Armani Angels Read Online Free

book,’ her host announced, sticking out a small, freckled hand.
    â€˜Oh, great,’ Mercedes said, her fingers briefly making contact with the outstretched hand. She hadn’t even bothered to look at the title of the book. But there it was on a poster at the front of the room: The Many Pauses of Menopause .
    Shit.
    â€˜Today I was on community radio. I was so lucky to get that gig, let me tell you,’ Mary babbled on, as she pulled the errant strap of her handbag back onto her shoulder. ‘And tomorrow a journalist is calling me from the local paper. It’s all very exciting. I don’t know about this venue, though; it’s a bit “trendy” for me.’ Mercedes cringed as Mary held her fingers up to use air quotes. ‘But my sister-in-law had a contact and I do hate to say no.’
    Mercedes racked her brain for an escape plan as a plate of sad-looking fried dim sims was carried past. Mary followed her eyes. ‘To save on the room rental, I did my own catering,’ she explained.
    The squeal of a cheap mobile PA system interrupted them. Another grey-haired woman in sensible shoes was grinning at the crowd. Perhaps it was the sister-in-law in question.
    â€˜My dear friends, it’s an honour to have you all here this evening to celebrate our chum, our sister, our compadre in her great publishing achievement.’
    Mercedes took a tiny step back towards the exit.
    Mary linked her plump little arm around Mercedes’s and whispered, ‘I want you to come up the front with me so that all my friends can see that you’re here.’
    Mercedes’s passion for her soft grey, stretch-silk, taffeta double-layer Donna Karan skirt was the only thing that prevented her from diving headfirst from the first-floor French windows that opened onto St Kilda Road.
    She joined Mary at the front of the crowd and was forced to listen to the self-congratulatory speech about years of research and writing. Then she endured the terrible menopause gags (‘Is it hot in here or am I just having a flush?’). It was the longest forty-five minutes of Mercedes’s life and a sinful waste of fashion, she decided sadly.
    As soon as the speeches were over, Mercedes spun to leave, only to come face to face with Mary again. The woman seemed to have the stealth and speed of a menopausal ninja.
    â€˜There are some people I want you to meet. This is my mother-in-law, Doreen.’
    Mercedes had had enough. She scrabbled in her bag and grabbed her silent mobile. ‘Hang on, Mary – sorry, this is important.
    â€˜Hello? Yes, immediately, I understand. Bye.’ Mercedes made a show of ‘ending’ the call.
    â€˜Mary, many apologies but I must go – crucial, er, PR emergency has sprung up.’
    â€˜I understand, you’re very busy. But I thank you so much for your time. It’s meant the world to me, your coming. And . . .’ She pressed a copy of her book into Mercedes’s hands. ‘This is for when your time comes, dear. We all know what it’s like.’
    Mercedes threw the book into the first bin she found on St Kilda Road, horrible, disgusting thing that it was. She adjusted the collar of her new jacket as she sat in the safety of a cab, driving away from that twilight zone where women wore Kumfs and discussed their bodily functions in public.
    What on earth had Gemma been thinking? Mercedes wondered with a shudder as she dug in her bag for hand sanitiser to kill off any lingering traces of the night.

‘Oh, do I ever need this!’ Gemma said and slumped back into the chaise, collecting the white robe around her outstretched legs. The soothing tones and luxurious textures of the day spa’s waiting room nurtured the women.
    â€˜Mmm, I know what you mean,’ murmured Chantelle as the imminent pleasures of the Plethora Day Spa tipped her already relaxed personality a little further towards catatonic.
    They had all been