I’d nothing else to be worried about. Instinctively, I go to whip the offending articles from behind the radiator, but nothing happens.
Shit.
I try again.
Nothing.
I try it slower. Still nothing. I have to do it in slow motion a few times before I finally cop on.
My hand is going clean through them. Definitely. I’m not imagining it.
Anxiously, I look around for something else to experiment with, and my eyes immediately light on a photo of me and Kate taken on her wedding day that’s plonked on the dressing table, beside my GHD hair straighteners. She looks like a young, glamorous Fergie, with the red hair piled elegantly up on her head, all tall, thin and gorgeous; whereas I’m like a shorter, more freckly version of her, stuck in a lime-green bridesmaid’s dress (not a good colour if you’re a ginger, trust me), made out of what looks like the same fabric they use to prevent the space shuttle burning up on re-entry.
I try to pick up the picture frame and nothing happens. Same thing. My hands just glide clean through it. And I don’t even feel a thing, there’s no sensation whatsoever. Tentatively, I move towards the mirror on the dressing table and look in. There’s nothing there, no reflection, even though I know I’m standing right in front of it. I
And now I’m back.
I catch my breath and nervously look around the bedroom, not having the first clue what to expect. Nope, everything looks just the way I left it when I was last here, God knows how long ago. The last time I remember everything being normal. Which, given what’s happened in the meantime, is beyond weird. So funny to think that I would have hauled myself out of bed that morning as usual, hopped into the shower, got dressed, gone out the door, worried about a contract that should have arrived at the office the previous day but hadn’t, wondered if I’d be home that night in time for The Apprentice , debated about whether or not I’d cook that night or else leave it to James, who fancies himself as a bit of a Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen, right down to all the effing and blinding. All the normal thoughts and cares and worries that go through our minds every day. And then in the space of one short afternoon, I managed to lose everything. Boyfriend, lover, home, job . . . life. Unbelievable.
I must be alone because the house is so quiet. Whenever James is around, it’s always like a three-ring circus: mobiles going off (he has one for LA and one for Europe, for absolutely no reason that I can see, other than to show off with), people banging at the front door, and him always searching for something he’s lost, demanding to know where it is at the top of his voice. A misplaced script/passport/car keys/a Pop Tart he was eating that’s now vanished into thin air. Honest to God, there are five-year-olds out there who are probably able to take better care of themselves. And the sad thing is that up until my whole life turned upside down, I used to find that carry-on sweet and endearing.
Absolutely nothing has changed. There’s still a squeezed-out tube of cleanser belonging to me lying on the dressing table. An old Hello! magazine with Kate Middleton on the cover that I bought weeks ago is strewn across the bedside table, even some underwear is exactly where I left it: shoved down the back of a radiator. And it’s not the good, sexy La Perla stuff either, it’s a knackered old bra and knickers, gone grey from several thousand washes. (Not my fault, I mean it’s not like I went into Marks & Spencer and said, ‘Do you have anything faded and droopy with hooks missing at the back?’)
Suppose somebody was here and they saw that? is the completely irrational thought that goes through my addled brain, like I’d nothing else to be worried about. Instinctively, I go to whip the offending articles from behind the radiator, but nothing happens.
Shit.
I try again.
Nothing.
I try it slower. Still nothing. I have to do it in slow motion a few times before I finally cop on.
My hand is going clean through them. Definitely. I’m not imagining it.
Anxiously, I look around for something else to experiment with, and my eyes immediately light on a photo of me and Kate taken on her wedding day that’s plonked on the dressing table, beside my GHD hair straighteners. She looks like a young, glamorous Fergie, with the red hair piled elegantly up on her head, all tall, thin and gorgeous; whereas I’m like a shorter, more freckly version of her, stuck in a lime-green bridesmaid’s dress (not a good colour if you’re a ginger, trust me), made out of what looks like the same fabric they use to prevent the space shuttle burning up on re-entry.
I try to pick up the picture frame and nothing happens. Same thing. My hands just glide clean through it. And I don’t even feel a thing, there’s no sensation whatsoever. Tentatively, I move towards the mirror on the dressing table and look in. There’s nothing there, no reflection, even though I know I’m standing right in front of it. I
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