Read Online Something Good by Fiona Gibson - Free Book Online

it’s not me who went out and got pissed. It’s my daughter.”
    â€œ Our daughter,” Max corrected her. They were lounging on the living room floor with Jane’s sketches spread out all around them. She’d roughly tinted the shapes with water-colors; the colors of nasturtiums and violent poppies. Max picked one up and cocked his head.
    â€œWell,” Jane said, “what d’you think?”
    He traced a finger along the graceful curves. “They’re fantastic, but I’m not going to choose one. I think you should do whatever feels right.”
    She threw him a glance. Working with clients was never this simple. Mr. Pemberton from the Golden Fry had deliberated over her sketches for weeks.
    Of course, this wasn’t a client. This was Max. He went through to the kitchen to make tea, and when he reappeared with two mugs he looked hesitant. “Can I ask you something?” he said.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œRemember that neighbor of mine, the one who—”
    â€œYes, of course I remember.” Why wouldn’t he say her name, Jane wondered?
    He placed the mugs on the floor and stretched out on his side on the rug. “She’s being…persistent.”
    â€œWhat kind of persistent?” Jane asked, trying to keep her voice light.
    â€œShe wants to go out for dinner on Friday.”
    â€œWith you? ”
    â€œDon’t look so shocked. It’s weird, though—she’d booked a table for seven thirty before checking with me. I’m never home from the shop until at least eight, you know that….”
    Jane wasn’t sure if it was the too-early thing that was worrying him, or the whole dinner-with-Veronica thing. Max has a date, she told herself. So what? Look pleased for him, dammit. “Are you going to go?” she asked, some sort of smile on her face.
    He frowned. “I don’t know. I feel…kind of pushed into it.”
    â€œPoor, defenseless Max…” Jane smirked.
    â€œWhat d’you think?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter what I think.”
    She was still telling herself that it really didn’t matter—that Max’s Friday night plans didn’t relate to her life in any way whatsoever—as he wheeled out his bike into the cold, damp night.
    Â 
    Jane couldn’t sleep. She was worried about Hannah being sick again and she was worried about worrying because it was keeping her awake and she’d be exhausted next day at Nippers. Each time she closed her eyes, her mind filled with pictures: of Max’s window—before and after—and the awkward scene when Veronica had flounced into his kitchen. Max had behaved as if two separate sides of his life had been slammed together: the dazzling-new-neighbor side, and Jane. The ex-wife side.
    What did it matter that they were having dinner and God knows what else? Beneath the pushy manner, the overdone face and obsession with strangers’ iron levels, she was probably a perfectly decent person. Max would have some fun, if nothing else; they could laugh about it once it was all over. Jane tried to pictured them chuckling over Veronica’s insistence on getting up at 5:00 a.m. in order to fashion her hair into those tumultuous waves. But she couldn’t do it. She was incapable of imagining the “over” bit.
    It was pathetic, the way she still thought of Max as somehow belonging to her. He’d been in her life for so long, that was the trouble. They’d met as eighteen-year-old students. She’d been drawn in by those dark eyes and perfect mouth; most boys’ lips verged on the too-thin or bulbous or, thanks to a short-lived craze during their freshman year, were garnished with endless variations on the creative facial hair theme. Max didn’t possess facial hair. He had a smile that made Jane want to kiss him, which she had, not caring who might saunter down the corridor and see them. Next morning, she’d