Bachelor Boys by Kate Saunders

Bachelor Boys
Buy eBook Price: $9.99
  • Publication Date: 2005
  • Category/Subject: Fiction
  • Formats: EPUB
  • MNETID: 53609865


As the child of remote, chilly parents, Cassie reveled in the exuberant chaos she found at the home of the Darlings--two boys, a cheerful father, and a glorious mother, Phoebe, who welcomed the lonely little girl next door into their family circle. Now Cassie is all grown up, the editor of a highly respectable literary magazine, with a well-ordered life and a suitable boyfriend. But her beloved Phoebe is dying and comes to Cassie with one last request: Will Cassie help find wives for her sons, two gorgeous, sexy, but wildly impractical bachelors still living in their mother's basement flat? Heartbroken at the thought of losing Phoebe, Cassie cannot refuse--but how will she ever find decent girlfriends, let alone wives, for the Darling boys? It's all very well for Phoebe to insist they are lovely boys who are absolutely sweet to their mother, but who else would see either one as husband material: Fritz, a handsome medical student turned unemployed actor; [...]


From the book Bachelor Boys Chapter ONE I was in the middle of cutting down a dotty and rambling piece about the Golden Age of Crime Fiction when Phoebe rang. "Cassie, darling. I know how busy you are, so I won't keep you." Her voice was soft and fresh, with a faint Edinburgh accent like the scent of heather. It was the voice of gentleness and safety and I unconsciously curled up in it, ripping off my glasses and stretching out in my office chair. "That's okay, we're not particularly busy." "The thing is," Phoebe said, "I've been thinking about something. And I really need your advice." "Mine?" "It's in your area of expertise." "You mean books." I was the editor of The Cavendish Quarterly, London's most respectable literary magazine, and Phoebe often asked me to recommend books for various friends (in vain did I hint that this was not, in fact, a normal part of my job description). "Not this time," Phoebe said. "I can't tell you over the phone, because you'll laugh." I said, "You've had one of your ideas." This was not a question. Phoebe was famous for having ideas. "Well, yes," she said, with that familiar air of being awed by her own brilliance. "It's a wonderful idea, but I don't see how it can be done without you." "As long as it doesn't involve dressing up as a squirrel," I said. At the other end of the phone, Phoebe giggled. Ten years before, in my student days, she had persuaded me to hand out leaflets dressed as a red squirrel. This ghastly experience had left deep scars on my psyche, and I never let her forget it. "Nothing like that," she assured me. "This is a totally different sort of ideal. I can't wait to tell you--could you possibly come tonight?" I made a quick calculation. It would mean putting off Matthew, which he wouldn't like. But he would understand. He knew that any summons from Phoebe was sacred. She was the nearest thing I had to a mother. "Of course," I said. "I'd love to." "I'll make some supper. I've got some lovely fresh tagliatelli." "Can I bring anything?" "No, my darling, just yourself," Phoebe said tenderly. "It'll only be the two of us. This isn't something I can talk about in front of the boys." I might have guessed it would be about the boys. For as long as I had known her, Phoebe had been cockeyed about those boys of hers. In every other department she was perfectly rational, but where the boys were concerned, she could talk herself into anything. I loved her all the more for this large blind spot. "You're being very mysterious," I said. "What's going on?" "Wait and see." Her voice was light and teasing, which I took as a good sign. "And Cassie, if you happen to run into Fritz or Ben, you mustn't say a word about any of this. I mean, you can say you're coming to supper, but that's all." "Okay, my lips are sealed. See you tonight." The call ended with me holding up the receiver so that Betsy could shout greetings from the other side of the office. Betsy Salmon was my deputy editor, but I had been at school with her four daughters, and she had known Phoebe since the boys were babies--she had once smacked Fritz at a birthday party, for persecuting the conjuror. As soon as the phone was down, Betsy asked, "Well? How do you think she is?" "Fine. Tired, obviously." I was sharp. I hated talking about Phoebe's health. "And how are the boys?" "She didn't say, so I assume they're fine." I knew it was mean to be sharp [...]
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