Josie is a Manhattan psychotherapist living a comfortable life with her husband and daughter. Raquel is a Los Angeles rock star with a platinum album and the attendant money and fame. When Josie realizes her marriage is over, and Raquel finds herself at the center of a scandal, these old friends take off for Mexico City where sweltering heat, new acquaintances, and tequila-fueled nights rapidly spiral out of control. In this vibrant novel, award-winning author Kate Christensen has crafted a bewitching tale of lust, loyalty, and the limits of friendship.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of eBook: Trouble|
|Release Date: 06-16-2009|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group|
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On a Thursday night in late December, I stood in my friend Indrani Dressler's living room, flirting with a man I had just met.
"Oh, come on," Mick, the Englishman I was talking to, was saying, "business acumen and a finger on the zeitgeist are not the same as innovation or originality. She's a clever parasite."
"I heard one of her songs the other day in a deli," I said. "It brought back that feeling of being young and wild and idiotic. You just can't take her too seriously."
"She's got a fake accent," Mick said, his mouth gleaming with mirth and wine, firm and half-sneering. His breath smelled like corn. "She irons her hair and she's had too much plastic surgery and she's pasty. She looks like an emaciated Wife of Bath."
"She's got the body of a thirteen-year-old gymnast and she's almost fifty," I said.
"She's a maggot," he said. He was not much taller than I, but broad in the shoulders and solid. His head was large, his face half ugly, half handsome, more French-looking than English, nose too big, eyes narrow, chin jutting forward. We were talking as if the words themselves didn't matter. I had forgotten this feeling.
"A maggot," I repeated, laughing, egging him on.
"Tunneling her way through personas till they're totally rotten and riddled with holes, then moving on to the next one. She went from soft white larva to shriveled maggot in twenty-odd years."
"Obviously," I said with mild triumph, "you're obsessed with her."
"I'm writing an opera about her," he told me in a way that made it impossible to tell whether he was ki