Chloe comes home after work on Friday, kicks off her Vera Wang leather boots and collapses theatrically on the kitchen floor. "I think I've made one of the ad men fall in love with me" she sighs. "What did you do this time" I ask but I know it usually doesn't take much. Her Botticellian body in a little black dress is enough for most men.
Whenever someone says they love me I know they're lying. What it means is they love the idea of being in love, it's a form of self-deceit with two potential victims. I haven't said those words to anyone, and I've only really felt it once. He deserves to hear it but now we're a wasteland apart and I'm slowly starting to forget what he looks like.
Tonight we're chaperoning, mother invited Frank for dinner and ordered us to stay home. She's been dancing around the apartment in her purple Alexander McQueen velvet flats since early this morning, the floors smell of lemon and she almost seems happy. That always worries me.