Free This Charming Man by Marian Keyes Page A

crazed desperation for Paddy. Simply felt of no value. Wasn’t good enough for him. Not good enough for anyone.
13.53
    Walked into town. Sea mist hanging in air, playing merry hell with hair.
    When I reached special spot on bend of road, stopped and gazed up at next-door’s window, hoping to see woman in wedding dress. Intrigued. In fact, maddened with curiosity. But no sign of her.
14.01
    The Oak
Soup of day, mushroom. Beginning to wonder if any other kind. Cheesecake of day, strawberry. Ditto.
15.05
    Internet café
Thought would visit couple of nice sites. Net-a-porter. LaRedoute. Gazing upon beautiful things might bring sparkle back into world. But café closed! Crooked handwritten sign said, ‘Gone to lunch.’ Annoyed. These French people with their lunch hours! Stomped off towards home. Decided on seafront route, to get little infusion of magic house, and who did I see, outside magic house, only Cecile! Hooked by her knees, she was hanging upside down on the railings overlooking the waves, giggling with three surf boys in wetsuits.
    Her skirt was up around her shoulders, as result of gravity. Her knickers on show. Cute. Cotton. White with red poppies and red trim. Nice for her to be so uninhibited. Actually no… not really a good thing. Was uncomfortable with her exhibitionism… we’re not on Côte d’Azur now.
    Semi-circle of surf boys. General impression of wet sand, large bare male feet, tangled salty hair, surfboards, wetsuits unzipped, smooth bare chests, eyes bright from salt water, thin chains around tanned throats, tiny gold rings through male eyebrows. Couldn’t tell any of them apart, just generic cluster of young male yumminess.
    ‘Cecile?’ I asked.
    ‘Oui ?’
    ‘Are you on your lunch break?’
    ‘ Oui.’
    ‘When will it finish?’
    Even hanging upside down, she managed Gallic shrug. ‘I cannot say.’ She giggled, giving one of surf boys a minxy glance.
    Front door of magic house slightly ajar. Glimpse of bare, faded floorboards, old-fashioned banisters, white paint flaking, leading up the stairway to a magic bedroom.
    Cecile would be going into magic house to have sex with one of surf boys. Terrible pang. Jealousy. Loneliness. For things lost and things never had. Wished I was young. Wished I was beautiful. Wished I was French.
19.57
    Trying alternative bars to Oak. Cannot face another bowl of mushroom soup. Also didn’t want to get too dependent on the Oak. It might burn down or something and where would that leave me? Look what happened the last time I depended on someone (Paddy).
    Stuck my head into golfing bar, called Hole in One, or some such dreadful golfing pun. Couldn’t go in. Packed to gills with men (and one or two women who should have known better) exchanging posh insults about how badly the other man played. (You know how men are. Can only bond by being horrible.) Noisy. Shouty. Rawlrawlrawl. Like politicians in Dail. And such bad clothing! Yellow sweaters. Spats. Visors! I ask you. Not even useful, not in Ireland, not enough sun. Is… is… wilful bad taste.
    Tried Butterly’s. Very small place. Size of a front room. Flagstoned floors, bare wooden counter, three high stools at it. Small television on overhead shelf. Smiley old woman behind bar, looking keen as mustard. (Margery Allingham phrase.) Otherwise place empty. Wanted to back out, saying, ‘Sorry, looking for chemist! My mistake!’ But was too polite. Did running jump, like pole vaulter, to seat self on high stool. (Can’t abide high stools, so uncomfortable. Too high, to begin with, and nothing to hold on to, nothing to support your back, nothing for your feet. You are quite adrift. Breakfast bars, there they are again! Why would I choose to start my day wobbling atop a high stool when could sit on a normal-height chair? And why only for breakfast?)
    Butterly’s was the oddest-looking bar had ever seen, offering most peculiar selection of drinks – all seemed to be sweet sticky liqueurs.Also sundry other