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      SUE WELFARE

       Fallen Women

       Dedication

      This book is dedicated with love to all the usual suspects, in particular Susan Opie at HarperCollins, Maggie Phillips at Ed Victor, and Mike Bell in Oakington, but most of all to my mum, who – with her impeccable sense of timing – managed to break her ankle three months after I began writing this book … although as yet there are no signs of her trading my father in for a toy boy.

      

       Epigraph

      ‘May you live in interesting times …’

       An ancient Chinese curse

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Epilogue

       About the Author

       By the Same Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       Chapter 1

      ‘So, how tall do you want this dream man to be then, Chrissie?’ Kate scanned down the form on the computer screen, her face blank with concentration.

      ‘You can specify height as well? Jesus,’ said Bill, who’d been helping fill in Chrissie’s profile. He popped the top on another can of Bud. ‘And there’s you girls always telling us that size doesn’t matter.’

      He said it in a sly, sarky way, which made Chrissie and Kate both turn round to give him a withering look. Grinning, he held up his hands in surrender, while Kate’s attention moved back to the screen.

      ‘Okay, so what have we got here? 5′ to 5′5″, 5′6 to 5′8″, 5′9″ to 6′00″,’ Kate read, ‘small, medium or large. Mr Right comes in several handy sizes apparently.’

      ‘Not in my experience he doesn’t,’ said Chrissie bitterly. She was half way through her second large glass of Archers and orange juice, the glow from the screen picking out cheekbones that only appeared when she was seriously depressed. Leaning over Kate’s shoulder, she peered myopically at the what are you looking for wish list. ‘Or over 6′4″? Good God no, I’d have to take a stepladder out with me every time I wanted a snog.’

      ‘Up to about 6′?’ suggested Kate.

      Chrissie nodded.

      ‘How about hair?’

      ‘I’m getting bored with this,’ whined Bill. ‘It’s Friday, end of the week. I want to – to …’

      They all looked at him.

      ‘What?’ snapped Chrissie. ‘Cut loose? Get lucky? Get laid? What did happen to What’s-her-name anyway?’

      ‘Oh, meow. Did you ever get that job in personnel?’ Bill growled right back.

      ‘No, I’m still flogging frocks; they decided I wasn’t fit to be let loose on real people.’

      ‘Hair,’ Kate said, attempting to whip them in.

      ‘Is that a straight choice between without or without?’ asked Joe, Kate’s husband, who had been watching the three of them. He ran his hand back over a crew cut that couldn’t quite disguise the fact he hadn’t got an awful lot of hair left.

      Joe had been idly picking out a riff on the guitar in his lap, making out he wasn’t at all interested in what was going on. Since Kate first knew him Joe had constantly doodled with music; living with Joe was like having your very own incidental music, a soundtrack to all life’s little ups and downs.

      ‘What is that?’ said Bill, taking a pull on the beer. ‘Fleetwood?’

      Joe shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not. It’s a jingle for a margarine commercial that I’ve been working

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