Read Paula Spencer for Free Online Page B

all by yourself.
    Paula knows. Mary couldn't give a fuck about Paula or what she deserves. She wants the company, but she'll drink alone.
    —No. Thanks.
    —Or a g&t. Or a little vodka. We've all of them with us, Paula.
    Paula shut the door. She tried to smile as she did it. She sat down and held the table.
    That was two days ago. There isn't the room here for avoiding people. She keeps the door shut.
    Her phone's dead. She forgot the charger. She could get another one in Gorey. But she doesn't want to hear the lies. I'm grand; it's lovely; I'm having a great time. And she doesn't want to hear herself whinge. She'll leave it till she gets home.
    Tomorrow.
    She thinks about Leanne – she tries to. She thinks about Nicola – there's no room; she can't do it. She has her own things, her own problems. She can't get at them either. Her blood is hard. Her blood cuts at the corners.
    She stands. She closes the curtains. Now she can walk, she can pace the caravan. Can they see her outside? Her shadow, her silhouette. Does her weight dip and lift the caravan? She doesn't care. She does; she doesn't. She'll walk all night if she has to. She'll stay in here till it's time for the train. She'll get the bus to Gorey just in time. No time to hang around or feel the pull. Those small towns are treacherous. Every fuckin' door's a bar.
    She knows already. She's grand; she's fine. She's in charge again, she'll soon be home. She'll clean up, the little that needs doing. She'll pack, she'll go. She can trust herself. She knows she can. She's running from nothing. She's going home. She wants to.
    Foreign the next time. She'll go somewhere foreign. Away from drink and familiar accents. Where she won't be alone or it won't matter. She'll save. She'll try. She'll get herself a passport. She had one once, years ago. When she'd thought they'd be going abroad, when there was money and Charlo hadn't hit her in a long time. She'd got herself a passport, the kids' names on it too. And the application form for Charlo. But he'd never filled it in.
    She hasn't a clue where it went. It would be out of date now, even if she found it. And the photograph would kill her. Younger, less wrecked. But also sad. Too eager. Too near to Charlo. Too married.
    She'll be home this time tomorrow.
    She's on her way home from work. The Dart has just left Connolly. She has brochures in her bag. Dell, Gateway, Intel. She went into Peat's on Parnell Street. She spoke to a young lad in a white shirt. He showed her some of the computers. They all looked lovely. She hadn't a clue what he was talking about but she came away with the brochures and the prices. She hasn't mentioned it to Nicola and she won't. This will be hers. Her work is going to pay for it.
    The weather's been desperate. Summer, my arse. It's cold. She'll need a coat before the computer. The old one gave up on her this afternoon. The sleeve fell off when she was putting it on. No ripping or anything, it just came away with her arm. The material was worn like paper at her shoulder. No stitching that could have put it back on.
    She's always hated sewing.
    Shaking fingers.
    She threw it out, into the wheelie. And she didn't mind too much. She'll save for a new one. She knows she will.
    D'you think it grows on fuckin' trees? That was what Charlo used to say. And she did it once – she looked up into a big tree, in St Anne's Park. When Jack was a little lad in his buggy, and Leanne was with her too. One of those big fat trees, a chestnut or something – she's not good on trees.
    —Any money up there, love?
    —No, said Leanne.
    —.Ah well. Your daddy must be right, so.
    The bitterness was natural. But she should never have dished it out to the kids. More guilt. She didn't do it often. But she did it.
    She's human, she's only fuckin' human.
    They're moving again. Out of Clontarf station. Over the bridge. She used to clean one of those houses. How long will it be before Leanne is searching the trees for