I don't care if it kills me

Four feverishly tropical hotel nights in Sainte-Maxime, wrapped up in cheap air-tight cotton sheets and insomnia. The little sleep I get is interrupted by his careful hands underneath my clothes, finding their way through the dark to where I'm warmest.

"You left me to die" Elisa cries theatrically when we get back to the house, "and parts of me did". She gets up (reasonably) early to make us all breakfast, Tom is without any traceable amount of sarcasm when he shouts "juice!?" across the table, "I thought I ordered Champagne!"

Later I hear him talking to Henry on the balcony, leaning arrogantly against the railing in his dirt beige colonial safari outfit. "Go put on that darling bikini of yours" he says with a patronizing smile when he sees me, "the one with the roses" (the thinly veiled but honestly faked British accent, can you hear it?). He closes the door resolutely behind them, I'm not meant to hear them talking and for a moment I can't decide if he wants to be Hemingway or Michael Corleone.