Read Online Running in Heels by Anna Maxted - Free Book Online

fantasy. Everyone flirts at weddings. You just took it a bit far. Si says Chris is notorious. When you’re driven by ambition or drugs—and Chris is driven by both—you are not reliable . You weren’t to know. You were tempted—we all get tempted, we wouldn’t be human otherwise. But you knew the risk. Bottom line, you cheated on Saul and he found out. What did you expect? I know we’ve had our laughs about Saul, but he’s not an idiot. Think how hurt he must be.”
    Babs squeezes my arm and adds in a softer tone, “Come on, Nat. You know I adore you, and I hate to see you upset. But what do you expect me to say?”
    I make a face and scan the room for a large purple hat, as she has obviously ordained herself archbishop without telling me. Even my mother in collaboration with the pope wouldn’t have the gall to come out with a sermon like that.
    I blurt, “My life’s just fallen apart!”
    Babs clunks her mug onto the table. “Your life hasn’t ‘just fallen,’ ” she says. “You dropped it.”
    I want to speak but the words are gummed to the roof of my mouth. I stare at my bitter tea in its brittle new Wedgwood Jade thimble-size cup and wonder how to run away and retain dignity.To my amazement—I assumed she’d carve an A on my forehead and cast me out before I contaminated the marital home—Babs rises, bends, and hugs me. I clutch her.
    â€œGive Saul time, Nat,” she murmurs. “He might come round.”
    I nod and scream inside, “I don’t want him to come round! I want Chris! I don’t want you to be married either!”
    What a brat. I tell myself not to be so silly and selfish. I am pleased for her. I’m just gutted for me . I smile at Babs and say, “You’re right. Thank you. And by the way, the new kitchen looks great. I, I like the way you’ve framed your seating plan.”
    â€œArr! Do you? You sweetheart.” Babs beams, and for a second she’s my old Babs again. Next thing I know, she’s trapped my shoulder in an iron squeeze, vanished and reappeared in the time it takes me to dab my eyes, and announced, “Andy’ll give you a lift home. You’re on his way.”
    I don’t want to go home and I don’t want a lift from Andy. Yet here I am, rattling down Elgin Avenue in a tatty blue Vauxhall Astra, hoping no one sees me, and indulging Andy’s schoolgirl take on romance, which I’ll bet he purloined from an aged copy of Australian Cosmo . Here it is in all its glory:
    â€œI reckon you should treat a new bloke like high-risk stock—you know, imagine your emotions are your savings. The best strategy is to invest 10 percent. Invest all your savings instantly and you’re stuffed!”
    He’s been talking nonsense since Babs waved us off. I knew I was in for a long ride when he said, “So, Natalie. What do you do to relax?”
    What a stupid question! “I go abroad for two weeks every summer,” I replied. (I wanted to add, “although Simon has recently pinched my hunting partner.”) Cue a lecture—if you can believe this—about yoga . Blimey. Being dumped by his fiancée really has hit him hard. And after nine minutes on the wonder of Sivananda yoga (apparently it’s not all about humming with your legs crossed), he suggested I find a relaxation technique—if not yoga, something “to take you out of yourself.” I’d barely grappledwith this affront when he said, “I’ve got this picture in my head of you, Natalie, of when I last saw you. It must have been about four years ago. A load of us went go-carting with Babs, remember?—you were insane! You were going to be first round that track at all costs, and I can just see you, this blur in a white helmet and green overalls, screaming with laughter as you made the finishing line, and then running away from Babs, who was trying