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She liked this woman. She wanted to help her. (Although, what did that say? If the woman had been a toothless, warty-nosed crone she would have continued to feel resentful? The injustice of it. The cruelty of it. She was going to be nicer to this woman because she liked her freckles.)
It drove her to distraction the way women wanted to bond over self-hatred.
Reading a novel was like returning to a once beloved holiday destination.
‘I mean a fat, ugly man can still be funny and lovable and successful,’ continued Jane. ‘But it’s like it’s the most shameful thing for a woman to be.’
‘It’s because a woman’s entire self-worth rests on her looks,’ said Jane. ‘That’s why. It’s because we live in a beauty-obsessed society where the most important thing a woman can do is make herself attractive to men.’
As she walked down the hallway she could hear Ziggy still crying: not the angry demanding cry of a child who wants attention, or the startled cry of child who has hurt himself. This was a grown-up type of crying: involuntary, soft sad weeping.
‘He’s very anxious about his father,’ said the psychologist. ‘He thinks he might be a storm trooper, or possibly Jabba the Hutt, or, worst case scenario,’ the psychologist couldn’t hold back a broad smile. ‘Darth
Once, she’d read an article about how every relationship had its own ‘love account’. Doing something kind for your partner was like a deposit. A negative comment was a withdrawal. The trick was to keep your account
Friends could last a lifetime. The statistics were better than for relationships.
