This Charming Man Read Online Free PDF

alarm siren started screeching, searchlights snapped on, and there was the distant sound of dogs barking. Was half expecting a helicopter to appear overhead when Treese came floating down the stairs in a silky, shell-pink negligee (nightdress) and matching peignoir (dressing gown), searchlights glinting silver on her shiny pale coiffeur (hair).
    Calmly she chastised me. ‘You promised you wouldn’t. Now you are snared. Return to bed!’
    Red-faced.
    Treese reset alarm, then glided back up the stairs.
Saturday, 30 August 12.10
    At home
Bridie rang. After an enquiry about my well-being, a strange little silence ensued. Expectant almost.
    Then she asked, ‘Did you like green jumper I was wearing Wednesday night and last night?’
    I could hardly reply, No, it was the strangest thing I’ve seen in a long, long time.
    I said, ‘Lovely!’ Then, ‘Er… new?’
    ‘Yes.’ Bridie sounded almost shy. Then she blurted out, like someone with a big, thrilling secret, ‘Moschino!’
    Moschino!
    I had thought perhaps she had purchased it at a sale-of-work at her local lunatic asylum! Good job I didn’t say so.
    Although I wouldn’t. Not my way. Mum always told me that if I couldn’t say something nice, to say nothing at all.
    ‘Where did you buy it, Bridie?’ I was wondering how, with my encyclopaedic knowledge of clothing, I’d never before come across this item.
    ‘On eBay.’
    Cripes! Perhaps fake!
    ‘It cost me a fortune, Lola. But worth it. Worth it, yes?’
    ‘Oh yes, yes, worth it! Jockeys very… um… fashion-forward.’
    ‘I noticed you looking at it, Lola.’
    Oh yes, I was looking all right.
Sunday, 31 August
    Articles about Paddy in all the newspapers. I bought several. (Was surprised by how cheap newspapers are compared to magazines. Good value. Funny the things you notice even when your life has fallen apart.) But the articles said nothing really. Just that he was a hunky ride, the poster boy for Irish politics.
    There was no mention of me in any article. I should have felt relieved – at least Paddy wouldn’t be annoyed – but instead I felt bereft, like I didn’t exist.
Monday, 1 September 10.07
    A call from Irish Tatler cancelling a job next week. The message was clear: no one likes a stylist who destroys the collections. Word gets round.
10.22
    Mobile rang. Thought I recognized number, wasn’t sure, then realized it was that Grace Gildee journalist woman again. Hounding me! I didn’t pick up, but listened to the message. She was pushing for a face-to-face meeting and offering more money. Seven grand. Shelaughed and accused me of playing hardball. But I wasn’t playing any kind of ball! Just wanted to be left in peace!
Tuesday, 2 September
    Worst blow to date. Alicia Thornton was on the front cover of VIP, with the headline, ‘How I won Quicksilver’s heart’.
    The nice man in the newsagent’s gave me a glass of water and let me sit on his stool for a little while, until the dizziness passed.
    Twelve pages of photos. Paddy was wearing make-up in them. Silicon-based foundation, with silicon-based primer, so that he looked plastic, like a Ken-doll.
    I didn’t know who had styled the shoot, but they’d had a very definite brief. Alicia (tall, thin, blonde bob, quite horsey-looking, but not in nice way, not like Sarah Jessica Parker, more like Celine Dion. Neigh!) in a cream tweed Chanel dress and jacket. Paddy in a statesman-like suit (Zegna? Ford? Couldn’t be sure) sitting at a mahogany desk, holding a silver pen like he was about to sign an important treaty, Alicia standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder, in a supportive-wife pose. Then, Paddy and Alicia in evening wear. Paddy in black tie and Alicia in a long, red, off-the-shoulder Max Mara. Red not her colour. Also a small glimpse of stubble under her right arm.
    Worst of all, Paddy and Alicia in matching chambray jeans, polo-shirts with collars turned up, cable-knit jumpers slung around their necks and HOLDING TENNIS RACKETS! Like