Barbara Taylor Bradford - Damaged - A gripping short read, the perfect escape for an hour

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2018

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780007503438

Version: 2017-11-02

For Bob, with all my love always.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Aftermath

Allison

The Beginning

Allison and Jimmy

Mike

Allison and Mike

The Jones Family

Allison and Peter

Peter

Allison, Kevin and Mike

Mike, Peter and Allison

Mike and Allison

Kevin

Allison and Mike

Mike

Allison and Peter

Defeated

Allison

Renewal

Mike

Allison

Allison

Mike and Allison

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford

About the Publisher

Manhattan

Allison needed a drink. Her brother, Jimmy, had made his usual foray to her rented room, picked the lock, and dumped her precious stash of Tullamore Dew down the drain. It felt like Jimmy and her dad were on speed dial at every liquor store in New York’s Five Boroughs. The minute she cobbled together enough money to pick up a pint of cheap whiskey, the proprietor would pick up the phone and rat her out. After she had paid, of course.

Cops! She was surrounded by cops. It was the Jones family’s curse. You were either a cop or a drunk; her father, her brother, her uncle, three cousins … all were cops. Even her mother, her beautiful, iconoclastic mother, had been a cop. Shot dead by a sixteen-year-old punk trying to make a name for himself. The whole family were cops, except for Allison. She was the drunk. Someone had to do it.

And drunks needed to drink.

That need was not the only thing propelling Allison Jones towards West Forty-Fifth Street on this bitingly cold November night. She needed to be with people. She needed the rowdiness of an Irish bar, the smell of shepherd’s pie mingled with corned beef and cabbage, and beer. She needed to hear laughter. When, she wondered absently, as she waited for the light to change, had she last laughed? Not just pretended she was having a good time so some guy would buy her another drink.

Never, maybe.

But even as that bitter thought came, she knew it wasn’t true. There was a time, not long ago, when joy and laughter and love were as familiar to her as the emptiness was now. Once she had a big, loud, loving Irish family. Once she had had a career, owned a thriving business.

Once she had had Mike. If you had him, there was nothing more to want from a life.

A car horn blared and she realised she was standing in the middle of Sixth Avenue, tortured by memories and regret. Those who said, better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, didn’t know what they were talking about. For her, loss was a physical sensation. Loss tore at her heart, denied her sleep.

Most likely it was because she knew in her heart she hadn’t lost Mike. She had thrown him away. The only thing that made the pain of this feeling stop was oblivion. She was headed there now.

Allison picked up her pace. The familiar light emanating from O’Lunney’s looked, at that moment, like salvation. Her heel caught in a crack in the pavement and she stumbled and nearly went to the ground.

Careful, she told herself, hanging onto a parking meter, unsteady in heels way too high for her condition. She was already buzzed. What Officer Jimmy didn’t know was that his baby sister always carried a little something in her purse, something to get her through one of his purges.

Allison bent and pressed her forehead against the frigid meter until the cold cleared her head. No falls tonight. No mysterious bruises, no being carried out of a bar, no waking up next to someone she didn’t remember meeting. She had promised herself that would never happen again.

Slow and steady, she whispered to herself, letting go of the meter. Ten yards more and she was pulling open the heavy oak door to the pub. Laughter rolled out into the street and Allison forgot how cold it was. She was home.

Slow and steady quickly turned into fast and furious. Before long, Allison was perched on the barstool, sloppy drunk, singing maudlin Irish songs that made her cry. She had inherited her mother’s voice, if not her rock-solid sense of decency.

She didn’t care right now. Now she was surrounded by men she had charmed before she went over the edge; men who had already ordered more drinks for her. Enough drinks to seal the deal. Even if they lost interest, Charlie, the bartender she had known most of her life, had collected the cash and would dole the booze out on demand.

She wasn’t positive, but she thought she had promised to go home with what’s-his-name with the blond hair. It would be good not to be alone. Soon she would feel nothing. All in all, it was a good night.

She stopped singing as she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the bar. The golden light in O’Lunney’s added a special glow to her curly red hair. It looked as if it hadn’t been brushed in a week. Her violet eyes no longer held the sparkle Mike used to dote on. At this moment they seemed buried in a once-beautiful face bloated from too many nights like this.

She made a face at herself in the mirror. Make-up streaked her cheeks from the crying jag her own singing had brought on. She had lipstick on her teeth. No one would believe she was only twenty-nine years old. For some reason the image of her ruined visage struck her as funny.

She was laughing as she slid off the barstool, knocked over two more stools and landed on the floor. She still laughed as she lay there, her skirt up around her hips, tights torn, make-up still streaming down her face. And then, she was sobbing. That broken, self-pitying drunk’s cry for rescue. One of her would-be suitors helped her struggle to her feet.

The blond one, the one she thought would be her comfort for the night, stepped around her and headed for the door. No matter. She would rather be alone with her memories.