I Never Fancied Him Anyway Read Online Free Page A

say, grabbing the letter from her. ‘“PS: I don’t know if this is any help to you or not, but for some reason, he always smells better than most women.” Yup, I’m afraid you’re one hundred per cent on the money with this one,’ I add, pitying the poor writer but somehow feeling that there is great happiness ahead for her with someone else. Someone foreign – French, I think. I’m seeing dark eyes and olive skin. And I think he could be Scorpio.
    ‘So, do you want me to predict your future?’ says Charlene, with the devil in her big saucery eyes.
    ‘What?’
    ‘You and I are going to leave the office right now and go for a lovely soothing glass of champagne in the Odessa bar.’
    I groan, staring at the towering pile of letters I haven’t even touched yet. (For some reason, every week I seem to get sent more and more. The Dragon Lady used only to publish about five each week but now it’s more like twenty-five and counting.) So much to do . . . but then a nice glass of champagne just sounds sooooo tempting . . .
    ‘Oh come
ooooon
,’ pleads Charlene, seeing me wavering. ‘When do I ever ask you for anything?’
    ‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm in “just the one”, is there? Sure I can always come back to work later, can’t I? Right then, here’s the deal,’ I say, assertively. ‘One quickie and I’ll be back at my desk in half an hour.’
    ‘That’s the girl. I’ve just lost my job and the way I feel right now, Bollinger is my only ally.’
    ‘I’m not actually drunk, I’m more . . . sedated from my misery. But I don’t want you to worry about me, ladies. Once I drink myself to sleep, I’ll be just fine.’
    Six hours later and I’m still plonked on the same big, comfy sofa I’ve been sprawled out on all evening, a bit pissed and surrounded by the gang, or as Charlene likes to call us, her little circle of love and dysfunction. We’re all listening to her best friend and personal trainer who’s making us all roar laughing, without intending to, telling us about his latest break-up.
    He’s chunky, dark, bulked-up, perma-tanned and although his name is Marc, everyone calls him ‘Marc with a C’. As well as being hysterically funny, he’s also incredibly good-looking, a straight-gay type, which leads to huge confusion in the gym he works at, where his clients include a long list of recent divorcees and newly separated women, all wanting a killer body and a good old self-esteem-boosting flirt at the same time. Marc with a C is always more than happy to oblige because, underneath that wall of muscle and the butch physique, he’s actually a sweet, sensitive soul, which kind of explains why his closest pals are all women. I’d nearly go for him if he were straight, and constantly have to remind myself that he’s unavailable to me and how much simpler life would be if only he were just a little less attractive and a lot more camp. In fact, not just
camp
, but shortbread-biscuit-tin-covered-in-whitepaper-doilies camp.
    We’ve all known him for years, ever since Charlene first converted a room in her house into a personal gym and then hired him to train her there, four times a week. He slags her off something rotten though, saying that the only reason she won’t use a public gym is so that no one will see her (a) sweaty and (b) without full make-up.
    ‘Are we
still
on this?’ says Charlene from the armchair across from us, sounding, if possible, even more pissed than I feel. ‘You broke up with a guy you went on three dates with, one of which involved him sitting through your spinning class, so that doesn’t even count. How long since you saw him?’
    ‘Four full days,’ says Marc with a C.
    ‘And how long since final contact?’
    ‘One text from me yesterday, to casually remind him about a fitness assessment we had scheduled, which he chose to ignore.’
    ‘Tell the truth.’
    A pause.
    ‘OK, seven texts. And before you judge me, just remember you had a fringe in the