Ordinary Miracles Read Online Free

Rosie towards the van.
    In the van I burst into tears. ‘Now, now,’ says Susan. ‘I o ften mix up dates myself. We’ll just come back next Monday – my new job doesn’t start for a while, so I’ll be free.’
    ‘My life’s a mess. I don’t even know what day it is.’ I’m weaving a soggy Kleenex round my fingers. ‘They should fatten me up and sell me as Pedigree Chum.’
    ‘What sort of talk is this? I thought we were supposed to be against factory farming,’ says Charlie who’s exchanging concerned, puzzled glances with Susan as he manoeuvres Rosie into the back. She’s snorting with excitement at the prospect of a drive.
    ‘At least battery hens produce eggs!’ I wail. ‘At least they do something useful.’
    ‘And in completely inhumane conditions,’ says Charlie, who has written numerous articles on the subject. ‘Free range is much more You, Jasmine. Really.’ He’s trying to cheer me up. It usually works – but not today.
    ‘You’re not taking me seriously!’ I wail hysterically.
    ‘Yes, I am.’ Charlie sounds a bit exasperated now. ‘But you really are over-reacting. It’s only a march, Jasmine. We can come back next week.’
    ‘I’m nearly forty and what do I have to show for my life? Nothing!’ The words are coming out between sobs and I can’t seem to stop them. Charlie stares at me thoughtfully and then looks at Susan. She takes the cue.
    ‘Now, now,’ she soothes.
    ‘It’s all right for you.’ I look at her tetchily. ‘Your life is straight out of the Rose of Tralee.’
    Susan decides not to be offended. ‘Now, now, Jasmine,’ she says. ‘What about the poor little animals you’ve been helping? What about adult literacy? What about Katie – not to mention your marriage?’
    ‘Yes, it’s best not to mention my marriage.’ I’ve stopped sobbing and am looking at a man who’s selling brightly c oloured scarves from a pavement stall. The kind of scarves Katie sometimes ties round her hair.
    ‘And why is that?’ asks Charlie, who’s now seated.
    ‘Because’ – I pause for dramatic effect – ‘because my husband’s having an affair with Cait Carmody.’
    ‘Do you mean the actress?’ asks Susan.
    ‘Yes, yes – her.’
    ‘Ah, so this is what it’s all about,’ sighs Charlie. ‘I think this calls for a cuppa at my place.’
    ‘Yes,’ agrees Susan. ‘But let me buy some Bewley’s cherry buns first.’
    Charlie’s house is a bit past Bray and is big and messy, rather like himself. It’s in good repair because Charlie is a practical sort, but apart from the expensive hi-fi system by the large sitting-room window, it’s pretty bohemian. There are lots of large cushions around the place, but they are not plumped up. There are lots of posters too, but they’re not framed. If Charlie had to leave this place with one suitcase he could do so because Charlie knows what he loves. The rest of th e stuff would go back to the charity shops and second-hand stores where it came from, apart from the hi-fi system which he’d probably sell, and his tapes and CDs which he’d take with him.
    Most of the music Charlie plays is afficionado stuff – l ots of jazz by people with weird names. He will grudg ingly admit to having once had a crush on that blond woman from Abba – Ag something or another. He still occasionally puts on ‘Dancing Queen’ to cheer himself up.
    Charlie’s a freelance recording engineer. He’s forty-seven and is, as Susan said, quite handsome, only I’ve known him so long I don’t really notice it. He’s tall and rangy and has thick brown hair that covers his ears but doesn’t r each his shoulders. I suppose his outstanding feature is his eyes. They’re blue and very intense.
    I met him through animal rights five years ago and, frankly, I think he’s the reason I’m still involved in it. I’m not as passionate about it as he is. I care, but that’s not quite the same thing.
    Charlie’s solid, kind and fun to be around. When