Free If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back by Claudia Carroll Page A

disgusting!
    ‘It’s been a rough few days, what with Charlotte and everything . . .’
    Suddenly I catch my breath. That weird, intriguing feeling of eavesdropping on a conversation about yourself.
    Declan says something I can’t hear, but it must be sympathetic.
    ‘. . . thanks, yeah, thanks, man, I appreciate it. It’s so hard for me, being here without her . . . I’m still in shock, I suppose . . . yeah, you’re right . . . time will heal but, man, I really hope you never have to go through this. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. You really don’t know how much someone means to you, until you see them lying in a hospital bed and know there’s damn all you can do for them . . .’
    Oh my good God.
    ‘. . . yeah, I know, she’s one gal in a million. Can’t believe how much I’m missing her . . .’
    I’m sitting right beside him now and I’d almost swear I can see his eyes glistening.
    ‘. . . no, I haven’t the first clue what I’m going to do, I mean, how do you even begin to get through something like this . . . hey, man, thanks for being so understanding.’
    No, there’s no mistake. He’s actually crying , he really is. Definite tear action going on. Half of me is so overwhelmingly touched, and the other half wants to hug him and let him know I’m actually right beside him, with my bum wedged on top of the remote control, to be exact. I move in close and gently put my arm around his shoulders. He shudders like a wet dog, then gets up and staggers to the kitchen, also like a pigsty, but right now I don’t care.
    I did not come back from the afterlife to load dishwashers.
    ‘Sorry, man,’ he mumbles to Declan down the phone, ‘gotta switch on the heating. It’s like a fucking fridge in here.’ Then he stumbles back to the living room and slumps back on to the sofa, pulling a throw I got in Avoca around his shoulders.
    You should see him. Dark circles under the eyes that Jack Sparrow would be proud of, stinking of stale booze, with nesty hair and days of stubble covering his pasty, knackered-looking face. Right now, there are hobos sleeping rough out there in better nick. He keeps grunting down the phone at whatever Declan’s saying, and all I can do is stare open-mouthed.
    I had no idea. None. Only that I’ve seen it with my own two eyes, I’d never have thought he’d be this . . . lost without me. He’s even still talking about me in the present tense, like he just can’t accept that I’m gone. There’s only one logical conclusion. The whole Sophie Kelly thing was just a blip, temporary bewitchment, no more, and now that I’m not around any more, James is officially falling apart.
    Which means that all this time, he really, truly loved me. Without question.
    Next thing, there’s a knock on the door and he goes to answer it.
    ‘Someone here, Dec, probably FedEx with a delivery, yeah . . . great . . . call over and pick me up now if you can . . . oh, thanks for offering, man, yeah . . . ehh . . . some Marlboro Lights and maybe an Americano . . . great, see you shortly. And . . . hey . . . thanks,’ he says, hanging up as I follow him to the front door.
    I do not bloody well believe this.
    Sophie bleeding Kelly. Wearing her usual dressed-down faux-hemian gear that tries its best to say, ‘Look at me, classically trained, ready to play Chekhov at a minute’s notice, and yet still finding the time to dress like a bargain-basement Sienna Miller.’ Her Mini Cooper with the top down in my parking space, and the blonde hair in stupid-looking curly pigtails.
    Wish I had the power of my hands; right now I’d love to rip the beret off her poodley head and pour extra-strength Domestos all over the car seats.
    And by the way, Sophie, on Carla Bruni, berets look chic and sophisticated, on you, more like you’re trying to channel Frank Spencer.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ James almost hisses at her, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her into the hall. ‘Declan’s on his way over,