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

suppose he sees you?’
    ‘Well, excuse me for being worried!’ she snaps back, and I’m not messing, anger makes the screechy voice sound, if possible, worse. Thank God we don’t have a dog, is all I can think, the poor creature would be persecuted listening to her. Then a horrible thought hits me right in the solar plexus: he must really be in love with her. Because, let’s face it, you’d have to be; there’s no other way you could put up with that decibel level otherwise.
    The bastard. Bad, bloody bastard.
    ‘Your phone’s been off all last night and all this morning, I’ve been out of my mind. And what’s more, I was right to be worried: it’s a Monday morning and look at the state of you!’
    ‘Sophie,’ says James, folding his arms and sucking in his lips, something he only ever does when he’s at boiling point. He also tends to talk reeeeeealllllly reaaaaaalllllly sloooooowly when majorly pissed off, the way FBI counter-terrorists do in films. You know, ‘Step awaaaaaay from the veeeeeehicle.’
    ‘I thiiiiiink I made it cleeeeeear,’ he says, ‘that this is a veeeeeery sensitive time right now, and that it’s an unbelieeeeeevably bad idea for you to be seeeeeen here.’
    ‘I know, I know, you already spelt it out to me. Suppose Charlotte’s elderly, interfering bag of a mother, or that poker-faced sister of hers, who’s more tightly coiled than a walnut whip, called to pick up her things, seeing as how they both feel they’ve carte blanche to barge in here at any hour of the day or night. Suppose that happened, and suppose they found me here? Believe me, I know all the risks; I just wanted to see you.’
    WHAT did she just say?
    I’m looking at Screechy Sophie now, shocked. I mean, how bloody dare she? I just stand there speechless, trembling with rage, giving her the evil eye and wanting nothing more than to bitch-slap the stupid, poodley head off her. If I wasn’t dead, that is.
    ‘They’re still Charlotte’s faaaaaamily, and right noooooow, we neeeeeed to respect that, OK?’
    Next thing, completely ignoring his hung-over narkiness, not to mention the stink of stale booze, Sophie’s right in on top of him, rubbing his arms suggestively and pulling down the throw he has around his shoulders. My throw.
    ‘Oh, now come on, babe, don’t be annoyed with me just because I was worried,’ she half-whispers with studied sexiness, moving in to nuzzle against his earlobe, which I happen to know is a major turn-on for him.
    ‘I missed you, that’s all, Jamie,’ she murmurs slowly, sensually.
    Jamie?
    ‘I was lonely without you. We haven’t been together since before, well . . . what happened to Charlotte . . .’
    Oh PLEASE, it’s eleven in the morning!
    ‘Mmmm,’ he mumbles thickly, letting her play with his lank hair, then letting her kiss his neck. With the eyes darting guiltily around the front drive in case Declan arrives, I notice.
    OK, if it’s possible for angels to barf, then I think I’m going to throw up. Right now.
    ‘You still feel the same about me, don’t you?’ she murmurs, moving up to kiss his face now, the voice so saccharine, it would nearly give you diabetes.
    ‘Mmmm,’ he half-groans, kissing her back and feeling up her thigh at the same time. ‘And I’m sorry for snapping at you, baby.’ He’s breathing heavily now, murmuring into her ear.
    ‘It’s OK. I understand.’
    ‘Still love me? Even though I’m a cruel bastard?’
    ‘Still love you. And you’re not cruel, you just like people to think you are. Underneath, you’re really a pussycat.’
    ‘Even though I’m narky? And I haven’t been treating you right?’
    ‘Still love you.’
    ‘Even though, at the moment, I’m sure I stink like Calcutta at low tide?’
    Vintage James Kane: get around a woman by giving her the little-boy-lost look, then cracking a gag. Albeit a rubbish one.
    ‘Still love you,’ she giggles. ‘Now stop talking and take me upstairs.’
    OK, now . . . actual vomit