Imperfect Strangers Read Online Free

fluttered while imagining the day Steve would ask me to marry him. How would he do it? w here? This might come as a shock , he had said, back in Florence the month before. This is it I’d thought, as he sat there, gently taking hold of my hand. Don’t be mad , he’d continued. Odd! I recalled thinking, as I carefully adjusted my posture into the perfect pose for accepting. But, the thing is… I know we said we were going to be a bit more careful with money, but… the thing is, I’ve ordered a case of that Barolo we liked . What! I’d yelled. The guy said it would store well. Ten or even twenty years. A bargain at the price . An investment really.
    An investment!
    Yes, I should have said, so are diamonds ! I hadn’t even liked the Barolo. I found it rather heavy. Too rich. I would have preferred something more subtle, like a chianti. Or something stronger. Like, a diamond . I’d fumed inside, but smiled accommodatingly, demurely, as I always did when he disappointed me.
    A scratch at the door pulls me back from the bustling street in Florence to the present near empty silence of the house, back to the half-warm, half-empty bed. I swing my legs from the mattress, and for a moment I sit there, motionless, letting my toes sink into the plush pile of the carpet.
    The scratch at the door becomes more demanding.
    “Alright, Sukie,” I grumble with impatience before adding in a softer tone, “I’m coming.”
    Placing a hand to the mattress , I steady myself before walking across the room and opening the door. Sukie, my parents’ West-highland terrier, rushes in. Her kinked tail wagging eagerly, she scampers around the room, sniffing at the carpet while looking nervously up at the bed. “Go on Sukie,” I say, “sniff all you like, that nasty man has gone.”
    A q uick glance through the curtain shows the park in darkness. Through skeletal tree-fingers a fringe of light grey tinged blue indicates the approach of another new day, the first day of my new life as a single woman . I’ve had enough of fakes, I determine, no matter how good they may look, no matter how enticing their sales patter.

     
    CHAPTER
3
     
    Through a fuggy Barolo fog, my head mirrors the bus journey to work: pot-hole-jolting and full of noise. With a painful squeal of brakes we come to a halt, and all those who stood in readiness for a quick exit stumble forward. Still sitting, feeling very much like a puppet with seized joints, I’m wondering, can sorrows actually be drowned? I think not, wishing I’d stayed in bed. The last to exit, I step down from the bus and spot Kerry Lombard crossing the road and recall exactly why I decided to come to work rather than stay at home. Sorrows thrive on drink, but they shy away from company.
    The grey sky accents Kerry perfectly: black hair – cropped as sharp as her navy tro user-suit – reflecting the cold light like polished-granite. Aged twenty-nine she is three years older than me, three inches taller, and three times as acerbic. All the same, against all expectations, we hit it off from the moment we met.
    “Kerry. Kerry, hold up.” The request is obviously not as loud as it sounds in my own head. Kerry steps onto the pavement, oblivious, and continues on her way. Wonder why opposites attract? Up is generally good, whereas down is mostly bad: I’m feeling a bit ‘down’ at the moment ; there’s a ‘down-side’ to everything ; I’m ‘down-trodden’ ; Erm… you’re very ‘up-beat’. Funny how bad connotations come to mind easier than good ones. Maybe it’s just my mood, or maybe there are just more of them.
    Twenty yards ahead, setting a fast pace, Kerry steadily increases the distance between us. People coming towards Kerry part to let her through , it’s not as if they have any choice. Kerry looks straight ahead and walks like a speedboat cutting water.
    “Kerry,” I shout, louder this time, stiffening my shoulders as I canter to catch up. I always swore, when I was younger, that