The Woman Who Stole My Life Read Online Free PDF

have agreed a writing routine with myself: every day I will ‘rise’ early, ‘ablute’ in cold water and be as disciplined as a monk. Diligence will be my watchword. But I’m knackered. Last night, the news that Ryan really was going ahead with his fool project meant it was gone midnight before I began my Sleep Coaxing Routine.
    For most of my adult life, my sleep has been a shy, unpredictable creature, who has to be shown how much it is welcome before it will appear. There are many ways I demonstrate my love – I drink mint tea, eat yoghurt, swallow a fistful of Kalms, have a bath in sandalwood oil, spray my pillow with lavender mist, read something very boring and listen to a CD of whales singing.
    I was still tossing and turning at 1 a.m. and finally – God knows at what time – I fell asleep and dreamed about Ned Mount, from the telly. We were somewhere sunny and outdoors – it could have been in Wicklow. We were sitting at a wooden picnic table and he was trying to give me a big box containing a water filter. ‘Please take it,’ he said. ‘I’ve no use for it. I only drink Evian.’
    I knew it wasn’t true about him only drinking Evian; he was just saying it because he wanted me to have the water filter. Iwas touched by his generosity, even though he’d got the filter for free, from a PR company.
    Now it’s 6 a.m. and I’m supposed to be getting up but I’m too tired, so I go back to sleep and wake again at 8.45.
    Down in the kitchen, Jeffrey watches in silent disapproval as I make coffee and throw granola into a bowl. Yes, in my heart I
too
know that granola is, in fact, many small pieces of biscuit, with the odd ‘healthy’ cranberry and hazelnut thrown in. But it’s an officially designated ‘Breakfast Food’, therefore I am entitled to eat it guilt-free.
    I hurry away upstairs to escape my son’s judgement and I grab my iPad, get back into bed and check on Ryan. No more posts from him since last night. Thank Christ. But it’s still horrifying.
    His video Mission Statement puts me in mind of a suicide-bomber thing – the rehearsed delivery, the zeal; he even sort of
looks
like one, with his brown eyes, dark hair and neat beard. ‘My name is Ryan Sweeney and I’m a spiritual artist. You and I are about to embark on a unique undertaking. I’m giving away everything I possess. Every single possession! Together we’ll watch as the universe provides for me. Project Karma!’ He actually raises a clenched fist. I swallow hard. All we’re missing is an ‘Allah Akbar’.
    I watch it four more times and think, You knob.
    But the video has been viewed only twelve times and that was by Jeffrey and me. Nobody else has picked up on this. Maybe Ryan will change his mind. Soon. Before any damage is done. Maybe this video will be taken down in a moment. Maybe the whole thing will just go away …
    I contemplate ringing him, but, on balance, I’d prefer to live in hope. Until recently I never knew I had such a talent for denial. I take a moment to praise myself: I really am
very gifted
at it. Very!
    While I’m here online, I decide to see how things are with Gilda – a couple of clicks is all it will take. Then I manage to force myself to stop and in my head I say the mantra for her:
May you be well, may you be happy, may you be free from suffering.
    Moving on, it’s time for my pill – the likelihood of me getting pregnant at the moment is non-existent, but I’m only forty-one and a quarter and I am still
very much
in the game.
    God, I’d better do some work!
    I jump out of bed and prepare to ablute – ‘ablute’ sounds so much more admirable than ‘shower’. I don’t want to ablute – or, indeed, shower – but standards must be maintained. I can’t put clothes on over my unabluted body, I simply can’t. It would be the beginning of the end. But until I get curtains I can’t sit at my desk in my night attire for any interested passers-by to see.
    I ablute in cold water. Because