Read Online If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back by Claudia Carroll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Claudia Carroll
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wave, then jump up and down, then stick my face right up close to it, the way presenters do directly to camera on kids’ TV shows.
Big fat nada.
So this is it, then, I think.
I’m really dead.
I mean, it’s not like I didn’t already know, it’s just that somehow, being back here, in this dimension, if that doesn’t sound too Star Trek -ky, is really hammering it home. Half of me just wants to pull whatever emergency cord there is and yank myself out of here, or else find a tardis and make a run for it, like they do on Doctor Who , but the other half is, well . . . a bit curious, if I’m being honest. I mean, it’s not like I just moved out of this house in a huff or something, I actually died.
All the things I wanted to do and never got to. Like having a baby. Taking a train ride through India. Paying off my credit card. Finally getting around to writing my novella. Meeting Johnny Depp. Telling everyone my Oscar picks for next year. Then I think about the sheer amount of time I wasted worrying about crap. Not fitting into my skinny jeans any more. Will Amy Winehouse get her act together? Is Prince William losing his hair? Would Ikea ever open in Dublin?
Oh my God, I wonder what my funeral was like? Who am I kidding? By that I really mean one thing: was James there, and did he cry embarrassingly copious amounts? Or maybe give a big graveside oration? Make a holy show of himself telling everyone now that I was gone, his life might as well be over, too? After five years together he must have felt something or . . . was the bastard back here that night with his new girlfriend cracking open a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape?
Then I think about Mum, and suddenly all I want is to be with her. What must she be going through? I mean, she gets unbelievably, irrationally distraught when her satellite dish goes on the blink and she has to miss an episode of Agatha Christie’s Marple , her favourite TV show, so I dread to think how she’s dealing with this. Then there’s poor old Kate who had to take a full week off work when her Labrador was put down . . . how is she coping? And Fiona, too . . . oh shit, you know what? I have to get out of here. Right now. I have to find them all, and let them know that I’m OK and that Dad’s OK, and that there’s nothing for anyone to be worried or upset about, and that I’m going to do everything I can to help them and work all sorts of little miracles for them.
Just from this side of the fence, that’s all.
I stride over to the door, grab the handle and . . . my hand just swipes clean through it. I try again and again, but no joy. Honestly, it’s like slicing a knife through butter.
Oh, for f*ck’s sake, does this mean I’m going to be trapped here until James decides to show up and let me out?
As if on cue, there’s a deep, rumbling, oh-shit-isit-morning-already moan from under a big mound of duvet, and I nearly leap into the air with the fright.
I don’t believe it, he’s here. Actually in the room with me. My heart’s having palpitations, and then I remember . . . he can’t see me. To all intents and purposes, I might as well be the invisible woman.
I stand there, completely frozen as, first, his fist comes out from under the mound of bedclothes, and then his head appears, with the hair standing up on end, like he’s just stuck two fingers into a plug socket. You should see the state of him: right now, Russell Brand is probably better groomed. He’s looking dog-rough and dishevelled, with the eyes completely bloodshot.
Good.
He looks around, disorientated, then picks up the clock on the bedside table. Just gone eleven a.m. Which is about the normal time he’d be getting out of bed at. He shoves the clock back and slumps back on to the pillows, rubbing his eyelids with the palms of his hands. It’s a gesture I’ve seen him do a thousand times, but right now, it’s making the breath physically catch at the back of my throat. I feel like an intruder in my
Big fat nada.
So this is it, then, I think.
I’m really dead.
I mean, it’s not like I didn’t already know, it’s just that somehow, being back here, in this dimension, if that doesn’t sound too Star Trek -ky, is really hammering it home. Half of me just wants to pull whatever emergency cord there is and yank myself out of here, or else find a tardis and make a run for it, like they do on Doctor Who , but the other half is, well . . . a bit curious, if I’m being honest. I mean, it’s not like I just moved out of this house in a huff or something, I actually died.
All the things I wanted to do and never got to. Like having a baby. Taking a train ride through India. Paying off my credit card. Finally getting around to writing my novella. Meeting Johnny Depp. Telling everyone my Oscar picks for next year. Then I think about the sheer amount of time I wasted worrying about crap. Not fitting into my skinny jeans any more. Will Amy Winehouse get her act together? Is Prince William losing his hair? Would Ikea ever open in Dublin?
Oh my God, I wonder what my funeral was like? Who am I kidding? By that I really mean one thing: was James there, and did he cry embarrassingly copious amounts? Or maybe give a big graveside oration? Make a holy show of himself telling everyone now that I was gone, his life might as well be over, too? After five years together he must have felt something or . . . was the bastard back here that night with his new girlfriend cracking open a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape?
Then I think about Mum, and suddenly all I want is to be with her. What must she be going through? I mean, she gets unbelievably, irrationally distraught when her satellite dish goes on the blink and she has to miss an episode of Agatha Christie’s Marple , her favourite TV show, so I dread to think how she’s dealing with this. Then there’s poor old Kate who had to take a full week off work when her Labrador was put down . . . how is she coping? And Fiona, too . . . oh shit, you know what? I have to get out of here. Right now. I have to find them all, and let them know that I’m OK and that Dad’s OK, and that there’s nothing for anyone to be worried or upset about, and that I’m going to do everything I can to help them and work all sorts of little miracles for them.
Just from this side of the fence, that’s all.
I stride over to the door, grab the handle and . . . my hand just swipes clean through it. I try again and again, but no joy. Honestly, it’s like slicing a knife through butter.
Oh, for f*ck’s sake, does this mean I’m going to be trapped here until James decides to show up and let me out?
As if on cue, there’s a deep, rumbling, oh-shit-isit-morning-already moan from under a big mound of duvet, and I nearly leap into the air with the fright.
I don’t believe it, he’s here. Actually in the room with me. My heart’s having palpitations, and then I remember . . . he can’t see me. To all intents and purposes, I might as well be the invisible woman.
I stand there, completely frozen as, first, his fist comes out from under the mound of bedclothes, and then his head appears, with the hair standing up on end, like he’s just stuck two fingers into a plug socket. You should see the state of him: right now, Russell Brand is probably better groomed. He’s looking dog-rough and dishevelled, with the eyes completely bloodshot.
Good.
He looks around, disorientated, then picks up the clock on the bedside table. Just gone eleven a.m. Which is about the normal time he’d be getting out of bed at. He shoves the clock back and slumps back on to the pillows, rubbing his eyelids with the palms of his hands. It’s a gesture I’ve seen him do a thousand times, but right now, it’s making the breath physically catch at the back of my throat. I feel like an intruder in my
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