Free The Woman Who Stole My Life by Marian Keyes

instinctively flock to me and … Oh look, your friend’s expecting you.’
    Zoe has her front door open and by the blackness of her teeth, and the dishevelment of her hair, she’s already jarred.
    ‘Welcome,’ she yells. ‘To the Bitter Women’s Book Club.’
    I hurry towards her.
    ‘Look at him. The dirty bastard,’ she says, watching my taxi driver. ‘Giving me the glad eye. Did you see! And wearing a wedding ring! Dirty dog.’
    ‘Am I the first?’ I step into her front room.
    ‘You’re the only!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Yeah! Crowd of bee-yatches! All cancelled. Deirdre’s got a date. With some
man
. Yeah! Cancels on us, just like that!’ Shetries to click her fingers but it doesn’t work. ‘What a complete See You Next Tuesday.’
    ‘And Elsa? Where’s she? Have you a glass?’ My wine is a screw-top, thank God. I need to get drinking and quickly. I wish I’d started in the taxi.
    ‘Elsa’s mammy fell off a ladder and broke her collarbone so Elsa is in –’ Zoe pauses and delivers the next phrase with scathing sarcasm – ‘
A&E
.’
    ‘God, that’s terrible.’ I’m pouring the wine now. I’m pouring it and I’m drinking it and I’m glad.
    ‘Yeah. Pretty. Fucking. Convenient. That her mammy breaks her collarbone on the night of our Bitter Women’s Book Club.’
    ‘I hardly think her mum broke her collarbone on purpose … And where’s Belen?’
    ‘Don’t say that name under my roof. That bee-yatch is dead to me.’
    ‘Why?’
    She put her fingers to her lips. ‘Shssssssh. Secret. Some other time. Any news?’
    There is plenty I could tell her – that the Irish economy is displaying signs of modest growth, that scientists have successfully treated bone cancer in mice. I could even tell her about Ryan’s mad artistic notion. But the only news Zoe is ever interested in is break-ups – they’re food and drink to her. She prefers them to be real, but celebrity stuff will do.
    ‘Not really.’ I’m apologetic.
    ‘Ryan still single?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Not for long, though, right? Not long before some half-wit nineteen-year-old Barbie-brain falls for his tormented-artist shite? So go on. Watcha think of the book?’
    ‘Well.’ I take a deep breath and try to catch my sinking heart. I’m here. I’m at my book club. I went to the trouble ofsort of reading the book so I might as well make the effort. ‘I know they’re French and French people are different to us, they don’t get upset about infidelity and that, but it was too sad.’
    ‘She was a little c-word, that Xavière one.’
    I’m inclined to agree, but you can’t do that at a book club – you must ‘discuss’ the book. So – a little wearily – I say, ‘Was it that simple?’
    ‘You tell me! They were happy, Françoise and Pierre. And they invited Xavière in!’
    A little startled by Zoe’s anger, I ask, ‘So it was their fault?’
    ‘It was
her
fault. Françoise’s.’
    I swallow hard. ‘I don’t know if it’s fair to blame Françoise for Pierre falling in love with Xavière.’
    Zoe stares hard at me. ‘It was autobiographical, you know. It really happened.’
    I’m confused by the undercurrent of rage, but then again Zoe is always like this, it’s just worse when she’s drunk. ‘I do know, and –’
    ‘Stella. Stella.’ Zoe’s gripping my arm hard and suddenly it sounds like she’s got something terribly important to say. ‘Stella.’
    ‘Yes?’ I squeak.
    ‘You know what I’m going to say to you.’ She fixes me with a look that is both intense and unsteady.
    ‘… Ah …’
    Then an unexpected wave of some new emotion washes over her. ‘Fuck,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to go to bed.’
    ‘What? Now?’
    ‘Yeah.’ She lurches out of the room and towards the stairs. ‘I’m really drunk,’ she says. ‘These things happen. If you drink a lot.’ She’s clambering up the stairs and into her bedroom. ‘I’m not going to puke. I’m not going to choke. I’m grand.’She’s