The Year of Living Famously Read Online Free PDF Page B

day like a professional. No bathrobes or sweats for Emmie. She has very short auburn-red hair (“I dye it, sweetie, so that I’ll die a redhead” is what she’s always said), and her eyes are still the most striking teal blue.
    â€œOh, and you’ve brought a friend! Delightful!” She wafted into the room and kissed me on the cheek, then Declan. “Welcome,” she said. “I’ll get tea.” And then she was gone just as quickly, puttering away in her service kitchen.
    â€œNice to meet…” Declan said to her retreating back. He turned to me quizzically.
    â€œShe has a lot of visitors,” I said.
    Soon Emmie was back, carrying a tea tray. Declan jumped off the couch to take it from her.
    â€œGallantry,” she said. “It’s so rare these days.”
    She sat on a maroon velvet chair, “the queen’s chair” I used to call it as a kid, and began pouring tea. Her signature ring, a sapphire set in a gold braided band, glinted in the afternoon light that streamed in the windows. “I detected an accent,” she said to Declan. “Tell, tell.”
    â€œOh,” Declan said. He looked at me, then back at her. I nodded in encouragement. Emmie always just jumped right into conversations like this—she abhorred pleasantries—and I was used to her running the conversation from the get-go.
    â€œAll right,” Declan said. “Well, I’m Declan McKenna, and—”
    â€œDeclan McKenna? Oh!” Emmie interrupted. She looked at me and smiled. I had told her only a little aboutour Internet and phone flirtations, but Emmie could read me well enough to know I’d been delighted.
    I shot Declan an embarrassed smile. “We’re just stopping by to say hello, Emmie.”
    â€œOf course.” She handed Declan a cup. “Are you a writer?”
    â€œNo,” Declan said.
    â€œPity. You have the perfect name.”
    â€œI’m an actor.”
    â€œAh.” Emmie sounded disappointed, and Declan, as all men do, rushed in to appease her, telling her how he’d moved to the States from Ireland and how he was in town shooting a film.
    â€œMmm,” Emmie said, sounding more impressed now. “And remind me how you two know each other.” Emmie would cut off an arm before she would read the National Enquirer, and I hadn’t told her about my photo.
    â€œWe met in Vegas,” I said.
    â€œWhen you were with darling Bobby?” she said.
    I nodded.
    â€œInteresting.” She patted the chair next to her. “Declan, move over here, won’t you?”
    I groaned a little, but God love him, he crossed the room without hesitation and sat next to her. I remember thinking they looked lovely together: Emmie with her cap of ginger hair and her lined, pale face; Declan with his amused grin, his white teeth, his golden-brown eyes.
    â€œDo you mind if I smoke?” Emmie said.
    â€œChrist, no. I’ll have one with you.” Out of his pocket, Declan pulled a red book of matches.
    I left them alone for a moment. When I returned, Emmie was in her prime entertainer mode, telling the story of a dinner she’d had with Prince Charles when he was a teenager. Declan’s quirky, rolling laugh filled the room. He cracked a joke about the royal family “splitting heirs.”
    Emmie laughed and clapped her hands. Then she gave me a little bow of her head. Declan had been accepted.
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    When cocktail hour arrived (5:30 p.m., sharp, for Emmie), she whisked the tea tray away and brought out a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket.
    â€œTo Declan,” she said, raising her glass, “and the success of his film.”
    Declan beamed. We all touched glasses.
    Two hours and another bottle of champagne later, Declan and I left Emmie’s apartment. It was dark already, in that strange, sudden way that darkness falls when you’ve been drinking in the late afternoon.
    â€œShe’s