Slumping on the sofa he switches on the Saturday night TV but it’s like the Sky dish decoder’s broken and all he receives is unintelligible gibberish; is he really the only person who doesn’t like ballroom dancing or auditions? Why not just book people who can already sing, dance or swallow swords? Who needs the back story?
Sipping another whiskey, Hook’s eyes glaze over. Monica emerges from the bedroom, handbag in one hand, phone in the other, wearing the new black dress he almost ruined. Hook feels guilty: not about fucking Ulrike but about not fucking his wife.
Monica grabs her coat from the hook. “I’m off.”
“Do you know anyone who’s ever been to Wimbledon or Ascot, who’s ever been on a yacht or bought shoes for six thousand dollars? I sometimes feel like we’re receiving TV signals from some parallel planet. It makes no sense. Has the world gone crazy, or is it me?”
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