Read Online Mr Right for the Night by Marisa Mackle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marisa Mackle
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particular. Her head was like a fairground complete with roller coasters and a big wheel. Everything was spinning around fast and furiously, and then something just suddenly snapped. She’d had enough. Her safe little flat in Ranelagh seemed very appealing right now. Wouldn’t it be great to be like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz , click your fingers and simply say ‘Home Sweet Home’ or whatever the hell she had said.
‘Safe home now,’ the bouncer said as she braced herself for the freezing night air.
‘Thank you.’ She gave him a watery smile. That’s exactly where she wanted to be. Safe. Home. Now. She wished she’d worn a comfortable pair of boots. These heels were a killer. She tottered up to the traffic lights. And waited. Nothing. She decided to keep walking to prevent her feet from freezing into two blocks of ice. She looked around desperately for a glowing yellow taxi sign. A couple of occupied cabs seemed to be hurrying in the opposite direction, the occupants staring sadistically out of the windows.
None stopped for poor Anna.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I hope Anna’s okay.’ Claire was full of concern as her husband drove them home to the comfort of their three-bed semi, minutes from Ranelagh village.
‘Anna’s fine,’ Simon said matter-of-factly. ‘She’s a big girl now – well able to look after herself.’
‘I hate leaving her alone in that place, you know, with all those sleazes.’
‘I would have given her a lift if she’d wanted.’
Simon stopped at the red lights, laid a gentle hand on his young wife’s knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t worry about her,’ he smiled. ‘She’s probably talking to the man of her dreams this very minute.’
Claire genuinely doubted it. She couldn’t remember the last time Anna had met a man who was even vaguely suitable. She did it on purpose, Claire reckoned. She shunned security. Now and again she’d go through phases of claiming to crave love and marriage, yet at the mere mention of kids, Anna’s eyes would glaze over as she suppressed yawn after yawn.
Simon pulled up slowly outside the front door. It wasn’t even two a.m. yet and they were safely home. Mr And Mrs Married . Claire gave a short laugh. Anna wouldn’t want this for the world.
Fiona, the eighteen-year-old babysitter, was relieved to see them.
‘I didn’t think you’d be home so soon,’ she said brightly, gratefully pocketing her twenty quid. ‘The other couple I babysit for don’t come home till all hours.’
‘Ah, sure we don’t see the point in staying out half the night.’ Simon handed Fiona her coat. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Claire muttered as her husband closed the front door. She couldn’t help but feel slightly peeved at his throwaway remark. What about her? Maybe she might have liked to stay out half the night. Simon often had a night out with the lads. God knew, she rarely got the chance. It would have been nice to spend a bit more time with Anna. To have got a little hammered. Maybe carried each other home, unintentionally popping into Abrakebabra for a kebab and chips . . .
Claire climbed the stairs wearily. Those days were well and truly gone now. Simon had seen to that. It was all about responsibility these days. Mortgages and money matters. Promotions not emotions. Stockmarkets and supermarkets. Aiming high and DIY. Computing and commuting. It was all so . . . so . . . like the way her father had lived. Only worse. Much worse in fact. When her father had joined the bank in the late sixties, he’d simply had to keep his head down and patiently wait for promotion. It would come to him in good time, her mother would remind him as she baked the daily bread.
All that was done away with now. The roar of the Celtic Tiger and all that. No waiting around these days, thank you very much. Except for office colleagues waiting to cut your throat. Or hang you by the balls. Or stab your designer-clad back. It
‘Safe home now,’ the bouncer said as she braced herself for the freezing night air.
‘Thank you.’ She gave him a watery smile. That’s exactly where she wanted to be. Safe. Home. Now. She wished she’d worn a comfortable pair of boots. These heels were a killer. She tottered up to the traffic lights. And waited. Nothing. She decided to keep walking to prevent her feet from freezing into two blocks of ice. She looked around desperately for a glowing yellow taxi sign. A couple of occupied cabs seemed to be hurrying in the opposite direction, the occupants staring sadistically out of the windows.
None stopped for poor Anna.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I hope Anna’s okay.’ Claire was full of concern as her husband drove them home to the comfort of their three-bed semi, minutes from Ranelagh village.
‘Anna’s fine,’ Simon said matter-of-factly. ‘She’s a big girl now – well able to look after herself.’
‘I hate leaving her alone in that place, you know, with all those sleazes.’
‘I would have given her a lift if she’d wanted.’
Simon stopped at the red lights, laid a gentle hand on his young wife’s knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t worry about her,’ he smiled. ‘She’s probably talking to the man of her dreams this very minute.’
Claire genuinely doubted it. She couldn’t remember the last time Anna had met a man who was even vaguely suitable. She did it on purpose, Claire reckoned. She shunned security. Now and again she’d go through phases of claiming to crave love and marriage, yet at the mere mention of kids, Anna’s eyes would glaze over as she suppressed yawn after yawn.
Simon pulled up slowly outside the front door. It wasn’t even two a.m. yet and they were safely home. Mr And Mrs Married . Claire gave a short laugh. Anna wouldn’t want this for the world.
Fiona, the eighteen-year-old babysitter, was relieved to see them.
‘I didn’t think you’d be home so soon,’ she said brightly, gratefully pocketing her twenty quid. ‘The other couple I babysit for don’t come home till all hours.’
‘Ah, sure we don’t see the point in staying out half the night.’ Simon handed Fiona her coat. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Claire muttered as her husband closed the front door. She couldn’t help but feel slightly peeved at his throwaway remark. What about her? Maybe she might have liked to stay out half the night. Simon often had a night out with the lads. God knew, she rarely got the chance. It would have been nice to spend a bit more time with Anna. To have got a little hammered. Maybe carried each other home, unintentionally popping into Abrakebabra for a kebab and chips . . .
Claire climbed the stairs wearily. Those days were well and truly gone now. Simon had seen to that. It was all about responsibility these days. Mortgages and money matters. Promotions not emotions. Stockmarkets and supermarkets. Aiming high and DIY. Computing and commuting. It was all so . . . so . . . like the way her father had lived. Only worse. Much worse in fact. When her father had joined the bank in the late sixties, he’d simply had to keep his head down and patiently wait for promotion. It would come to him in good time, her mother would remind him as she baked the daily bread.
All that was done away with now. The roar of the Celtic Tiger and all that. No waiting around these days, thank you very much. Except for office colleagues waiting to cut your throat. Or hang you by the balls. Or stab your designer-clad back. It
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