Read Online Sweet Temptation by Lucy Diamond - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lucy Diamond
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weekend in August, isn’t it? Plenty of time for you to choose your hat, darling.’
‘Plenty of time to think up an excuse not to go, you mean,’ I said tartly. Weddings weren’t exactly my thing any more.
‘Oh, sweets,’ Patrick said sympathetically. ‘Take me as your plus-one, we’ll have a riot. Dumb will get his vows completely mangled and Dumber’s relatives will start a punch-up, you wait. Sheer entertainment from start to finish.’
Patrick was my assistant, my mate and pretty much my saviour. After I’d lost my husband and personal assistant in the space of a week, I’d been in a bit of a mess. My life had fallen apart, I was comfort eating for Britain, and I’d become somewhat slack on the personal hygiene front. I’d also lost a client by telling him, after a large lunchtime gin and tonic, that he stood no chance of ever finding a life partner because his eyes were too close together.
So everything was going down the swanny, basically, when Patrick came into my world. And thank God he did. He spotted my ad in the Evening Mail and applied for the job. Within two minutes of the interview starting, he had me in hysterics with his Tyra Banks impression, went on to pique my curiosity with his interest in modern art (a passion of mine), and then, when he commented on how much he liked the font I’d used in the Love Hearts logo (‘You can’t go wrong with Bodoni’), I knew for certain he was a kindred spirit and hired him on the spot.
Life had been on the up ever since, even if he did spend way too long lobbying to get Hollywood hunks onto his Facebook friends list and tempting me into cocktail-heavy evenings out after work that always seemed to end with us eating kebabs round at his place. Well, why not , I thought each time I ended up crashing on his sofa. It wasn’t as if there was anyone waiting for me at home. More to the point, he was great company, he made me laugh constantly, and we’d already agreed to live together in our old age if Mr Right and Mr Right hadn’t arrived by then. (His words, not mine. Obviously I already knew that, like Father Christmas, there was no such thing as Mr Right.)
I got back to work, sending sexy-bum-hunter Andrew to the database, then checking over the next profile in my folder: Emily Perks, who was twenty-two and claimed to be ‘into big bad men’. I was quite tempted to stick in a deliberate typo so that it read ‘big bald men’, but she didn’t look the sort to appreciate a joke – or the Ross Kemp lookalikes on our books, for that matter. I chuckled out loud at the thought, though, and Patrick looked up from his desk.
‘What’s so funny?’
I emailed over the profile. ‘What do you reckon for Emily Perks – big bad men, or big bald men?’
He laughed. ‘A haircut should be first on the list, I think,’ he said, pulling a face as he examined her photo. ‘Dear God, that is the worst perm I’ve ever seen. And I’m speaking of a man who’s had one himself, in the teenage years we don’t talk about.’
‘You with a perm?’ I could feel my eyes boggling. Ever since I’d known him, his dark hair had looked impeccable, cut in a short, trendy style. He really was a constant source of surprises.
‘Sadly, yes,’ he said, shuddering at the memory. ‘But moving swiftly on . . . lunch?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ I replied. It suddenly seemed ages since the doughnut.
‘Will we be doing Proper Lunch or Diet Lunch today?’ he asked.
‘Hmmm . . .’ I tipped my head on one side while I thought. Yesterday, I had been full of worthy intentions about how I was definitely going to sort out the stone and a half I’d piled on since Brendan and Ruth did the dirty on me – and obviously I’d filled Patrick in on the New Healthy Me regime. I’d had porridge and a banana for breakfast, and a salad for lunch before a thrilling dinner of grilled fish and more salad. Then I’d dared myself to go along to a cringeworthy FatBusters class
‘Plenty of time to think up an excuse not to go, you mean,’ I said tartly. Weddings weren’t exactly my thing any more.
‘Oh, sweets,’ Patrick said sympathetically. ‘Take me as your plus-one, we’ll have a riot. Dumb will get his vows completely mangled and Dumber’s relatives will start a punch-up, you wait. Sheer entertainment from start to finish.’
Patrick was my assistant, my mate and pretty much my saviour. After I’d lost my husband and personal assistant in the space of a week, I’d been in a bit of a mess. My life had fallen apart, I was comfort eating for Britain, and I’d become somewhat slack on the personal hygiene front. I’d also lost a client by telling him, after a large lunchtime gin and tonic, that he stood no chance of ever finding a life partner because his eyes were too close together.
So everything was going down the swanny, basically, when Patrick came into my world. And thank God he did. He spotted my ad in the Evening Mail and applied for the job. Within two minutes of the interview starting, he had me in hysterics with his Tyra Banks impression, went on to pique my curiosity with his interest in modern art (a passion of mine), and then, when he commented on how much he liked the font I’d used in the Love Hearts logo (‘You can’t go wrong with Bodoni’), I knew for certain he was a kindred spirit and hired him on the spot.
Life had been on the up ever since, even if he did spend way too long lobbying to get Hollywood hunks onto his Facebook friends list and tempting me into cocktail-heavy evenings out after work that always seemed to end with us eating kebabs round at his place. Well, why not , I thought each time I ended up crashing on his sofa. It wasn’t as if there was anyone waiting for me at home. More to the point, he was great company, he made me laugh constantly, and we’d already agreed to live together in our old age if Mr Right and Mr Right hadn’t arrived by then. (His words, not mine. Obviously I already knew that, like Father Christmas, there was no such thing as Mr Right.)
I got back to work, sending sexy-bum-hunter Andrew to the database, then checking over the next profile in my folder: Emily Perks, who was twenty-two and claimed to be ‘into big bad men’. I was quite tempted to stick in a deliberate typo so that it read ‘big bald men’, but she didn’t look the sort to appreciate a joke – or the Ross Kemp lookalikes on our books, for that matter. I chuckled out loud at the thought, though, and Patrick looked up from his desk.
‘What’s so funny?’
I emailed over the profile. ‘What do you reckon for Emily Perks – big bad men, or big bald men?’
He laughed. ‘A haircut should be first on the list, I think,’ he said, pulling a face as he examined her photo. ‘Dear God, that is the worst perm I’ve ever seen. And I’m speaking of a man who’s had one himself, in the teenage years we don’t talk about.’
‘You with a perm?’ I could feel my eyes boggling. Ever since I’d known him, his dark hair had looked impeccable, cut in a short, trendy style. He really was a constant source of surprises.
‘Sadly, yes,’ he said, shuddering at the memory. ‘But moving swiftly on . . . lunch?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ I replied. It suddenly seemed ages since the doughnut.
‘Will we be doing Proper Lunch or Diet Lunch today?’ he asked.
‘Hmmm . . .’ I tipped my head on one side while I thought. Yesterday, I had been full of worthy intentions about how I was definitely going to sort out the stone and a half I’d piled on since Brendan and Ruth did the dirty on me – and obviously I’d filled Patrick in on the New Healthy Me regime. I’d had porridge and a banana for breakfast, and a salad for lunch before a thrilling dinner of grilled fish and more salad. Then I’d dared myself to go along to a cringeworthy FatBusters class
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