Champagne Kisses Read Online Free PDF

and my pink crystal encrusted mobile phone.
    What a relief.
    I’ve spent many a Sunday afternoon ringing the phone company trying to get my number temporarily blocked, and fretting because I can’t even remember my own mother’s mobile phone number.
    Undoubtedly numbed by the alcohol in my system, I sit in my cold tiled kitchen in just half the clothes I had worn the night before.
    Marinated in that bloke’s beer and my own boozy sweat which will continue to seep out till I fully detox at some point tomorrow, I hesitantly scan my mobile for evidence of drunken misbehaviour. Right enough, I’d reason to fear.
    Sent: Higgins Bitch. 2.30a.m.… ‘I ahte you!’
    Sent: Higgins Bitch. 2.32a.m.… ‘Whoos man did U rob 2nite?’
    Sent: KEVIN BABY. 2.34a.m.… ‘I hate hate hate ure bitch mate …’
    Sent: Higgins Bitch. 2.40a.m.… ‘U make me sic.’
    Cringe. Cringe.
    Starting to sober up I check my inbox, dreading what I might find.
    Surprisingly there’s no angry reply from Kevin; well, not yet. And nothing from Miss Caroline either. I’m sure the sly cow is still plotting some evil comeback. Or maybe I give her too much credit.
    Instead there’s a lonely text from an unknown number saying, ‘We’ve got to talk.’
    After some simple detective work I hacked straight into the voice mail.
    I winced in pain: ‘You have reached the voice mail service of David Barron. Please leave a message after the tone.’
    No thanks. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.
    As I discover the milk in my fridge is two days out of date, the landline phone rings and ‘Maddie Home’ flashes up.
    ‘Are you sitting down?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Are you sitting down?’
    ‘Jeez, yes. Why?’
    ‘Your worst nightmare has come true.’
    ‘What, George Clooney has decided he wants to marry an Irish woman and that woman is you.’
    ‘You’re obviously still drunk. Eva, you’ve made the papers—’
    ‘Shit. Connected with Barron? Is there a picture of me?’
    ‘Yes, Miss Vain. They’ve used
the
pictures.’
    ‘Oh, God no. Not the CCTV pix?’
    ‘I’m afraid so.’
    ‘Which paper?’
    ‘All of them bar the
Star
… Are you OK?’
    ‘My mother is going to kill me.’
    ‘Well it’s not exactly the most complimentary, hon. You have been described as a social climbing wannabe It girl.’
    ‘Is that the worst?’
    ‘Eh, no, there’s mention that you’re a thrill-seeking tart and the possibility that it’s been a long-standing affair.’
    ‘That’s completely untrue.’
    ‘I think you should go out and buy them yourself. Have you heard from anyone else yet?’
    ‘No, not yet. I better call the family before they call me. What am I going to do? Do you think it’ll die down by the time I go to work tomorrow?’
    ‘Ha! Fat chance, I’d say. You’ll have to ride the storm. What’s your boss going to say? He’s best mates with Barron, isn’t he?’
    ‘Yeah, golf buddies. Not looking forward to seeing him. I’m sure he’ll blame me for the whole thing. Right, I gotta go. Wish me luck.’
    Resembling an extra from a bad spy movie, I crept into my local newsagent’s, complete with oversized floppy hat and dark glasses on a mission to perform a quick snatch and grab of all the Sunday papers.
    Apart from the fact that I was hiding from the shame of being the new Christine Keeler on the block, I was still sporting panda eyes from last night’s make-up overkill.
    As if picking flowers, I grabbed a bunch of red tops and some broadsheets and headed straight for the till, head down.
    Sneaking a peek I let out a silent scream as I got smacked in the face by the size of the photographs on the first of the back page gossip columns.
    It was sort of a fussy haze, but very recognizably yours truly in several grab-shots with the love rat.
    ‘Eva Rises Barron’s Stairway To Heaven’ read the headline.
    ‘Barron burrows after CCTV scandal.’ ‘Reputed publisher David Barron’s marriage has hit the skids after a raunchy clinch was