Read Online Ordinary Miracles by Grace Wynne-Jones - Free Book Online Page A

have so many old photos. So many faces that I saved from the black plastic bags. One day I must sort them – put them into albums. I must.
    I can see the face of the man who’s humming. It’s reflected in the window. He’s got his eyes half-closed and his shirt half-open. His expression is soft and dreamy. Soon I’m dreaming too.
    I’m dancing alone and then…then someone comes along and I stop.
    He’s hugging me. I feel I know him so well.
    He’s burying his face in my hair and pressing me so close.
    As if I’m someone precious.
    As if we’ve both been waiting for this moment for a long, long time.

Chapter 8
     
     
     
    ‘The thing you have to realise about men,’ says Susan, ‘is they’re all married.’ It’s Saturday morning. We’re in Charlie’s sitting-room eating freshly made white toast which, after all the wholesome wholemeal bread I’ve been having lately, is a great treat. I dashed down to the shop earlier to buy the freshest, most fibreless loaf I could find.
    ‘Of course they’re not all married,’ I say between munches. ‘It’s statistically impossible. Anyway, Charlie isn’t married. That’s one for starters.’
    ‘You know what I mean.’ Susan is not pleased at being denied the pleasure of her sweeping generalisation. ‘Once you get to our age most of the men we meet are married.’
    ‘Or engaged.’
    ‘Very few of them are engaged, Jasmine. Eoin is obviously a late-starter.’
    ‘Women don’t talk like this in America.’ I’ve always found this a comforting assumption.
    ‘Yes they do. They talk like this everywhere.’
    ‘No they don’t,’ I persist. ‘Remember those fortysomethings we met in California? They were all changing careers, and men, and going to Alaska or Hawaii or someplace. They were as happy as clams.’
    ‘How do you know clams are happy?’ Susan asks peevishly. ‘That’s a very American remark.’
    ‘Look, are you trying to make some point here?’
    ‘Well,’ Susan looks a bit furtive. ‘Actually, I suppose I am in a way.’
    ‘And what is it?’
    ‘I don’t want you to completely dismiss the idea of going back to Bruce.’
    I glower at her. ‘I haven’t completely dismissed it. I think about it a lot.’
    ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’
    I look out the window at Rosie. She’s lying on her side in her pen resting in the sunshine. Rosie rests a lot.
    ‘I don’t like this picture you’re painting, Susan.’ I chomp my toast feistily.
    ‘I’m not painting any picture.’
    ‘Yes you are. You’re trying to make out that I’m facing a lonely, loveless life brightened only by one-night stands with men over for rugby internationals – if any of them will have me.’
    ‘I never said anything about rugby internationals,’ Susan protests.
    ‘Have you any idea what it’s like? Discovering that your husband has been fucking someone in your own bed?’
    ‘I should imagine it’s pretty awful.’
    ‘Yes it is. So ease up on the easy advice. Okay?’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘Because you’ve no idea what it’s like.’
    ‘Okay. Okay. You’ve made your point.’ Susan is buttering herself another slice of toast. So much for our war on cellulite.
    ‘That’s what Bruce says to me. He says, “Come back Jasmine, you’ve made your point”.’
    ‘Well, maybe you have.’ Susan is sitting in the lotus position. She’s much better at yoga than me. She’s getting a ll philosophical now and I’m not sure I can stand it. ‘Lots of marriages survive infidelity, Jasmine.’
    ‘Really. So when did you become such an expert on the subject?’
    A pained expression flits for an instant across Susan’s face. Then she looks at me sternly. ‘We’re talking about you, not me. I know you won’t like me saying this, but sometimes I think all this isn’t just to do with Cait Carmody. Sometimes I think something else is going on too.’
    ‘Oh, do you? Well that’s a great help, Susan. That really is. Could you tell me what it is? I’d really like