Coco Pinchard's Big Fat Tipsy Wedding: A Funny Feel-Good Romantic Comedy Read Online Free PDF

we headed back to the Four Seasons and ate dinner looking out across the city that never sleeps, winking and blinking in the dark.
    ‘To Coco,’ said Angie holding up her glass. ‘May she open her fucking eyes, because there’s whole world out there for the taking — and I want twenty percent of it.’ I rolled my eyes and we toasted.  
    After dinner, Angie headed up to her room for a conference call and I grabbed my swimsuit and went to check out the pool. I was glad to find it empty. It was beautifully done; all steel and coloured lights and I spent a happy hour gliding about underwater. I felt weirdly safe, thousands of miles away from all the troubles at home.  
    Now just as I am starting to enjoy being in New York, we have to leave.  

    Monday 22nd November   03.36
    TO: [email protected], [email protected]

    Just back home to a text from Adam;

    PLSE PHONE GAS/WATER/ELECTRIC & COUNCIL TAX 2 HAVE MY NAME TAKEN OFF UR ACCOUNT.

    He’d also left a little cardboard box on the doorstep containing some of my CD’s a couple of bra’s and a jumper I’d left at his place.  
    All positive thinking evaporated and I got mad. Really mad. I wished I had smashed something of his when I had the chance, thrown a pot plant at his sixty-inch flat screen television, or plunged his X-box into a sink full of cold water. I scoured the house for something, anything that belonged to him, but there was nothing to say he’d ever existed here, apart from his red toothbrush.  
    I snatched the toothbrush out of the cup, strained, and cursed as I tried to snap it in half — but it wouldn't budge. What are they made of? I sat down on the edge of the bath with the toothbrush in my hand and cried. I then wiped my eyes and placed it back in the cup. Stupid, huh?

     
     

    Monday 22nd November   16.43
    TO: [email protected]

    Dear British Energy

    I am trying to get the name Adam Rickard removed from my British Energy Gas/Electricity account 2098562039485. I am severely jet lagged and I’ve spent a futile day on the phone to your helpline in India.
    I have spoken to various elderly Indian ladies with names like Emma and Jane; even a Donna who seemed to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of Coronation Street. They have all stated that I need to send something in writing, on headed notepaper, which can prove Adam Rickard doesn't wish to live at this address.  
    Adam Rickard did write a letter to me, but he didn’t use headed notepaper. Who dumps someone else using headed notepaper? Maybe a member of the Aristocracy - but Adam is far from being an Aristocrat.  
    As a last resort to try to get this resolved, I have scanned in the note from Adam Rickard ending our relationship. I hope this is now proof enough and the matter will be dealt with as a matter of priority.
     
    Sincerely,

    Coco Pinchard.

    ATTACHMENT - DUMPED.JPEG

    Thursday 25th November   17.43
    TO: [email protected]

    I’ve just been over to see Rosencrantz in his new place in Lewisham. He’s sharing a little terraced house just down the road from the Docklands Light Railway Station. The door was opened by a huge chap with fake tan and dressed as a Genie.
    ‘Did you rub the lamp?’ he boomed theatrically raising his eyebrows.
    ‘Oh hello,’ I said. ‘Have I got the right address? I’m looking for my son Rosencrantz Pinchard.’
    ‘He’s not in right now,’ said the Genie coming out of character and speaking in a much higher cockney accent. ’Are you Mrs. Pinchard?’
    ‘Yes, hello,’ I said. ‘I’m Coco.’
    ‘I’m Wayne,’ said the Genie offering a huge hand covered in gold rings. A tall lean blond guy with a beautiful face appeared behind him. He was dressed in workout gear; shorts, and a sleeveless t-shirt.
    ‘This is Rosencrantz’s fabulous mother!’ said Wayne.
    ‘Hi Mrs. P,’ said the other chap offering his hand. ‘I’m Oscar.’
    ‘I’m the brains, he’s the brawn,’ grinned Wayne.