She’s tired of her own voice, the irregular click of her heels on the ground, her laugh, which sounds braying to her now, and her breathless, anxious sobbing.
More than anything she’s tired of fucking sobbing.
She’d like to be gracious – elegant, even – in her sadness: all weak smiles and silent weeping, but her anger demands otherwise. Her anger demands she gets drunk every Saturday and rants about him in the street. Not only did he dump her; the fallout has seen her refused entry to three different nightclubs.
Even her friends are sick of it.
‘I’ve booked a spa weekend,’ Emma tells her. ‘In the highlands. You deserve a break.’
She knows an intervention when she sees one.
The hotel is quiet, just as Em promised. The average age is perhaps forty years their senior. And it’s nice, really it is, but neither massage, nor hours in…
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