Read Anybody Out There - Marian Keyes for Free Online Page A

Lost forever." He pronounced "forever" as "forevah"
like he was from Boston. Then he looked at my temporary ID badge. "You're a visitor here?
["visitah"]. Would you like me to show you the bathroom?"

"I'm fine."

"What about your shirt?"
"I'll pretend it's a fashion statement. Really, I'm fine."

"You are? You promise?"

I promised, he asked if I was sure, I promised again, I asked if he was okay, he said he was, then
he went off with what remained of his coffee and I felt a little deflated as I carried on my way
and found Mr. Coaster's office.

I tried to get Nita to explain to Mr. Coaster why I was splattered with coffee but she had zero
interest. "Did you bring the stuff? The base in--"

"--Cookie Dough," we said together. There was a waiting list a month long for the base in
Cookie Dough.

"Yes, it's in there. Lots of other stuff, too."

She began tearing the Candy Grrrl box apart. I stood there. A while later she looked up and saw
that I was still standing there. "Yeah, go on in," she said irritably, waving her hand in the
direction of a closed door.

I knocked and took myself and my dirty shirt into Mr. Coaster's office.

Mr. Coaster was a short, big-swinging-dick superflirt. As soon as I introduced myself, he gave
me an overly twinkly grin and said, "Hey! Is that an accent I hear?"

"Mmm." I gave the photo of him--and who I can only presume were his wife and two children
--a hard stare.

"British? Irish?"

"Irish." I gave the photo another meaningful eye flick and he shifted it slightly so that I could no
longer see it.

"Now, Mr. Coaster, about these futures."

"`Now, Misthur Coasther, about dese fewchurs.' I love it! Keep talking!"

"Ha-ha-ha." I laughed politely, while thinking Fuckhead.

It was a little while before I managed to get him to take me seriously and then it was only a
matter of seconds before I discovered that "futures" were more of a conceptual thing, that I
couldn't just waltz out the door with a handful of gorgeous futures, take them back to the office,
wrap them in handwoven boxes from Kate's Paperie, and have them messengered over to ten of
the city's most powerful beauty editors.
I'd have to come up with some other bright idea, but I wasn't as disappointed as I should have
been because I was thinking about the guy I'd bumped into. There had been something. And not
just the synchronicity of our his 'n' hers scars. But when I walked out of this building today the
chances were that I would never see him again. Not unless I did something about it. If you don't
ask, you don't get. (And even then it doesn't always work.)

First I'd have to find him, and this bank was a big place. And if I did manage to locate him, then
what should I do? Stick my finger in his coffee and suck it suggestively? Immediately I ruled this
out. (A) the heat of the coffee might melt the glue on my acrylic nail, causing it to fall off and
swim around in the cup like a shark's fin and (b) It was a revolting thing to do anyway.

Mr. Coaster was explaining expansively and I was nodding and smiling, but I was far away
inside my head, riveted by indecision.

Then, like a switch had been flicked, I fixed on a plan of action. I was suddenly certain: I was
going to be up-front and honest, and I decided to enlist the help of Mr. Coaster. Yes,
unprofessional. Yes, inappropriate. But what was to be lost?

"Mr. Coaster, sir," I interrupted politely. "On my way in here, I bumped into a gentleman, which
resulted in him spilling his coffee. I'd like the opportunity to apologize before I leave. I didn't
get his name but I can describe him." I spoke quickly. "He's tall, at least I think he is, although
I'm so short everyone looks tall to me. Even you."

Shite.

Mr. Coaster's expression went instantly very stony. But I pressed on, I had to. How to describe
my mystery man? "He's kind of pale, but not in a bad way, not like he's sick. His hair is light
brown now, but you can tell he was blond as a baby. And his eyes, I think they might be