They maintain this guilty, defiant refusal to engage: I know you’re out there; I know it’s awful and I’m safe inside, but I suffered too, so let me just read my Kindle without bloody guilt-tripping me, OK?
Is that what he thinks? I mean, I know it’s the truth, but it shouldn’t be what he thinks. Husbands should think the best of their wives, as a matter of principle.
I mean, here we are in LA. The home of celebrities. They’re the local natural phenomenon. Everyone knows you come to LA to see the celebrities, like you go to Sri Lanka to see the elephants.
He leans forward, and this time there’s no hesitation. His mouth lands on mine, sweet and firm. He’s kissing me. Jack.
But sometimes you have to be brave. Sometimes you have to show people what’s important in life. And I have this very strong gut instinct that what I’ve done is the right thing. Maybe not the easy thing – but the right thing.
God, real people are so disappointing. I’m sure she would have done it better in the box-set version.
I know exactly what Luke’s doing. He’s trying to push me and Suze together so we can make up. Which is really sweet of him. But I feel like a panda being told to mate with another panda that clearly doesn’t fancy me.
How many divorces are caused by the word nothing? I think this would be a very interesting statistic.
OK, I have to make sure we’re on the same page here. Because I might mean one thing and she might mean, intending to start a Cordon Bleu course when I get back to England.
Everyone knows, the point of an interview is not to demonstrate who you are, but to pretend to be whatever sort of person they want for the job.
You can’t even communicate in English. Real life is not a series of levels.
Living in London is like living in a movie set, from the Dickensian backstreets to the glinting tower blocks to the secret garden squares. You can be anyone you want to be.
And the point is, it’s something to aspire to, something to hope for. One day my life will match my Instagram posts. One day!
I feel a hotness behind my eyes. I have no idea why. I don’t know why I suddenly feel affected. I want to type I admire you, but I can’t bring myself to. Not even by text. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, I type: I understand you.
Everyone should keep a dream journal, did you know that?
I can’t believe how much damage has been done, just from teenage loves meeting again. People should never come into contact with their first loves, I decide. There should be some official form of quarantine. The rule should be: you break up with your teenage lover and that’s it. One of you has to emigrate.
He’s lithe and tanned and taut. But to my eye he’s lost something. He has a synthetic quality, like orange soda instead of freshly squeezed juice. It’s orangey and bubbly and it quenches your thirst, but it leaves a bitter aftertaste. And it’s not good for you.
I’m not quite sure if he’s talking to me or to himself, but every word he says feels like a drop of Wise Potion. I want to hear more. I want him to tell me all the answers to life.
The whole point about T-shirts is you choose them in the morning according to your mood, like crystals, or aromatherapy oils.
My phone’s my life. I can’t exist without it. It’s a vital organ.