Husband Material (London Calling, #2)

by Alexis Hall

“Perhaps it’s because I’m in my thirties now, but a good night’s sleep is one of my top-five bedroom fantasies.”

The great curse of Bridge’s life was that she had a tremendous ability to solve other people’s problems. But when it came to her own, she could be—and I say this with love—unhelpful sometimes.

A sort of soft, nostalgic ache for a time you didn’t particularly want to go back to but resented that you couldn’t.

To be honest, I was increasingly convinced that weddings were just an elaborate cycle of vengeance that had got really out of hand.

“So…are we…are we good?” “Always,” he said.

As if this realisation wasn’t terrifying enough, it belatedly occurred to me that while getting a nice expensive bread was cool, it meant that it wasn’t sliced. And the phrase “the best thing since sliced bread” was a cliché for a reason. In the end I wound up cutting the loaf into roughly a dozen irregularly shaped chunks, none of which could in all honesty be called “slices.” There was the end piece, which had the approximate dimensions of a butt plug. Then the next piece was as thick as my thumb at the top and thinner than my bread knife at the bottom. Then there were two bits that were mostly crumbs; one halfway decent slice that somehow got fat in the middle and thin at each end; and the rest was a mixture of wedges, triangles, and lumps that I hoped, perhaps naively, would hold up fine in the pan.