Imperfect Strangers Read Online Free Page A

I would never run in this Barbie-legged fashion, but I didn’t account for heels and a tight- ish skirt. I wasn’t going to work in no boring office either – rock chick I’d set my sights on, learn the guitar, form a band. I only managed five chords, which is supposedly enough, but I couldn’t string them together very well.
    Kerry’s smile, at once welcoming, alters to one of perplexed amusement as she completes the turn to face me. “Rough night Sal?” A smirk defines her sharp features and her lilac-grey eyes glint with questions.
    “You could say that. Kicked Steve out and slept with a bottle of wine.”
    The smirk tightens into a scowl. “What for this time?” she says, tipping her gaze to the sky... “No, don’t tell me. The usual. And let me guess: at your cousin’s wedding – evidence photographic.”
    I nod in confirmation, my jaw working up to a reply that doesn’t get chance to materialise.
    “Don’t look so surprised, Sal.” Kerry holds up her hand, palm facing me, as if to stave off the expectant question. “How did I know? Obvious really. He’s a man, he’s a shit, and he’s done it before. Let me add another guess: one of the bridesmaids?”
    I nod, fingertips pressing against the pulse in my temples. The pain feels bigger than my head. I shouldn’t have run. I feel the need to throw up and edge towards the gutter, just in case. No sick rises, just a very loud, foul tasting belch. “I’m never going to drink again.”
    Kerry screws her lips into a yeh I’ve heard that before, expression, then carries on talking. “So stereotypical. The man’s a walking cliché. No doubt, though, you’ll leave it a couple of days and take him back as usual?”
    “No, not this time.” She’s on one of her rants, not actually listening to me at all. “I said, not this time.”
    “Yeh, yeh. You always say that Sally. You’re the mirror to his cliché. The doormat to his foot-wipe.”
    “I’m–”
    “Did I say foot-wipe? I meant ass-wipe. You’re toilet-roll, Sally – walking, talking, toilet-roll – softly absorbing all the crap he puts you through.”
    “Thanks. You paint a lovely picture.” Why, exactly, didn’t I stay in bed? “Can we just get inside, I really don’t feel well.”
    Kerry doesn’t acknowledge my request as an invitation to drop the subject, and now I’m the one who’s not actually listing. Thankfully, as we approach the office steps a distraction from Kerry’s disapproval appears in the form of Colleen and Philippa weaving towards us through slow moving traffic. The horn of a white-van trumpets a rhythmic blast, Colleen slaps a hand to her heart, and a guy looking barely eighteen laughs through the passenger window as Philippa, all legs in a text-message skirt, squeals and leaps to the pavement.
    “Al l right love,” he bellows. “Nice legs! What time d’they open?”
    Oh, good grief: think of something original . But just as I’m thinking him all kinds of idiot, I start feeling sorry for him as he wilts in the frost of Kerry’s glare. The two older guys in the van are in hysterics. It’s plain the young lad is emulating the example they’ve set: a vicious spiral of do as I do in order to fit in, to be one of the boys. As the traffic begins to move on, the boy looks relieved. No doubt egged on by his fellow workers, twenty or so yards further down the road, he leans out of the window and throws Philippa a piercing wolf-whistle.
    “Another bastard in the making,” Kerry shouts while emulating male masturbation in the direction of the departing van. “All of ’em, all bastards, all tossers and shits.”
    Kerry draws her attention from the van, momentarily letting it land on other male drivers who may or may not have been staring at Philippa’s legs. She then looks at me, raising her eyebrows. I know what it implies. She’s giving me the may I expression, while tipping her head toward Philippa and Colleen.
    The shrug I give in return implies: whatever