Read Further Under the Duvet for Free Online Page B

of, but I let it go – maybe it would teach me not to be so stupid in future.
    Life moved on, then out of the blue – perhaps seven months after the initial contact – Angela emailed, offering me a half-hour phone reading between seven and half past seven, on a Tuesday, six weeks hence.
    Naturally, I was trepidatious but when I rang on the agreed date, she answered the phone and this time seemed prepared to talk to me.
    ‘Where are you based, Maureen?’
    ‘– Marian –’
    ‘Is it Dublin? Because I’m coming to Dublin soon to do ten shows. Tell everyone you know. I’m doing my shows in xxxxx.’ (Name of venue withheld to protect her identity, although I’m not sure why I’m bothering.) ‘Do you know it?’
    I admitted that yes, I knew the theatre in question.
    ‘Whereabouts is it exactly?’ she asked.
    I told her the street name and she said impatiently that she knew the name of the street but whereabouts in Dublin was it precisely. Using the Brown Thomas handbag department as a reference point, I did my best to explain and she cut in, ‘Is it anywhere near Heuston station?’
    I admitted it was near enough.
    Walking distance?
    Not walking distance, I admitted.
    How long would it take to get there in a taxi?
    I said it would depend on traffic.
    So how much would the taxi cost?
    Not much, I said, feeling a little panicky. Could we close down this line of enquiry?
    No, actually. She wanted to know what time the last train for Portlaoise left Heuston station. Would she be able to get the train home every night after the gig? Or would she have to stay in a B&B in Dublin? And if so how much would a B&B in Dublin cost?
    I was stumped. I mean, how would I know? How often do I have reason to stay in a B&B in the town I live in? I suggested she contacted the tourist board.
    It was now eight minutes past seven and we still hadn’t started on my reading. Desperately trying to steer things back on track, I asked, ‘How does this work? Someone will come through for me?’
    She sighed as if I was being selfish and unhelpful. ‘Oh aye, the reading. Let’s see who we have for you.’ A pause. Another sigh. ‘I have your granny here.’
    Surprise, surprise. That was pretty low-risk. ‘Which granny?’
    ‘She says her name is Mary. Does the name Mary mean anything to you?’
    ‘My mother’s name is Mary.’
    ‘Ah! It’s not your granny, it’s your mother! Sorry, sometimes they don’t make it clear.’
    ‘My mother isn’t dead.’ She’s at home in Monkstown, watching
Emmerdale
and eating peanut M&Ms.
    ‘It’s not Mary I’m getting anyway.’ Like I’d tried to mislead her. ‘I’m getting the name Margaret? Maggie? Mean anything?’
    No. No.
    ‘Bridget? Bridie?’
    No. No.
    ‘Catherine? Kate? Katie?’
    No. No. Yes. My mother’s mother was called Katie. Angela had finally hit paydirt on the eighth attempt. Mind you, how hard could it be to get the name of an Irish granny right? They came from an era when women’s names were rationed; there were only four or five possibilities.
    ‘Katie says to say hello to you.’
    ‘Right back at her,’ I said.
    A pause. ‘She’s telling me you have relationship troubles.’
    Actually, I hadn’t. And, instead of trying to save Angela’s blushes, I said so.
    ‘No relationship troubles? Aren’t you the lucky girl? Well, you’re probably going to get them, they don’t always get the timing right. Katie tells me you’re thinking of moving house.’
    I wasn’t. And I told her so.
    ‘Sorry, I misheard. Katie says you’re thinking of changing job.’
    No.
    ‘You’re worried about a family member. They have health troubles.’
    No.
    ‘
You
have health troubles.’
    No. Not really. Not apart from the ear infections I got every Thursday.
    ‘So what
are
your troubles?’ But the tone of her voice said, So what are your fucking troubles?
    So what were my fucking troubles? Fear of not being able to write my next book, fear that everyone would hate my current