The Godmother Read Online Free

I’d love to, but we’ve got to go out to some boring dinner.”
    â€œI heard that!” shouted Sasha from the background. Sasha is Ben’s wife. She’s the woman who took my friend away. Hating her should have been easy but she made it impossible. Thankfully, because she worked so hard, she also loaned him back to me on a regular basis.
    â€œYou’re too good for him,” I shouted back.
    Sasha came to the phone. “That I know. Welcome home, Tessa. Was it amazing?”
    â€œAmazing,” I replied. “But I’m glad to be back.”
    â€œGood. We were afraid you might disappear into an ashram, never to be seen again,” said Sasha.
    â€œNot Tessa ‘homing pigeon’ King.”
    â€œWell, this past year has been a tough one. No one knows how they are going to react after that kind of stress. But you sound well and I bet you look great.”
    â€œThanks.” Sasha always got to the heart of things; there was no namby-pamby nonsense with her. Ben reclaimed the phone.
    â€œShe is a wise woman, your wife,” I said.
    â€œI know. Annoying, isn’t it? I’m glad you’re back and fully recovered.”
    â€œGo dine,” I replied. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
    â€œAbsolutely. We’ll make a plan.”

    I put down the receiver. Lay the phone on my stomach and stared at the sky. My ex-boss didn’t bother me any more; to be honest, I was happy to be on paid leave. Lying on the beach in India after another morning of hardcore yoga, it had hit me: I hadn’t had a proper break since Vietnam. When other people took a year off, I was doing articles. I had taken some form of major exam every year for nearly ten years, and since then I’d been working, working, working. My weekends weren’t exactly periods of quiet contemplation either, and holidays were about packing in as much of the other stuff I never had time for. I was exhausted. So in a way it had all turned out for the best. I had had a chance to regroup. I had had a chance to get healthy. Yes, I had recovered. I had definitely recovered. So what was this sinking feeling I had?
    I did what I always do in times like this. I called Samira.

    Samira was a relatively new friend of mine. She’s a professional party girl, which is convenient because I always have someone to play with but frightening because I thought I was an amateur. Of course, her life is different to mine in one major way: she is filthy rich, which buys a lot of love and lie-ins. Samira was rarely lonely. I didn’t like her for her money. You might find that hard to believe, but actually her absurd wealth was the hardest part of being her friend. She was very used to getting her own way. What I did like about her was that she was always up for a drink on a Saturday night, and any other night of the week. The curse of the well-funded. The way she partied she should have resembled Teddy Kennedy, but she had more personal trainers than private bar memberships, and worked very hard at being able to play the way she did. Her mobile rang until it went on to answerphone. I left an urgent message.

    I stared at my dirty laundry and decided I couldn’t face it. Instead, I stripped out of my traveling clothes, added them to the pile and stepped into my wet room. The showerhead is as big as a frying pan; it was probably the mostexpensive item I bought for the flat. I saved on soft furnishings. I still didn’t have curtains, for instance. But my God, it’s worth it. The water cascades down you, which is wonderful but completely impractical if you have hair as frizzy as mine. I still didn’t care. I now have a grand collection of shower caps. Shower caps and eye-masks. Oh, the joy of single living.
    After my shower, I dug out some real clothes and put on an outfit to go to the shops. Jeans. Knee-high boots. Skinny-fit, long-sleeved white T-shirt to show off the tan. Who I was dressing for