It’s just, there’s something compelling about very beautiful people. Especially strong-jawed men with stubble and intense eyes. You fall under their spell and believe anything they say.
Buy calmly and with meaning.
People move on. Friendship end.
You can Cut Back or you can Make More Money.
If I ran the country there’d be courses in things that you’d actually use your whole life. Like: How to do eyeliner. How to fill in a tax return. What to do when your loo blocks and your dad isn’t answering the phone and you’re about to have a party.
One of my major rules of life is: You should listen to your body. Your body is wise. Your body knows.
She somehow understands that I have to know how Seb is, because I feel this strange, inextricable link to him. Which isn’t a relationship – God, of course not. We’re not even friends, really. It’s just... it’s a different kind of thing. A yearning. A tugging in my heart. A need to be with him and know that he’s OK. I mean, what would you call that?
He feels like fun. He feels like cleverness and irreverence and wit and charm, all packaged up in a long, lean frame.
Suddenly I can’t bear being near him anymore. I can’t bear seeing his generous, brave face, his woodland eyes, his everything... and knowing that they can’t be mine.
I never used to be scared. But over the last few years, I’ve gradually got more and more nervous. I know it’s completely irrational.
Silence is great. It’s peaceful. It’s something we all need, in this hectic modern life, silence.
Small talk depletes creativity. Social media stifles thought. Even choosing an outfit every morning is needless effort. So, for one week, we will let all that nonsense go. We will engage instead with big talk. Character. Plot.
The art of fiction is to present reality as though it’s unreality.” She addresses the whole room. “Be artful. Use disguises.
There’s only so long you can smile brightly at the man who has your heart but loves someone else.
Of course I have secrets.
All I can say is, she’s the one I think about.” Margaret pauses, and her voice softens as she reads. “All the time. She’s the voice I want to hear. She’s the face I hope to see.” My throat is full of lumps. I’m swallowing desperately, trying to keep my composure. He’s the one I think about. All the time. He’s the voice I want to hear. When my phone bleeps, I hope it’s him.
You can’t hold on to things just because of the memories. Otherwise, no one would ever move house. Or country. Or chuck a crap boyfriend. Every crap boyfriend has at least one good memory attached to him. But you have to let them go. Otherwise, you’re all, ‘Oh, but there was that lovely time we walked in the autumn leaves.
I would go so far as to say I can’t seem to build the life I want without you. Nothing fits.
You can’t fix something if you’re hiding from it.
A relationship isn’t a snapshot. It’s a journey.