Trois voeux

‘[…] where’s Dan tonight?’
‘Out picking up another slut in a bar.’
‘That’s nice for him.’
‘He’s playing squash. I think. The worst thing about this is he’s turned me into one of those suspicious wives. Noticing what time he gets home. I hate it. I’m not like that. I’ve never been like that. All of sudden I’m a cliché.’

Charlie was behind her, enfolding her in his arms. ‘We don’t have a baby, you fruitcake,’ he said. ‘Come back to bed. It’s just a dream.’
‘No, no.’ She opened a new drawer. ‘We have to find our baby.’
But even as she was saying the words she was starting to doubt herself. Maybe there was no baby?
She turned to face Charlie. ‘We don’t have a baby?’
‘No, we don’t have a baby. It’s a dream. Jesus. You frightened the hell out of me.’
‘Sorry.’ Now she felt a bit stupid. ‘Did I tell you that I sometimes have nightmares?’
‘No. You didn’t.’ He put his arm around her shoulders and guided her back towards the bed. ‘Just as a matter of interest, how often do you have them?’

‘That was very lovely,’ she said, watching 8.31 snap over to 8.32 on his bedside digital clock. ‘Last night, I mean.’
Most men, Gemma knew, were convinced they were extraordinarily talented lovers and simultaneously terrified that maybe they weren’t. It was important to pay them lavish compliments about their abilities. It put them in a good mood.

Baths, she thought, were just like her relationships, all "ooh, ah" in the beginning and then suddenly, without warning, she had to get out, out, out!

It was always like that. They never said sorry. They just threw down their still-loaded weapons, ready for next time.

Death was the hot bath you promised yourself while you endured small talk and uncomfortable shoes. You could stop pretending to have a good time when you were dead.

" Le hasard veut parfois que l’on se retrouve à jouer en public la comédie, la tragédie ou la mélodie de sa propre vie. "

L'accusation tacite- Lyn la martyre. Elle l'avait entendue toute sa vie. Si on leur en donnait l'occasion, les gens finiraient pas faire ce qu'il y avait à faire. Si seulement elle voulait bien se détendre, décompresser, se laisser aller.

Quant à Gemma, elle avait retrouvé son rôle de gamine pouffant de rire. Elle s'entendait jacasser. Jacasser. Ha ha ha. Tais-toi, tais-toi bon sang, se disait-elle, mais elle avait le sentiment d'être prisonnière du personnage inepte qu'elle endossait dans les fêtes.

A éviter. Ce livre est tellement mal écrit et on s ennuie profondément quand on arrive même a comprendre ce qu'on lit car on passe à une idée à une autre sans changer de chapitre.
Visiblement c est un vieux livre ressorti pour bénéficier du succès des plus récents
Quel désastre