This one starts to a weird ass sex-fruit-ropes-cutting scene. Raping a BDSM orange, are we? I'm gonna call Greepeace on your ass, buddy!
Q:
First, you light a cigarette, the smoke curling in on itself and up towards the ceiling. … Kneeling over the back of the sofa, you tie the rope onto the shelves…
Next, you wrap a silk scarf round the rope to soften it and pull at it once, twice, to make sure it’s secure. …
And the final cut, the orange you have laid out on a plate. You pick up the knife, a sharp one with a wooden handle, a steel-dappled blade, and you push it into the fruit. A half, a quarter. An eighth. The peel orange, the pith white, the flesh bleeding out to red at the edges, a sunset spectrum. …
These are all the textures you need. The sting of the smoke in the air, the figures dancing on the screen before your eyes. The padding of the silk soft against the coarse rope. The thumping of the blood in your ears as you come closer and closer, the sweet burst of citrus on your tongue to pull you back from there to here, before the point of no return. (c) Poor innocent fruit!
After, it starts getting less fruitophiliak: all work-hard-play-hard and no rest make Alison a very dull girl. She works a lot, after work she drinks what must be barrels of alcohol, she goes all obsessed with another guy who is an obsessed dork in his own right and together they venture into situations of doubtful consent every time. At home she has another guy as a hubby and a young kid, Matilda.
Basically, she's a passenger in an out-of-control vehicle that is her life. Her family is right by her side for full-frontal view of mommy sliding somewhere, skidding on the surfaces of her professional and personal issues.
Her trademark is:
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I hadn’t realized everyone had got so boring. (c) Well, she's not boring, all right.
Q:
His philandering was legendary, a broken marriage somewhere in his background and several broken hearts, but that wasn’t enough to stop me. … I bit his ear and in turn he took me by the throat and pushed me against the wall and hissed, “No biting, no questions. We fuck, that’s it.” I’m not going to break the rules now. (c) How's that for corporate culture?
Overall, Alison's job seems to be a very special sort of hell: she's always riding trains to work on all kinds of sleazy court cases. Add to that that her boss pressures her into sex favours all over the county and her inability to mean no while saying it. Anyway she manages to do a workaholic's escapes into work:
Q:
The temptation to hide in the brief is almost irresistible, to retreat behind statement and summary rather than confront the reality of my own life and the mess I keep making of it… (c)
Her private life is a mix of gaslighting SOB Carl, overbearing SOB Patrick and Alison being, well, someone she doesn't really seem to know. Both men in her life are decidedly creapy&crappy:
Q:
“I’m going to make you enjoy this,” he says. (c) This is the lover.
Q:
Patrick pushes me through the open door and shuts it firmly behind him. ... Then he turns me to face the wall and pulls down my bottoms. ... Within moments it’s over. He pulls out and turns me round to kiss me.
“I’ve been thinking about that all day,” he says eventually.
I’m out of breath, unsure how I feel about what’s just happened. (c) And this is the lover as well.
Q:
“You might look like a bit of a skank, Alison, but you’re my skank.” (c) The hubby dearest.
What could a woman wish for with these 2 specimen? Huh.
She LOVES her karaoke, like they say: 'Sing like no one's listening':
Q:
I’m in good form tonight. The children watch wide-eyed with awe as I hit all the high notes in “Wuthering Heights.” They’re enthralled….
I hold the last note as long as I can and collapse back on the sofa, spent. I’m almost surprised not to receive a round of applause, so clearly in my mind are Carl and David and Louisa avidly listening and admiring my singing.
“…how you put up with it.” Louisa’s voice, clear in the sudden silence after the end of my song. Then a shushing noise. …
I’m confused about the way the afternoon’s ended up; I was so sure that everyone would want to join in. (c) LOL!
She loves watching her karaoke epics in video SLIGHTLY LESS:
Q:
I hear the opening bars of “Rolling in the Deep” and smile, about to join in the singing in my head. But as I mentally draw breath, I hear myself already singing. If singing is what it can be called. …
Last night, I’d been glorious, singing without a care in the world. So what if no one else was joining in, they didn’t know what they were missing! I was a star, riding a wave of music that had carried me away from all the petty wrangling that had dominated the end of the afternoon. …
I watch … appalled. ...
It’s not a heavenly thing to watch. (c)
Some florid language problems:
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… the pressure that drove hard edges into all of my soft surfaces. (c) Surfaces, Alison? Just how many surfaces do you have?
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She is a pendulum chiming between this reality and the other one that still isn’t texting me… (c) She is a kid, her name is Tilly.
Writing: gosh I hate writing that goes into passages like these:
Q:
Should I take it as a sign to go? Hell no. There’s no way I’m going to leave Patrick to his own devices in that nightclub, not with all those hungry young women desperate to make a good impression on one of chambers’ most important instructing solicitors. I scrape the worst of the mess onto a clean bit of wall and walk with assurance to Swish, smiling at the doorman. If I wash my hands for long enough I’ll get the stink off. No one will ever know.
Tequila? Yes, tequila. Another shot. Yes, a third. The music thumps. Dancing now with Robert and Sankar, now with the clerks, now showing the pupils how it’s done, smiling, joining hands with them and spinning and back to dancing on my own, my arms waving above my head, twenty again and no cares. Another shot, a gin and tonic, head spinning backwards falling through the beat as my hair falls round my face.
Patrick’s in here somewhere but I don’t care, not looking out for him, certainly have no idea that he’s dancing very closely with Alexia with the smile on his face that should just be for me. I can play that game. I walk over to the bar, a wiggle in my stride. Looking good. Dark hair artfully pushed back from my face, fit for nearly forty—the match of any twentysomething in that room. Even Alexia. Especially Alexia. Patrick’ll see oh he’ll be sorry he’ll be so sorry he lost this chance messed this one up… (c) Yes, I know it's show and don't tell but darn, I hate this formula.
Other fun stuff:
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The more we play happy families, the more it’ll come to pass. (c) Fake it till you make it?
Q:
It was a good team of lawyers, though, and we drank the pub nearest to the Travelodge dry every night. (c)