The Year of Taking Chances Read Online Free PDF Page A

in the dark,’ she cried. ‘Look, why don’t you join us? It is New
Year, after all. Nobody should be on their own on New Year’s Eve! Besides,’ she added, dimples flashing in her round cheeks, ‘the more people we have here, the harder it’ll
be to see all the peeling wallpaper and damp patches. You’d be doing me a favour, really.’
    A dark-haired man had appeared now, handsome and rather rakish, with a mop of unruly curls. ‘Everything all right, Gems?’ he asked, putting a proprietorial hand on the small of her
back.
    ‘This is Saffron, she’s staying next door,’ Gemma explained. ‘Bernie’s sent her round for Harry, because the electrics have gone in the cottage.’
    ‘Oh, don’t worry, we can sort that for you,’ the man said. ‘Half the local building trade here tonight, love. We won’t even charge you.’
    Gemma elbowed him. ‘I was just saying Saffron should join us for a drink.’ Then she checked herself, turning back to Saffron. ‘Unless you’re in a rush, of
course?’
    Saffron thought quickly. Much as she had looked forward to some peace and quiet on her own, the thought of being with a group of other people for at least part of the evening in this warm,
bright house was kind of appealing. Although she would feel pretty self-conscious venturing in like this . . .
    Gemma seemed to read her mind. ‘Leave your coat on the radiator to dry,’ she said, ‘and follow me. I got a new hair-dryer for Christmas and it’ll sort your hair out in
seconds, I swear. Come on!’

Chapter Four
    By the time it was eleven o’clock Gemma had drunk enough margaritas and Prosecco to be pleasantly squiffy and was enjoying herself enormously. People were dancing, led by
Spencer’s gorgeous gay cousin Jonny, who was moving up to Newcastle in a week’s time and seemed to be treating this party as his last chance to buff up some signature moves. The
canapés had been devoured – even the ropiest-looking ones – and nobody had been rushed to A&E with food poisoning (yet). Several of Spencer’s football mates had turned
up in drag, for some unexplained reason (Gemma had been secretly thrilled to see how twittery and giggly even the snootiest school mums went at the sight of all those muscled, hairy legs in fishnet
stockings) and almost everyone had been lovely about the house, apart from Sarah Russell, who had said, several times now, ‘God, it’s going to need a
lot
of work, isn’t it? You
are
brave!’ in such an annoyingly patronizing way that Gemma had been tempted to strangle her with the fairy lights. Still. Up yours, Sarah Russell. Everyone else was making it a
brilliant night.
    Spencer had been right: this was a great house for a party. The rooms were generously sized with high ceilings and, despite the large number of guests, it still felt spacious rather than
cramped. Besides, having a rafter-shaking party definitely christened a place. A house wasn’t a home until you’d shaken your thang under a glitterball to ‘Like a Virgin’ on
your very own living-room dance-floor, after all. Wasn’t that what the property experts always said?
    Weaving her way unsteadily into the kitchen, Gemma headed for the cocktail shaker and the sticky collection of bottles lined up on the work surface. ‘Cocktails!’ she announced. ‘Who’s up for another?’
    A woman with dark hair and a long, pale face, who was standing looking rather awkward on her own, raised a hand. ‘Twisted my arm,’ she said shyly.
    ‘Cool,’ Gemma said, swaying on her heels. ‘What do you reckon: vodka, raspberries, Cointreau . . . ’ She began sloshing in ingredients with reckless abandon. ‘What
else?’
    The dark-haired woman looked alarmed. ‘Oh God, I don’t know. I’m not very sophisticated when it comes to things like that.’
    Gemma snorted. ‘I’m the least sophist—’ she stumbled over the word; too many syllables for this time of night, damn it, ‘sophisticated person in the world. As