Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey (top 20 books to read txt) 📕

the page and started reading the property adverts. It had seemed like a funny fantasy, not something she’d actually do. But maybe her subconscious had held on to the idea after all.

As if answering her question, her phone buzzed and her eyes were drawn to a new email notification. The title read: ‘Today’s Meeting’. It was from Stefan Camberwaddle.

Shit. In all her ridiculous turmoil she’d forgotten that she’d arranged a meeting with her most important client this morning. Her absence would matter after all.

As the bus began to pull away from the stop, Clare felt familiar anxiety bubble up and looked out of the window to calm her thoughts. It was a mistake, but she couldn’t do anything about it now. Even if she got off the bus, called a taxi and rushed back to the office she’d be late. Surely Stefan wouldn’t mind if she called it off – feigned sickness of some sort?

She tapped her bag, feeling the familiar rectangle of her notebook against her fingers. She’d been carrying this book around for a decade, noting down her thoughts and feelings like a diary; a rhyming diary. But on some level she’d always wondered whether her ditties might actually be a little bit … well … good, actually. Poems seemed a bit old-fashioned – not something that most people seemed to read or enjoy – and she’d always thought of writing them as a guilty pleasure, the sort of thing she could enjoy for herself but never share.

This was her chance, wasn’t it? To read a poem to a room full of strangers and see whether she was actually any good at it. And it wouldn’t matter. Nobody would know. She wouldn’t have this opportunity again.

An hour later, sitting in a room full of chairs, the idea didn’t seem quite as wonderful as it had earlier on. She’d already been waiting for ages; there was clearly at least an hour more to go. Somewhere, back in her office, Camberwaddle had been stood up – she’d texted Ann to say she was sick and asked her to contact him but suspected that he’d be mightily put out at the late cancellation.

The room was alive with excited chatter. Dancers stretched impossibly flexible limbs. Singers carried out vocal exercises. A man dressed as a clown was juggling in the corner. He kept dropping a ball and looked close to tears. Clare was willing to bet none of the acts would be standing there reading poetry like a poor man’s version of Pam Ayres. What was she doing?

Then she noticed a familiar coat hanging over the back of a chair. Next to it, a man with grey hair was limbering up. His rotund frame was squeezed into a leotard covered in green sequins. Looking up, Mr Flasher – or perhaps Mr Flashy – caught her eye and she gave him the thumbs up. A* for bravery if nothing else! He smiled back.

In the row behind her was a small group of boys – all dressed in black – together with a man who looked to be in his early thirties. His hair was curly and cutely unkempt. The sort of man, she thought, who didn’t spend a second longer than he had to thinking about his fringe. ‘Remember lads,’ she heard him saying. ‘We’ve been training for this. We’re ready. Just have fun with it.’

‘But we want to win, right?’ one of the boys replied.

‘Yes, Mark, we want to win,’ the man said, leaning forward and ruffling a mop of brown hair. ‘But we want to enjoy it too.’ He glanced over at Clare and grinned. ‘Pretty nerve-wracking,’ he said. His smile was wide and showed both sets of teeth. It was impossible for her not to grin back.

‘Just a bit,’ she said. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. Like the boys he was with, he was dressed in a black T-shirt, but his jeans were blue and covered in fashionable rips. ‘I’m just the coach,’ he added. ‘The boys are the talent.’

As he lifted his arm to rub his hand across his springy, curly hair, his T-shirt lifted up to reveal an enviable six-pack.

Oh, I don’t know, thought Clare, then felt herself blush as if she’d said it out loud.

‘Anyway, hope it goes well for you,’ he said, sitting down and giving her a wink.

‘Me too.’ She felt her cheeks flush a little.

She read through her lines again. Well, unlike the boy dancers she hadn’t been training. And she definitely didn’t have a six-pack. But she was here now. What the hell, she thought. She was damn well going to do it anyway.

Chapter Seven

An hour and a half later, reading her chosen lines for the tenth time, Clare saw Stefan’s number flash on her phone. She pressed the red button to bin the call, hoping he would leave a message instead of persisting. Luckily, one flashed up. She nervously lifted the phone to her ear: ‘Clare, it’s Stefan Camberwaddle. Sorry you’re sick. We do need to get this transaction tied up though. I’m afraid nobody else at your office was able to help. Please message me to rearrange things.’ She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. But before she could decide what to do a small, mousy-haired woman appeared at her side like an apparition: ‘Would you like to come this way please,’ she said. ‘Next two rows.’

Too late to back out now, Clare, she told herself. She put the phone back into her bag. She’d call later and sort things out.

The group of boys – all of whom looked to be in their early teens – stood up too, as well as Mr Flasher, who was now modestly covered with his mac again. They walked together, like the strangest and most motley crew imaginable, through the double doors.

Then there was momentum and the low murmur of conversation as they turned a corner. A woman was sitting on an empty box and breathing into a brown paper bag. The passage opened