“I galloped through this book–couldn’t stop once I’d started. The writing’s so spare and yet the message so complex. It’s spiky, sparky, pithy, and deep.”
–Kate Long, author of The Bad Mother’s Handbook
She didn’t mean to tell the story, or have it end that way. She just got a little . . . carried away.
It has been several years since she confided in her teacher, and Molly Drayton is still feeling the aftershocks. But when a chance meeting with a stranger leads to an offer of a room in exchange for telling stories, Molly jumps at the chance. Slowly, she builds an eccentric new family: Tim, her secretive boyfriend, who just might be a spy; Miranda, the lovelorn hairstylist; Liz, the lusty librarian; and Mr. Roberts, a landlord who listens, and his wife who is that very wonderful thing, French.
Much to Molly’s surprise, she finds that the stories she now tells are her key to creating a completely different life. Suddenly, her future is full of possibilities. The trouble is, Molly’s not the only one telling tales.
Sarah Salway’s witty, finely tuned, and poignant novel is an utterly entrancing chronicle of a unique coming-of-age, capturing the imagination as it explores what we reveal to others, how honest we are with ourselves, and the consequences of trying to bridge fact and fiction.
Praise for The ABCs of Love
“An innovatively told and exquisitely written novel about friendship, love, and life that sneaks up on you with just how extraordinary it is.”
–Melissa Senate, author of See Jane Date
“Charming and darkly funny.”
–Marie Claire (UK)
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of History eBook: Tell Me Everything|
|Release Date: 12-10-2008|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Ballantine Books|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
|Parent title||Tell Me Everything|
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Tell Me Everything
I’m sitting on Jessica’s bench looking for men. I’m not fussy so there should be a lot of choice.
It’s hard to pinpoint what does attract me to a man exactly, but I guess ankles would come near the top. It’s that little band of flesh you can spot sometimes between the trouser leg and shoe. Or a sock-covered bump that can be so vulnerable, so suggestive that I have to force myself not to gasp, to rub my finger along a stranger’s curves.
Now a large man is looming over me. I think he must be a football player because he’s dressed in the full Celtic kit.
“You’re a bitch in heat,” he says.
I can’t deny it but does he have to say it so loudly? I’m turning round to see if anyone else can hear when he repeats himself. But this time he talks slowly, very slowly, as if he’s talking to an imbecile.
“Your bitch is in heat.” He points to where my dog is standing, lifting up her leg so a tall thin greyhound can lick her. If dogs can look dreamy, she does. It seems a shame to drag her away, but I can see another dog, less attractive than the greyhound, queuing up for a sniff too.
There are limits, Mata, I whisper as I pick her up, holding her wriggling body tight under my arm as we both make our way out of the park. I can’t help feeling we’re both in disgrace. We’ve been drummed out of polite company. We’re skulking home, thwarted, with our tails between our legs. It’s as if everyone can read what’s going on in our minds.
I once loved a man who had a whole parallel life going on in his mind. It was so h...