What My Best Friend Did Read Online Free PDF

Why, why, why did I say yes to this?”
    “It’s an all-expenses-paid trip to LA and if you do a good job, this magazine might use you for travel features,” Tom said sensibly, slipping his shoes on. “And she can’t help her name. She might be really nice.”
    “The whole thing just sounds really tacky!” A pair of my knickers that seemed determined to ping free were caught in the teeth of the suitcase zipper. I shoved them back in and started to tug it closed. “And she’s a kids’ TV host, which means she’ll be thick as two short planks. Oh come on, you …” My fingers were going white with the effort of trying to get the bloody thing closed.
    “Why are they shooting her?” Tom asked absently.
    “She’s moving to Hollywood to make it big over there or something,” I said, puffing slightly, “like anyone cares. This case is going to literally explode when I open it at the other end.” I looked at the straining seams worriedly. Maybe four pairs of shoes was a bit excessive. I very gingerly got off it and waited. Thankfully, it held—but bulged like a swollen water balloon ready to burst.
    “On the subject of coming and going,” Tom picked up the ends of his tie, which was looped around his neck, “while you’re away, shall I ring that Spanish bloke and let him know he can have Vic’s old room?”
    My face fell. Tom smiled sympathetically as he tightened the tie and came over to give me a hug. “I know you miss her, Al, but we can’t keep her room empty for ever, we can’t afford to.”
    “Paris,” I growled, muffled by his shirt, “is a really stupid place for her to live. I hate that gitbag French doctor with all his smooth, “Come and live in my chateau,
cherie.”
    “No you don’t,” Tom laughed, “we like Luc. You were the one who spent hours on the phone reassuring her she’d done the right thing! And now, she’s very happy.”
    “Fine, we’ll phone the Spanish bloke then,” I said rather crossly, thinking about Vic, who I missed badly. “He did seem the least clinically insane of all of the applicants.”
    “But on the other hand”—Tom pulled back, a considered expression spreading across his face—“are we sure we don’t want to live somewhere just us, rather than with some over-pumped-up Spanish beefcake we got out of the back of the paper?”
    “We can’t afford to, we’ve been over this,” I said through a mouthful of toast that I’d grabbed from my plate, before looking around for my handbag. I couldn’t remember where I’d last seen it.
    “Unless, of course, we start looking for something smaller, maybe to buy. Together.”
    I immediately stopped looking for my bag and turned to him instead. That was the first time either of us had openly and formally suggested anything of the kind. I waited for my heart to leap joyfully. To my surprise it didn’t, but then my taxi was due to arrive in minutes. How typically male of Tom to pick absolutely the worst time in the world to debate a major life-changing issue and randomly chuck a statement like that into the pot.
    “Renting long term is just dead money,” Tom continued, taking a quick sip of his tea. “It’s great when you’re younger and you need flexibility, but we could save so much by paying into a mortgage now … and the market conditions are great for people like us.”
    “People like us?” I said, confused.
    “Settled people, couples … most of our friends have bought somewhere,” he said pointedly. “I’ve saved a really reasonable deposit and—”
    “But shouldn’t we do it because we want to, rather than as a practical solution to Vic moving out?” I asked.
    Tom looked at me blankly and said, “Well we do want to—don’t we?”
    I paused.
    “Ahh!” he continued, looking at me carefully. “I’m so stupid! You mean this isn’t a very romantic way of doing things. Shit, Al—I’m sorry. I take your point. You’re right. Although getting a mortgage is just as much a commitment