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Rachel's Holiday 21 slapping her. She didn't understand. She was from a generation that went into spasms of horror at the mere mention of the word “drugs . Rachel's Holiday. Home · Rachel's Holiday Rachels Mislukte Masterplan. Read more Snowbound Holiday · Read more. Sunday, February 14, RACHEL'S HOLIDAY FREE DOWNLOAD. Posted by Kalps at PM. Labels: Marian Keyes.

Rachels Holiday Pdf

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Read Rachel's Holiday by Marian Keyes for free with a 30 day free trial. Read unlimited* books and audiobooks on the web, iPad, iPhone and Android. rachels holiday pdf. Rachel’s Holiday. She’s only agreed to her incarceration because she’s heard that rehab is wall-to-wall jacuzzis, gymnasiums. Rachels Holiday pdf, Free Rachels Holiday Ebook Download, Free Rachels rachels holiday pdf may not make exciting reading, but rachels holiday is packed .

I was nothing like one. I spent plenty of time on the stairmaster at the gym. But no matter how much I stairmastered, genetics had the final say. If my father had married a dainty little woman, I might have had a very different life. Very different thighs, certainly. My boyfriend, Luke, sometimes described me as magnificent. At least that was what he said to me. My life was prone to veering out of control and I had long stopped believing that the God who had been assigned to me was a benign old lad with long hair and a beard.

He was more like a celestial Jeremy Beadle, and my life was the showcase he used to amuse the other Gods. Little does she know that her new firm is just about to go bankrupt! See how she catches the heel of her shoe in a grating?

See how it comes clean off? Little did Rachel know that we had tampered with it. See how she limps the rest of the way? He only asked her out for a bet. Watch as Rachel squirms with embarrassment in the stylish bar. See the looks of pity the other women give her? The events that led to me being called a drug addict had the same element of celestial farce that the rest of my life had. I knew I had to get up for work the following morning, so I took a couple of sleeping tablets.

And still my head was buzzing, so in desperation, thinking of how badly I needed my sleep, thinking of how alert I had to be at work, I took a few more.

I eventually got to sleep. A lovely deep sleep.

So lovely and deep that when the morning came, and my alarm clock went off, I neglected to wake up. It was just the usual maudlin, mawkish, self-indulgent poetry-type rubbish I often wrote when I was under the influence.

Instead, when she saw the empty jar of sleeping tablets rolling around on my pillow, she decided it was a suicide note. That was unpleasant enough, but there was worse to come. And before I could intervene and explain that it had all been an embarrassing misunderstanding, my parents had rung my painfully well-behaved older sister, Margaret.

Who arrived on the first available flight from Chicago with her equally painful husband, Paul. Margaret was only a year older than me but it felt more like forty. She was intent on ferrying me to Ireland to the bosom of my family. Of course I had no intention of going anywhere but by then I was really frightened. That had never happened in the whole of my twenty-seven years. It was hard enough to get him to say hello whenever I rang home and it was one of the rare occasions when he answered the phone.

Oh Rachel? Hold on till I get your mother. Suddenly, I found myself staring into the abyss. What had they told Dad about me? I felt the way I had twenty years earlier when he and Mum were called up to the school to account for my on-going dearth of completed homework. Oh no, the game was up. Dad knew! Eric must have really gone to town on my shortcomings. Was God Beadle rerunning old tapes up there? They were acting as if something really was wrong with me.

He was right. I was furious with her and for some reason she seemed to be furious with me too. It was out of the question for someone else to move in with her. He said nothing. But, to tell the truth, my trip to the hospital had taken more out of me than just the contents of my stomach. Disagreeing with my father was something I did as instinctively as refusing to sleep with moustachioed men.

Easy for him to say. And that seemed to be that. Luckily I had taken a couple of Valium. Margaret was sitting beside me. In fact, she seemed to be constantly by my side, once I thought about it. After she finished talking to Dad, I decided to put a stop to all the nonsense. It was time for me to grab back control of the reins of my life. It was unpleasant, and above all it was unnecessary. This is all a big, huge, terrible mistake. She used to be fun once. I had four sisters, two older and two younger and Margaret was the only well-behaved one of the lot.

I spotted the flaw in his argument. Paul was obviously referring to my eldest sister, Claire, who managed to get ditched by her husband on the same day that she gave birth to their first child. With Joey being allowed to wear his pair every Wednesday, Gaz every Thursday, something like that? And what would happen if two of them turned up both wearing theirs? But one night we noticed something even stranger than their foolproof system.

Nothing remarkable there. Except that when we had seen Shake the previous weekend, his pair had had a rip in 30 Marian Keyes exactly the same place. Interesting, we mused, very interesting. Open-mouthed from the wonder of it all, we resolved to withhold judgment until it had happened to a fourth one.

Oh ye, of little faith. And sure enough, not long after that we saw Johnno in the Cute Hoor. Except he was sitting down for hours and we thought he would never stand up and show us his butt. How we eked out that one beer between the two of us! As Brigit and I clutched each other and held our breath, he slowly turned around and there it was! The rip! The identical rip on the identical pocket!

We both let out a shriek of laughter and triumph. So it was true! Is there a banshee on the premises? There were thousands of Irishmen in the bar who were over from Mayo for a conference on beef.

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We managed to calm down slightly. While the circle of Mayo men watched us in bemusement. Actually, it was a great night. All the trendy usuals left the bar as a protest against the hick Mayo men.

So Brigit and I were able to let our hair down and enjoy ourselves without the fear of being thought uncool. We were there until at least three and, God, we were drunk. So drunk that we even joined in with the mandatory, misty-eyed singsong.

Unimaginable, really. Little did I know. We had tried very hard to look sexy because we hoped, as we did wherever we went, that there might be some attractive and, more important, available men there. New York was a poor hunting ground for boyfriends. Naturally, I was prepared to offer both. Reports from a friend in Australia and a friend in Dublin indicated that pickings were slim everywhere, but New York just took the cake. Not only were there a billion women to every straight man, but every one of the billion women was heart-stoppingly beautiful.

On a regular basis we despaired of our looks. Especially because we were both tall and bigboned. All we really had going for us was our hair; mine was long and dark and hers was long and blond.

Some of hers was even natural. We were only mildly neurotic. Anyway, despite our lack of ethnic diversity, on the night in question we thought we looked pretty hot. I had a pair of beautiful new shoes on their maiden voyage. But I was befriended by the season. It was summer and the shoes were mules. Lime-green, not-too-high mules. Excruciating to walk in, of course, but who cared. Beauty is pain. So along to the Rickshaw Rooms for ourselves! Where they were holding a launch party for a new television series.

Brigit had heard about it through her job and apparently it would have a couple of famous, good-looking men and enough free drinks to sink a battleship. The bouncer, a young, not unattractive Italian man, nodded, as if in a daze.

Can we come in? He looked puzzled and confused. When we got upstairs we had to run the gauntlet of a second set of bouncers but by then we had invitations. And in we swept. We tried not to look too overwhelmed. The beautiful art deco room! The fabulous view!

The vast quantities of alcohol! Seconds after we arrived, laughing and buoyed up by our success, Brigit froze and grabbed me. As usual, they were accessorized by a couple of blond girls with legs so skinny they looked as if they had rickets.

Suddenly our victory over the bouncer became meaningless; all the good went out of it. They were obviously letting anybody in. Luke was earnestly distributing their drinks. Finally, I managed to look at them.

I must have said it louder than I had intended because Luke looked up. He stared at us both, and then, while we watched in disbelief, he winked at us. Brigit and I looked blankly at each other for a moment before exploding again.

Then, to my horror, I saw Luke detach himself from the others and, with the same loose-limbed insouciance with which he usually perambulated himself, make his way in our direction. He was all smiles and eager, puppylike friendliness. Vaguely I registered that I had to tilt my head back to see him. Something tickled inside me. Dumbly, Brigit and I shook it. Where we had to do the Irish person meets other Irish person abroad thing.

But our paths would have already crossed in some way, of this there would be no doubt. But in keeping with the Star Wars theme her mother made her go as Luke Skywalker instead. The fort? Where do you live? Have you an older sister? Did she ever go to Wesley? Long hair? Huge pair of. Very friendly girl? Imelda, something like that? Yeah, I got laid by her one night at a party in Rathfarnham about ten years ago.

Gaz was puzzled and annoyed. In New York I found it Iso hard to get men to show any interest in me that it was good for the ego to be the center of some male attention. The lucky bitch! Which had everyone in stitches. Eventually, the time came to say goodbye to the boys. It had been a pleasant interlude, but Brigit and I were on a mission. There were too many chiseled hunks in that room for us to be wasting time talking to this crowd, nice and all as they were.

I was more likely to have gone as Mother Teresa. On the contrary, it was something I had kept well hidden and that I wished had never happened.

I thought I was the only one. I used to fantasize about being boiled in oil. Sort of like junior S and M, you know? I had a couple of days of good, purifying agony until my brother found out and accused me of being a transvestite.

Head-butt the fucker. The joys of a Catholic childhood. I liked the way he said my name. And I decided to wait a while longer before cruising the room.

I discreetly shifted so that I was in a corner, with Luke facing me. That way, no one who mattered could see me. Could it have been incipient puberty? Hormones gone haywire? I think with me it had something to do with having just moved and having no friends in my new neighborhood. And for the next couple of hours Luke had me in hysterics.

He told me about an Indian restaurant on Canal Street where he said he had a curry so hot he swore he went blind in one eye for three days.

Talk of food led to the revelation that, like me, Luke was a vegetarian. That opened up an entire new pasture of shared experience, and we talked at length about how vegetarians were discriminated against and not taken seriously. We complained for a bit about how people overconsumed protein anyway, and how alfalfa sprouts were a muchmaligned foodstuff and were actually a wonderful source of everything. I thought he was great, I was great, alfalfa sprouts were great.

He had a marvelous turn of phrase and did a great line in accents, so that one minute he was a Mexican bandit, the next a Russian president, the next an overweight policeman making an arrest. He seemed to exist in vivid color in a world of black and white. And I, too, was at my entertaining best because I was totally relaxed. It was tremendously liberating. With Luke, I was able to be myself. Whatever that was. Not that he was bad-looking. And he had twinkly eyes and a very animated, mobile face.

I told him all about my family because, for some reason, people found that amusing. I told him about my poor father, the only man among six women. So what did the good sisters do? Our father who art in heav—Rachel Walsh, come away from that window! Now and then, the others interrupted and tried to join in with funny stories of their own, but it was no contest, really. No one was as funny as Luke or me.

At least that was what Luke and I thought, and we gave each other knowing looks as Gaz labored to tell us about the time his brother nearly choked on a Rice Krispie. Or was it a Frosted Flake? No, wait, it might have been a Shredded Wheat. Meanwhile, Luke and I were so busy out-hilariousing each other that, when our drinks were pressed into our gesticulating hands, we barely noticed.

Rachel’s Holiday

They had been practicing knots, not indulging in bondage. All in all, I was delighted with my new friend.

What would people think of me if I was seen with the likes of him? I wondered. And I had to say that, while leather trousers are rather unsubtle, there was no denying that he had tall, strong legs and. I waited for him to turn slightly to accept another drink from Joey so that I could get a good look. After a long time, there was a small let-up in the talk. The hum of the outside world broke through the magic circle that Luke and I had drawn around ourselves.

I wondered how soon I could tell Brigit so that we could laugh our heads off about it. That lovely, warm feeling ebbed away at high speed. He was like a different person, grim and annoyed. One worthy of respect. I dropped my eyes and found that I was looking at his midriff. Quickly, my heart beating fast, I looked up again and met his eyes.

We stared at each other in silence. Then suddenly lust just exploded within me. Everything about him, including his tight jeans and, more important, their contents, had become inexplicably and unbearably sexy. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to drag him away from the Rickshaw Rooms. I wanted him to throw me in a taxi and take me and tear my clothes off. For a second cool and gentle, then hot and sweet and hard. My head swam with shock and pleasure.

Christ, was I glad I had come tonight! I slid my arms around his waist and pulled his body close to me. With a shock I realized that the hard thing against my stomach was his erection.

He liked me as much as I liked him. This was real. He pulled my hair and tilted my head back. It hurt and I 46 Marian Keyes loved it. He scraped his stubble along my face and bit the side of my mouth. I nearly fainted. I felt sexy.

Powerful and desirable. Frantically I pulled my skirt up and forced his groin down on top of mine. Through my underwear I could feel his erection. I put my hands on his butt and pressed him down into me, so hard it hurt. Delicious pain. In a daze I realized the taxi had stopped and I thought the driver was telling us to get out because of our terrible antics. I should have known better. I can hardly remember getting into his apartment. We went straight to his bedroom and he kicked the door shut behind him, a gesture that I found unbearably sexy.

Then he shoved me onto the bed and in seconds all his clothes were off. They were nearly off anyway. I suppose I must have done this in the taxi, although I barely remembered doing so. Without his clothes he was beautiful. I went to take off my clothes, but he stopped me. He played with my nipples, running the slick tip of his erection over them, the slightest touch sending me twitching with desire.

As soon as he entered me, I started to come. And come and come. I held on to his shoulders, paralyzed, as my body contracted with waves of pleasure. And then his breathing became hoarser and more ragged and he groaned and started to come. He lay on top of me, goose bumps prickling his skin, his head in the curve of my neck.

Helen and I clambered for a look. As we gazed silently across bleak winter countryside at the big, gray, Gothic house below, I noticed that I had a knot in my stomach. Frankly, I was slightly alarmed. Did it really need to look so much like an asylum? The house looked scary enough, but to make matters worse, it was totally surrounded by a high stone wall and dense, dark evergreens.

No one would take it seriously. It was great to be out in the countryside, I told myself, determinedly refusing to hear Helen. Just think! Clean air, simple living and the chance to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Helen looked thunderous and Dad intervened quickly. Dad just trudged ahead of us up the gray stone steps to the heavy wooden door. The front door was good and heavy and wooden and swung open with solemn weight.

Just as it should. After all, this was not a happy occasion. Then she gathered herself enough to smile a professionally sympathetic smile at Dad and me. Billings is expecting you.

Billings, smiled brightly at Dad, smiled sadly at me, scowled balefully at Helen, and said,. What was he doing asking this child if I could be saved? My father always behaved as if he knew everything.

What had I done to reduce him to this? While we waited for Dr. Deep in the ancient Wicklow hills. Billings looked uncannily like John Cleese. He was about eight feet tall and nearly bald. He looked like a lunatic. I found out later that he was a psychiatrist, which made perfect sense. He asked me about the drugs I took and I tried to be truthful. Well, truthfulish. Strangely, the amount and variety of drugs I took sounded far worse when described out of context, so I toned it down a lot.

I mean, I knew my drugtaking was perfectly under control, but he might not understand. Until I remembered that me being a drug addict was worth several thousand pounds to him.

Then he gave me a lecture about the place. Perhaps you have experience of other institutions? The gall of the man! Regardless, once you have agreed to come here, there are certain conditions that we expect you to adhere to. What kind of conditions? In fact, I planned to stay the full two months. Why did he take it all so seriously?

And why would people want to leave before their two months were up? We expect your cooperation. I just wanted a nice, hassle-free rest. Then Dr. Billings went extra-weird on me. Do you want to be helped to recover from your addictions? Just not as OK as I had expected. To hell with it, I thought uncomfortably. Think of the magazine reading, the jacuzzis, the exercise, the sunbeds. Think of rubbing shoulders with celebrities.

Billings started to outline the conditions of my stay. You will be allowed to either make or receive two phone calls a week. A week? I had to speak to Luke and I might have to make lots of calls. Did it count as a phone call if I got his answering machine? And what if he hung up on me? Why do you say barbaric? I could probably psychoanalyze you. I fought back the urge to stare steadily at Dr.

Two phone calls a week? Drink a lot of it? Dammit, I thought in disappointment. Oh no! I wheeled around the little room in panic, looking for somewhere to get rid of my pre- 54 Marian Keyes cious little bottle or—far preferably—somewhere to hide it so I could retrieve it at a later date. But there was nowhere.

No bin or sanitary-towel disposable thing, no handy little nooks and crannies. It occurred to me that perhaps this dearth of hiding places was deliberate.

I found out later that it was. How paranoid were they here? I thought in a burst of impotent anger. Fucking paranoid, fucking mad, fucking fucking fuckers! I stood with the bottle in my hand and felt lightheaded as anger swam into fear and back again. I had to get rid of it somewhere. My purse! I thought joyfully. I could put it in my purse!

I looked around again, hoping that I might have missed something. And quickly. At least not yet. I mean, he was bound to eventually, everyone in authority always did, but it was too soon, even for me. A voice in my head interrupted, urging me to get moving and remove any identifying details. I felt like a criminal. I had bigger worries. What was I supposed to do with the empty brown glass bottle? There was no window that I could open and throw it out of.

My purse. Oh no, I kept forgetting. My blood ran cold. They might do a body search. Look at how thorough they were being with my suitcase and handbag. How dare they! In the meantime, where on my body would I carry it? Hardly believing what I was doing, I lifted up my sweater and stuck it under my bra, between my breasts. But that was agony because my chest was still so badly bruised, so I took it back out. There was nothing else for it, there was nowhere else it could go.

I put it in my underpants. The glass was cold against my skin and I felt foolish in the extreme, but I took a couple of steps and it stayed secure. I felt quite good until I caught a quick mental image of myself and something seemed wrong. How did I end up like this? Surely I was living in New York, young, independent, glamorous, successful?

And not twenty-seven, unemployed, mistaken for a drug addict, in a treatment center in the back ass of nowhere with an empty Valium bottle in my underwear? Drug addict, indeed! Billings interrupted my staring out the window and told me that the other clients, as he called them, were having their lunch.

Rachel's Holiday

He just missed Helen making grotesque faces at him out the back window as the car disappeared. Despite Helen convincing me that the famous rich people would be segregated from the ordinary folk, hope jumped in my stomach like a frog. And, of course, the crazy addicts and alcoholics and compulsive overeaters and gamblers who made up the rest of the clientele would be worth a look also. Even more of a pity. In fact the addicts seemed very friendly. They made a great show of making space for me at the table.

Once I got a real look at the room, I found it was surprisingly unglamorous. Though it was always possible that the interior designer had meant the yellow, shiny, institutional walls in an ironic postmodern way. And, of course, linoleum was very fashionable again. The fat old man on my right was shoveling food into his mouth. A compulsive overeater? The fat young one on my left introduced himself as Davy. I would keep a strict distance, but I would always be pleasant and polite, I thought.

After all, I was sure that their lives were miserable enough. There was no need for me to add to it. He looked disappointed and stared down at his plate of food. Mountains of turnips and potatoes and pork chops. I felt it was only polite. I had started something. Once you asked someone what they were in for, it had a domino effect and the whole place felt obliged to tell you the nature of their addiction.

It was just like dinner in our house. At least, not yet. I craned my neck to get a good look at her. Probably a housewife addicted to tranquilizers. Too bad. For a second I thought I might have someone to play with. I got a look at him and my blood quickened perceptibly.

And he was really good-looking. But he looked like a bit of an acid casualty. The bulgy, staring eyes and backcombed hair gave it away. The alcoholics outnumbered the drug addicts by about four to one. But there was only one gambler, Davy. No wonder he was disappointed. A fat woman in orange overalls banged a plate of pork chops and potatoes down in front of me.

I never heard the like! So knock it off. I would have belted him. How could he be an alcoholic?

Even though it might no longer be fashionable, I had been looking forward to fruit. Where was the salad bar? Where were the delicious calorie-counted meals? Where was the freshly squeezed fruit juice? I shoved my plate toward the fat man and it caused uproar. Billings said. They might get upset when they see my special dinner. Worried about me? What on earth for? And you run the risk of cross-addiction. And what was crossaddiction?

You may get the primary addiction under control but become addicted to another substance. No matter how much tinfoil she used, her turkeys always ended up shriveled and dehydrated. Billings just shrugged.All I could hear was the murmur of their voices, rising and falling, as conversation waxed and waned.

He gazed steadfastly at his boots. So little room to maneuver. I had a pair of beautiful new shoes on their maiden voyage. Save For Later.

ALLAN from New London
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