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Siobhan is only vegan when she’s in a good mood.
Mohsin Hamid’s Exit West.
“I mean, the gall! The entitlement! On which note, did I tell you about the guy who literally walked out on me mid–blow job?”
The woman’s profanities escalate dramatically, and Mortimer’s mouth drops open in shock. Women probably didn’t say wankstain in his day.
“The aim is to look like the sort of woman who doesn’t lock herself out of her flat in her jimmy-jams before her first day styling a huge mansion for a new client,”
Siobhan and her talent agent have decided on “Empowerer” as her job title, though Siobhan does know that’s a bit ridiculous, and when drunk refers to herself as “Emperor” instead.
Siobhan wonders where they find these things—is there a shop for rich single men over the age of forty-five in which everything is made of worn brown leather?
“You should have seen the state of the man’s dick after that, it looked like a half-chewed stick of pepperoni.”
“Salami,” Trey says sulkily. “Not pepperoni. Big salami. Girthy salami.”
“I don’t want the twenty women at the bar,” AJ says as they reach their table. “Well, you’ve already slept with at least two of them, if I remember rightly,” Jamie says, squinting toward the group of women who are all turned in AJ’s direction. “So that’s awkward.”
To her immense surprise, she’s happy. It’s one of those feelings, happiness. One of the ones you don’t really notice is gone until it comes back.
reminded her why she keeps men at a distance—most of them are arseholes—but
one of those postmidnight stopping trains that pulls into stations called things like Betly-in-the-Hedges and Bottom’s Wallop.
