Brian Gallagher The Feng Shui Junkie (epub)

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.Brian GallagherThe Feng-Shui junkie2000Julie and Ronan are the perfect married couple: with two incomes, and both personal and professional success, theirs is a lifestyle to envy.That is, until the day Julie comes home unexpectedly early from a week away to find a yellow wonderbra hanging from the doorknob.It seems that in the age-old style it has all gone terribly wrong – Ronan is having an affair.Fuelled by anger, despair and whiskey, Julie embarks on a campaign of detection.Revenge may not be sweet, but it is most definitely worth it…Thursday, 16 June, afternoon1…you see, he thinks I’m touchy by nature, a bit moody, mercurial, cantankerous (is that spelt right?), unbalanced even…but I don’t know.I mean, you don’t get to where I’ve got in life by being congenitally irritable.You don’t get to being a venerated legal professional in a power suit, with an MGF 1.8i convertible, by surrendering to biorhythms and breaking down at magic-mood roundabouts when everyone else is full speed ahead.In a world which treats a woman like a lollipop for the eyeballs, I think I am a model of self-restraint, forbearance and dignity.I am good-natured.No, in fact, I think I’m a saint.After all, have I not up to now been a positive, moderating and pacifying influence on the rotten piece of whale-shit that is my husband Ronan? And does all this not imply a certain balance of mind on my part? A certain equanimity, a degree of sanity? You don’t think so?But.No one’s perfect.There are exceptions.Like when I return home two days early from holiday to discover another woman’s lemon-yellow Wonderbra hanging from the inside knob of our hall door and the place smelling like a Cantonese bidet – ignore me if I begin to lose it.Temper, principles, dignity, cool.Everything.I slam the front door behind me and glare at the offending yellow undergarment as if it recently hatched from a snake egg and might at any time spring up and bite.There’s something outrageous about it.Defiant.Conscious.As if it’s been hung there to ward off evil spirits.I take a breath.“Ronan?”It’s more a command than a question.There’s no response.Just silence.A silence with a peculiar buzz, not to be confused with the faint purring of the fridge or the happy gurgling of the aquarium in our living-room.No, it’s a guilty silence.It’s as if Ronan and his hump piece have been sweating guilt into the fresh air of our apartment and it’s clung to the walls like paint.“Ronan!”Again, nothing.He must be out.Of course, he’s not expecting me back from my holiday until Saturday.I sniff into space.It’s a strangely sweet, bitter smell.If not perfume, then some kind of aromatherapeutic ointment or herbal infusion, around which Ronan would not be seen dead.It lingers in the sunless hallway.It is warm and moist.It seems to be coming from the bathroom.Lemon, that’s what it is.There is a trollop in the air.A trollop who divests my husband of his marriage vows, then attempts to cleanse her damned soul in the fruity balm of lemon.A trollop hung up on lemon-yellow Wonderbras.What’s wrong with plain ordinary white?Who is this person?I turn up the label.Size 36D.Now I’m the first to praise generously where praise is due, especially if I’m flattened by the competition.But when it’s a proven fact that generous breasts are one of Ronan’s most important life priorities it’s not so easy.In fact, I want to take a knife and slash everything in sight.Lemon.Calm down, Julie!There may be no need to panic.Having a size 36D silken lemon-yellow brassiere disgrace our front doorknob should not necessarily worry me.In and of itself.After all, it could be, for instance…what if it’s Ronan’s sister?Except.I know it’s not his flaming sister.Ronan has been warned to keep her away from this apartment.She’s thirty and brings her cat, Ginger, with her everywhere she goes.I love life.I hate cats.Ginger moults like a hair factory during a Hoover recession.This annoys me so intensely that I have offered to- stir-fry her guts in our new wok if she ever again steps into our apartment.In soya oil.Do I sound horrible yet?So no, I don’t think it’s his sister.I fling my black leather Giorgio Armani bag against the banana-coloured couch on the right: my only token of defiance against the minimalist luxury of our apartment.I take a left into the kitchen, a sniffer dog baying for blood…And when I see what lies here on the floor I stop dead, gripping the counter top beside me.You are strong.You can cope.There is an explanation.Ronan loves you.Stop being stupid.Be calm.You’re a lawyer, goddamnit.Relax.Let’s not make a meal out of this.I mean, just because there’s a shitload of women’s garments lying scattered all over our kitchen floor is no reason to hit the roof.In and of itself.2Okay, Julie, simmer down now.Think dignity.Think respectability.You’ve got neighbours.You’ve got a reputation to maintain.You’ve got self-respect.You’ve got pride.You may well have blood pressure.Ever so silently, therefore, I hyperventilate.You see, it’s not just the cream-coloured high heels perched on the kitchen table like a museum piece, one poised defiantly on its heel and the other lying defeated on its side next to a half-full bowl of nachos and a crudely mauled pair of croissants and three empty bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and two of our sparkling wedding-ware Duiske glasses.Nor is it just the elegant cream ladies’ jacket hanging from the back of one of the chairs, its accompanying cream blouse and skirt lying in a light clump beneath the kitchen table.Nor is it the light-tone tights in the fruit bowl, sitting in a puffy ball alongside two oranges, three apples and one overripe mango.This alone demands immediate compensation [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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