Free The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man by Debbie Howells/Susie Martyn

which has her jumping out of her chair, then dashing
outside to analyse its deep and meaningful message in private.
    Which leaves me, Ben
and Marcus.  Marcus goes to the bar to get
another round of drinks in, leaving me and Ben, who’s very handsome and looks
like Brad Pitt, with gorgeous eyes and a lovely smile.   Lucky
Emma.  I gaze at the lovely smile a bit. Then he says,
    ‘Erm, I don’t know Emma that well yet,
but she seems to do that rather a lot...’
    I like the ‘yet’.  I make a note to
self to tell Emma he said that.  I’m guessing he’s referring to her
disappearing act.
    ‘She does, doesn’t she,’ I say bluntly.  ‘Has she told you why?’
    He looks at me quizzically, but then
Marcus comes back and neither of us mentions it.
    ‘How’s your horse, Louisa?’ he asks me.
  A nice safe topic of conversation.  Hopefully I can manage not to say anything to scare him off this time.
 It seems I’m developing rather a talent for it.  And it’s something
I’d rather not become known for.  If I’m not careful, I’ll end up being
one of those mad old women who people cross the road to avoid.   S cary Louisa? Ooh, I wouldn’t talk to her if I
were you…she’s a bit of a funny one you know… as if I had two heads and
fangs and barbecued adulterous ex-husbands.
    I tell Ben all about Horace and how he’s
ended up living with me.  And then I discover he used to go out with Daisy
Mitchell and knows Horace really well!  He must know Daisy pretty well too
in that case, so I better watch my mouth. This horse world is far too jolly
small, I can tell you.  I need to become more like Agnes and learn to be
supremely discrete.  That would surprise everyone - but my thoughts are
interrupted as Emma rejoins us.    Looking rather
worried.
    ‘You okay, Em?’ Marcus asks her, concern
showing on his face.  If only he knew why she looked like that.
    ‘Fine,’ she says vacantly.  Ben
clearly doesn’t know what to make of these unexplained absences.  He
probably thinks she’s on drugs or something.  Right at this minute, she
looks like it.  Not surprisingly, after that, the evening goes rather
flat.
    Although my home is the nearest to the
pub, I don’t invite everyone back for coffee. After all, tonight I am a girl on
a mission.  Alone with my flatcoat and my computer, I lock my door and get
to work.
    To start with, I google
Jerome Castello.  There are endless listings for
the man, aside from his daily predictions.  He’s been published, it seems,
in just about every newspaper imaginable and is quoted all over the place. What
I’m looking for is some personal information about him, but there’s hardly any
to be found.  I spend a whole obsessive hour, at the end of which I’m on
page thirty three of the search listings about him.  And then I stumble
across something rather interesting.
    It’s actually a forum, and the entry I
read is written by a man whose wife was just like Emma.  Addicted and dependent, unable to make the most basic decision on
her own.   Interestingly, this man found Jerome’s home address
somehow and wrote to him.  Give him his due, Jerome actually met with the
man and his wife, and after that, things got better.
    Perhaps that’s the answer for Emma.
 
    I decide that’s what I’ll do.  I
keep googling and then on page fifty-four of the
search listings, bingo!  I hit gold.  Jerome’s postal address, and
hang on, he’s not called Jerome Castello at all.  His real name is Jimmy
Crook.  Ha ha !  How apt.  I put
together a letter, diplomatically addressed to his famous name of course, about
how my poor misguided friend needs his help, and put it in an envelope ready to
post.

8
     
     
     
     
     
    It’s Monday morning. Beamish has called
a meeting of all of us, not just the vets. Only Mrs Boggle is allowed to be
excused.  I wonder what’s up?
    ‘Um, it won’t take er, long,’ he assures
us.  Just as well.  There’s a mammoth list of calls and