Betty Boo

by Claudia Piñeiro

  At the moment that Paula Sibona is passing Karina Vives a glass of water, the Crime boy is discovering that Vicente Gardeu was the founder of the order that brought the San Jerónimo Mártir school to Argentina, and that if he were still alive he would be 109 years old. Should they be looking for someone else with the same name? He keeps searching, but every entry returns the same Vicente Gardeu. Some of the results mention suits against him for accusations of paedophilia and sexual abuse. He clicks on one of them: more than fifteen seminarians who passed through his order claim to have been the victims of abuse perpetrated by Gardeu. Others defend him, however. There are statements from parents who have sent their children to schools belonging to the community saying they aren’t affected by what may have happened in the past, because “the achievements of the foundation surpass any private failings of the founder”. What’s certain is that Jaime Brena must have got the wrong end of the stick: Vicente Gardeu is not the sixth friend. He can’t be. The Crime boy returns to the news about the shooting in New Jersey. The websites are on to it now, all of them carrying more or less the same information in English, which he translates as he reads: Today, a few minutes after three o’clock in the afternoon, an unidentified gunman opened fire from a building next to the car park of a Walmart supermarket in New Jersey, leaving one man dead and three with superficial injuries. The police are still trying to determine from where the shots were fired. The victim is thought to be a sixty-year-old Argentine national who had lived in the United States for several decades and was the manager of a large company. The Crime boy prints out three pages from different online newspapers, knowing that Jaime Brena, when he gets a chance, will want to read them on paper. He tries to get at least one of three options in Spanish and feels that he’s gradually getting to know Brena.

  As the third page on the New Jersey shooting is coming out of the printer, Nurit Iscar and Jaime Brena are arriving at Luis Collazo’s house. They know that they won’t get much further, that they won’t be permitted to approach the inert body still hanging among the shadows from the branch of an oak tree. The two entrances to the property are blocked respectively by a Buenos Aires police patrol car and La Maravillosa’s chief of security’s van; the club’s security personnel are turning away anyone who comes within a few yards of the house. A woman is crying and clinging on to a man in his late twenties. Approaching one of the guards, Jaime Brena gestures towards them and asks: Who are they? Collazo’s wife and son, he replies. They’re in a terrible state, aren’t they? says Brena. And how would you feel if your husband or father had just hung himself from a tree? retorts the guard and goes off to speak to his boss, not caring that he may have left Jaime Brena formulating a response to this question. But Brena doesn’t mind being rebuffed; it may have been a stupid question, but it served his purpose. Now he has the information he wanted: the police don’t doubt that Collazo’s death was a suicide, that he hanged himself. He says as much to Nurit, who’s not shaking because she’s cold, but from the shock of this latest dark development. And Jaime Brena, though he knows that her trembling has nothing to do with the temperature, takes off his sweater and puts it around her shoulders. Here, take this, Betty Boo. Thank you, says Nurit, and attempts a weak smile. The guard who broke the news of Collazo’s death to them minutes before has arrived now in his buggy. He acknowledges Nurit briefly from afar, barely moving his head as if he doesn’t want anyone to see this greeting. She responds in kind. Jaime Brena observes the exchange, stroking his chin so hard he’s almost squeezing it. We need to see the body close up, he says, finally. There’s no way they’ll let us, Nurit replies. Not us, no, says Jaime Brena, but they’ll let him, and he signals towards the guard. Do you feel able to ask him to take a photograph on your mobile? He’s more likely to say yes to you than to me. I don’t think a phone photo is going to show us very much in this light. You might be right, it may not show what I want to see, but you could ask him to focus on two things: where the knot is on the rope that Collazo is supposed to have used to hang himself and what colour his face is. To be more precise, we need to know whereabouts on his neck the knot is – at the front, at the nape or at one side – and whether Collazo’s face is white or blue. OK, I’ll convey all of that to him exactly as you’ve said it, and later on you can explain to me why I’m asking it; I don’t think I can handle a disquisition about the marks on a hanging victim’s neck at the moment. Of course, I’ll explain it to you later. Charily Nurit Iscar approaches the guard, and only when he sees her and signals that it’s fine to talk does she approach him with more confidence. She says hello, then passes on Jaime Brena’s instructions. The guard agrees to take a photograph, and walks in the direction of the oak tree. Nurit Iscar walks back over to Brena. He sees her rubbing her arms again, as though she were cold. You can put on my sweater if you want. No, it’s OK, it’s fine over my shoulders. I never thought that these murders would come so close to us, says Brena; in crime journalism you’re always arriving after the event, later, treading on the heels of death. And on the murderer’s heels. It’s different this time. Yes, this is different, Nurit agrees. We have to do whatever we can to find the last survivor, even if only to feel that we were able to make a difference. Do you think we’ll be able to get there in time? When we get back to your house I’m going to call Comisario Venturini, Brena announces. We can’t carry the burden of another potential death alone. I hope to God Collazo did commit suicide and we’re wrong, Nurit says. I hope so, but I very much doubt it, Brena says. The guard who went to see how Collazo’s body was hanging from the tree has come back, and he makes his way over to where they are waiting. The knot is to one side, under the left ear, he says, and his face is white as a sheet. Thank you, Brena says, and asks nothing more: he doesn’t need to. When the guard has left them, Jaime Brena says to Nurit: Let’s go back to your house, there’s not much more we can do here. They definitely killed him. What makes you so sure? You’re ready now to hear about the effects of different hanging methods? Not really, but my curiosity is killing me. So Brena explains: There are white hanging victims and blue hanging victims. The white ones have a symmetrical hanging, that is to say that both carotid arteries and both jugular veins are compressed simultaneously, he says, demonstrating this action on his own neck. The blood supply is cut off, causing cerebral anaemia and a white facial pallor. For this symmetrical compression of veins and arteries to occur, the knot has to be below the nape of the neck or the chin. Nurit’s beginning to feel dizzy, but Jaime Brena is so absorbed in his explanation that he doesn’t notice. If the knot is under the jawline or beneath the ear, he continues, the compression is asymmetrical. The circulation is interrupted in both jugulars, but only in the carotid artery where the loop of the rope is, not where the knot is. Shall we get going? Nurit suggests, taking him by the arm. Yes, let’s go, he says, and they start walking away together. But Brena hasn’t finished his lecture: There’s less compression at the point of the knot, so the blood can still flow into the head but can’t return to the heart, and that’s why you get what’s called cyanosis, where the face goes blue. Jaime Brena and Nurit Iscar keep walking slowly, putting distance between themselves and the dead man. If Collazo were blue, there’d be room for doubt. But he’s white and has the knot below his ear, which makes suicide an impossibility. He notices her shiver and glances over at her; she’s shaking, in fact. So Jaime Brena puts his arm around her, takes her shoulder and brings her close to him. That’s how Nurit likes to think of it, anyway. Those are the words she would use to describe the gesture if she were working on her own novel, because if she wrote “Jaime Brena embraces me” or “Jaime Brena holds her”, the held person – that is her, Betty Boo – would shiver even more. And she certainly wouldn’t write: “Finally, for the first time in three years, a man holds her.”

  Nurit Iscar would never put one of her own characters through something like that.

  22

  The half-eaten portions of pizza are congealing on their plates. Nurit Iscar has
no appetite and no desire to talk, despite her friends’ efforts to make her feel better. But the image of a dead man hanging from a tree isn’t something that goes away without leaving its mark. Not if you knew that person, had spoken to him, and even had argued with him. Not if you had feared that something like this was going to happen. And especially not if you believe that the decision to hang himself was not his but forced upon him. Or even that he was killed first and hanged later. It’s one thing to write about death and something else to observe it at first hand. Paula Sibona hands her the blanket which, after searching through the unfamiliar house, she has finally managed to locate in a wardrobe on the landing at the top of the stairs. Karina Vives is still red-eyed from crying, but in the midst of so much death nobody pays her any attention. The Crime boy passes Jaime Brena the page he printed off a while ago with the news (in Spanish) of the death of Chazarreta’s friend in New Jersey; he waits for Brena to put on his glasses to read it, and once he’s finished that, he translates the English news stories for him, skipping any redundant details. Next Jaime Brena calls Comisario Venturini, but doesn’t get through. He leaves a message: It’s Brena here, please call urgently. It’s about Collazo’s death; I don’t know if you’ve been told about it. It’s nearly midnight on Sunday and everyone looks at each other without knowing what to do, what the next move should be. Nobody dares to propose a plan of action: that they get some sleep; that they write down the new facts so as not to forget anything important; that they try Comisario Venturini again; that they decide what information can be published immediately on the Crime pages of El Tribuno and what must be kept quiet. Nobody says anything: silence rules. Then Paula Sibona, employing a method of free association that she’s explained many times in drama classes when teaching her students to improvise, says: Hey, has anyone got a joint? Carmen Terrada’s surprised by her friend’s directness. Nurit Iscar looks disapprovingly at Paula, who notices but doesn’t let herself feel inhibited. Karina Vives, her mind elsewhere, doesn’t hear the question; if she had she would gladly offer up the one that’s in her bag and which she hasn’t wanted to smoke since learning of her pregnancy. Jaime Brena smiles and says: I only wish I did. On hearing that, Paula relaxes and winks at Nurit, making a gesture, a sideways smile that between them signifies something like “See? I wasn’t wrong”. The Crime boy gets up and says: I seem to remember I’ve got one in the glove compartment of my car. And off he goes.

  Waiting for the joint slows the scene even more. Nurit Iscar isn’t going to put up any resistance: she knows that in a few minutes everyone will be smoking in her house. And it’s not that she’s in any sense annoyed about that. Envy is closer to what she feels. They’ll have a good time, they’ll laugh, they’ll relax, they’ll discuss trivialities as if they were immensely important and find sage conclusions to banal questions, or banal conclusions to sage questions; they’ll discover solutions to problems they’ve never even considered before, looking lovingly at each other while she, Nurit Iscar, Betty Boo, tries yet again to get some sort of hit off the marijuana. And once again, marijuana will do nothing for her except tickle her throat, make her want to cough and disappoint her. It’s like not being able to laugh at a joke everyone else finds funny, or not being moved by a poem which those in the know have recognized as exceptional, or – after really working at it – failing to reach orgasm. The Crime boy comes back into the house, twirling the joint between fingers and thumb. Anyone got a light? he asks. And Brena passes him a lighter. The boy lights the joint and draws deeply on it until the tip glows red. Then he passes it to his right. Paula Sibona smokes with pleasure, greedily, as if she’s been wanting this for a long time. She has, in fact, been wanting it for a long time. Carmen Terrada takes one short puff and apologizes: not too much for me, otherwise I’ll either fall asleep or get silly. Brena takes the joint with almost as much enthusiasm as Paula Sibona, but smokes it differently, more serenely; smoking is a daily act for him, every night he smokes to unwind and send himself off to sleep. He gives time to the act: pressing his lips to the fingers that are holding the joint and breathing in over them, half-closing his eyes. He holds onto the smoke, gradually releasing it, and only after all that ceremony passes it to Karina Vives. Not for me, thanks, she says. You don’t smoke? You don’t like it? says Nurit, almost cheerfully, as though she’s found a kindred spirit in this woman whose identity she has yet to discover. Everyone is quiet, guessing at another reason for Karina’s abstinence. They all, apart from Nurit, think they know why she’s not smoking, but nobody knows that the others know. So they dissemble, waiting for Karina herself to respond. Jaime Brena still has the joint in his hand. Paula comes closer and takes it from him, ending the impasse and taking another toke. I’ll have a smoke to be polite, but I don’t like it much either, it has no effect on me, Nurit says, apparently to Karina Vives. And true to her word Nurit accepts the joint Paula Sibona passes her, takes a half-hearted puff and hands it on. No, it’s not that I don’t like it, Karina clarifies, but I’m pregnant and I don’t know if I can. Nurit coughs. The Crime boy looks at Brena and says: She’s pregnant. Yes, I know, he says. But she hasn’t decided what to do yet, says Carmen to Nurit. Jaime Brena’s phone rings. It’s Comisario Venturini. Jaime Brena listens closely, then says: It wasn’t suicide, Venturini, believe me, I know. His expression suggests that the Comisario doesn’t share his theory. Ah, so you’re at Collazo’s place now? And he moves his head as if to say that if it’s his turn with the joint they shouldn’t skip him. Yes, I’ve been there too, says Brena, but I didn’t see him, Comisario. Yes, I’m still at Nurit Iscar’s house. Something of what’s being said down the line seems to irritate him. Nurit coughs. OK, OK, I understand, but a white hanging victim with a lateral knot – that doesn’t add up. Paula takes the joint from Nurit with the excuse of knocking off the ash before it falls on the floor, though she uses the opportunity to take another drag first – her third. Brena says goodbye to the Comisario and hangs up: What a dick, he says. I think you’d probably be fine to have a bit, Carmen says to Karina Vives. I smoked when I was pregnant; not very much, but it doesn’t harm you any more than a few sips of wine. I never drank wine when I was pregnant, Nurit says. But you’re very controlled, darling, that’s why marijuana doesn’t affect you, says Paula, laughing. Nurit doesn’t find the observation amusing. The order of rotation changes and the joint goes to Jaime Brena. Now it’s no longer clear whether it should be passing from right to left or left to right. From Jaime Brena it goes to the Crime boy. Then back to Paula Sibona. After her, Nurit has another try, putting it between her lips. Breathe in deeper, says Brena, and he tries to encourage her by imitating the gesture she should make. More, he insists, it needs to light up, the end needs to go red. Paula laughs. Nurit passes the joint to Carmen and exhales the smoke. Hold on to it, Brena tells her. Don’t breathe out so quickly; let it go gradually. Carmen smokes. It’s got nothing to do with breathing out too soon, Nurit says, weed just doesn’t affect me. But are you drawing the smoke into here? asks the Crime boy, touching his chest. Yes, says Nurit, I’m not completely stupid. Paula laughs. Support for the frustrated smoker. Carmen laughs too, then curls up in the armchair as if wanting to sleep. Right, give it here, I’m going to have a quick toke, says Karina Vives, and takes the joint from Carmen before Paula can grab it again. She inhales and passes it to the Crime boy, who takes a drag then neatens the end of the joint in the ashtray. The ash is a bit like a cloud, isn’t it? says the boy. I don’t know if it’s because of the colour or that inconsistency it has so if you touch it, it falls apart, it vanishes. It vanishes, Paula murmurs. Now the boy plays with the ash quietly and seconds later says: Like a cloud, just like when you go through a cloud in an aeroplane. It’s a clouuuud, there’s no douuuubt, chants Carmen, who’s almost asleep. Vox Dei, says Brena. Vox Dei, Carmen agrees, and she sings: Light as a… clouuuud. My uncle Luis was always singing that song and playing it on the guitar, says Karina. The Crime boy has never heard the song, although he thinks he kn
ows who Vox Dei were; he’s not altogether sure. But he says: A cloud, yes, like a cloud. Meanwhile the joint is still journeying from hand to hand. Because ash comes from fire, says the boy, and in a way, so do clouds. Paula takes the joint from Karina Vives. Have you worked out yet who this chick is? she asks Nurit, and laughs. Nurit shakes her head. Karina stiffens. Karina Vives is that bitch from El Tribuno who wrote the review of Only If You Love Me, Paula Sibona informs her. Light as… a clouuuud…, sings Carmen, and settles herself more horizontally on the sofa. Karina Vives starts crying again. Nurit feels something between confusion and annoyance, or is perhaps both confused and annoyed. Don’t worry, says Paula, she’s not crying because she’s a bitch, she’s crying because she’s pregnant, and she’s already done that before: she cries and cries. Nurit takes the joint from her and inhales much more deeply than on the previous occasions, her eyes fixed on Karina Vives, though she can’t think of what to say. Then, because nothing else comes to mind, she repeats: This is having no effect on me, and coughs. Jaime Brena stretches out his spine and his neck, one side and then the other, and smiles. We’re all good, right? he asks. Through her hiccups, Karina Vives says to Nurit Iscar: I didn’t read your novel. Carmen, who had seemed to be asleep, sits up straight: What did you say? And she laughs. The Crime boy breaks up the ash with his index finger, barely touching it: Facebook and the other social networks are sort of ashy, sort of cloudy. Sort of, says Brena. Yeah, says the boy. Didn’t you all hear this girl just say that she never read Nurit’s book? Carmen asks. I didn’t either, says the Crime boy. But you didn’t write a review that completely destroyed her career, says Paula, and she’s about to let out a guffaw but makes an effort to contain it. I didn’t write the review, Karina Vives says. What? says Nurit, and asks for the joint. I said, I didn’t write that review, Karina says again, and blows her nose. I didn’t read your book and I didn’t write the review. I did put my name to it, though. I’d just started on Culture and it was my dream, what I’d wanted ever since joining the paper, and Culture didn’t have an editor, so Rinaldi gave me the job; I couldn’t believe it, she says, crying. And soon after that he came over to me and gave me that review and said that I should run it under my byline, and so that’s what I did. Rinaldi wrote that review? asks Nurit, astonished. No, not Rinaldi, his wife, Marisa, he said. Rinaldi’s wife is called Marisa, right? Well, Marisa was trying her hand at journalism, but she didn’t want to publish anything under her own name until she felt more confident because she knew there would be a lot of attention on her as “the wife of”. The wife of the biggest bastard of all time who, by the way, has prostate problems, says Paula, and laughs. Rinaldi’s got prostate problems? asks the Crime boy, still playing with the ash. Sometimes we’re told to run a review with a particular slant. It happens every now and then and you just have to accept it; usually the aim is to lift a book, not bury it. If you want to bury it you just don’t mention it, don’t write about it, you act as though it doesn’t exist. And why might they want to bury a book? Carmen asks, and yawns. For political reasons, or because the book bad-mouths the newspaper or attacks someone related to it, or because the person who authored it wrote a review in the past which damaged a friend of someone at the paper. How depressing, says Carmen. Or because the author is a lover of the newspaper’s editor, says Paula, laughing. Paula… Nurit remonstrates, in a vain attempt to get her friend to show some self-control. I didn’t know that that review had hit you so hard, Karina says, regretfully. Weed doesn’t affect her but reviews do, says Paula, quickly covering her mouth by way of apology. Who told you it hit me hard? Nurit asks. They did, says Karina, pointing to Nurit’s friends. In a metaaal caaage, Carmen sings, then adds: Sorry. That’s why I never read your novel, Karina says, because I didn’t want to know if the piece I’d put my name to was justified or not. In other words, my friend Nurit Iscar has spent three years not writing because of a review written by the bitch who’s married to the bastard who used to call himself her lover? summarizes Paula Sibona. Paula! says Nurit. I’m sorry, says Paula, and laughs. Jaime Brena, drifting off in his armchair, seems to be talking to Comisario Venturini in his dreams. The Crime boy tries to offer him the last drag on the joint, which is all but finished. Is there anything left? Brena says, stretching to take it. The wife sent in two or three more reviews after your one, Karina continues, then she never sent anything else. I asked Rinaldi about it and he said that she was working for the Travel supplement, that it was more her “cup of tea”; I remember that he used those words. What would be the right cup of tea for a woman like that? Paula wonders aloud. Because not everyone likes the same tea: for me the perfect cup of tea might be peppermint and for the next person chamomile. What cup of tea would suit a scheming, deluded bitch like her? Some people put bark in tea, don’t they, says Carmen. And some people put in marijuana leaves, but that really does hit you hard, adds Paula, smiling. I once ate grass fritters, she begins, but she can’t finish the anecdote because laughter overcomes her and she forgets what she was about to say. So, just to get this straight once and for all, everything that’s happened to me is the result of a review attributed to someone who hadn’t actually read my book, Nurit concludes. It happened to you because you let it happen, says Carmen; you should have listened to us in the first place. But you aren’t critics, you’re friends. I promise you I’ll read it, Nurit. I want to be your friend, says the Crime boy, and stubs out the joint, drawing clouds with it in the ashes. I’m really sorry, says Karina, and blows her nose again. Nurit doesn’t answer. Amazing the turns that life takes, says Carmen. Has anyone got anything sweet? Paula asks. A chocolate, a biscuit? On the pretext of looking for snacks, Nurit goes to the kitchen for some breathing space, returning with two bars of chocolate and a half-eaten pot of ice cream. She passes one of the chocolate bars to Paula and takes a bite out of the other one. The boy grabs the ice cream and spoon. Thank you, my friend, says Paula. The Crime boy, while eating ice cream from the styrofoam pot, says to Karina: Facebook is going to end up being the ash of the Internet, you heard it here first. Jaime Brena snores. Carmen makes herself comfortable again and seems about to go to sleep. Paula, eating chocolate, asks Nurit: While we’re here, can I confess something to you, Betty Boo? Why not, says Nurit, nothing can shock me now. Are you absolutely sure? I’m sure, yes. Well, now that we know that the review that led to your banishment was written by Rinaldi’s wife, and that this poor maligned girl’s biggest mistake was letting herself get screwed by the system… she says, then stops. Yes, go on, Nurit urges. You sure? I’m sure. In my opinion, dear friend, I have to tell you, I feel obliged to tell you, that Only If You Love Me always, always seemed to me, from the first line to last, a steaming pile of horseshit. Nurit looks at her with surprise. Carmen tries to shake off her somnolence and sit up. Paula, you’re stoned, she scolds, this isn’t the moment for confessions. I may be stoned, but Only If You Love Me is still by far Nurit’s worst novel. You said so yourself – remember? Paula! Carmen remonstrates. I never said that, she says to Nurit. I said that I liked the others more, which isn’t the same thing. The Crime boy asks: Is it just me or is Jaime Brena snoring? Paula Sibona goes on: But everyone has the right to do something that comes out shit, once in a while. Or have you forgotten my Nora in A Doll’s House at the San Martín theatre and how, when I stormed out, slamming the door, someone in the audience shouted “Good riddance, lunatic!” And he was right. I had turned her into a lunatic. You think Only If You Love Me’s shit, right, Karina? Paula asks. I don’t know, I never read it, the girl repeats. I’m going to read it, I promise, says the boy. Nurit, take it from me as a friend, it’s a terrible novel – you know why? Because you were in love, your head was somewhere else and love and art don’t get on well. Sex and art do, but not love and art. Tortured love works. But not that stupid, cuchi-woochi, love-of-my-life stuff. I never went cuchi-woochi love-of-my-life, Nurit bristles. You need to get writing now, Paula goes on, ignoring the complaint. I know you’ve got another good novel in you
, you’ll see. Carmen, still prostrate on the sofa with her eyes closed, clutches her head and asks: Has anyone here got a Vox Dei CD? Nobody answers. And there’s another confession I need to make, Paula says to Nurit. No, begs Carmen, don’t confess anything else. What is it? says Nurit. No, no, that’s enough, leave it, Carmen says. Somebody put some music on, it doesn’t matter what, any kind of music. You don’t know what it is I’m going to say, says Paula, defensively. It doesn’t matter, says Carmen, it’s bound to be something you’ll regret. It’s now or never, Paula warns. Never, says Carmen. Tell me, says Nurit. Come on, let her say it, the Crime boy chimes in. Well, remember that bald guy with the goatee who wrote the article saying that the last time he moved house he left your book Death by Degrees behind because he was short of space and he knew he’d never read it? Death by Degrees, or Only If You Love Me? Death by Degrees, like I said. No, I don’t remember that. Of course you remember, you remember everything everyone says. I don’t remember the bald guy. That bald guy who thinks he knows about cinema, says Paula. Someone who’s supposed to know about cinema but writes about literature? says Karina, I can think of two or three, but they aren’t bald. Anyway, I don’t remember, says Nurit, but what happened? Well, just that; he said that every time he moved house he took the opportunity to cull his book collection, that he only took the worthwhile ones with him and that the last time he moved he left your book Death by Degrees still wrapped in plastic and everything, just how it came from the publisher, because he knew in his whole fucking life he was never going to read it. Actually that “fucking” bit is my own addition, Paula says. I don’t remember it, Nurit repeats. Well we do; we remembered then and we still remember, and you know what we did to him? Do you really have to tell her? begs Carmen. We sent him a new copy, signed by you, or rather by us but with your name, of course, and with this dedication: This is to replace the copy you lost in your last move, Baldy. Paula laughs. I’m really sorry, says Carmen. Sorry, sorry, says Paula. I don’t believe this, says Nurit, taking the ice cream away from her. I don’t believe this, she says again. How many other things am I going to find out about tonight? The boy throws himself onto the rug. The boss really knows how to snore, he complains, and closes his eyes. Sorry, Carmen says again. It doesn’t surprise me, coming from this madwoman, but from you… Nurit says. Paula laughs and says: I’ll take “mad” as a compliment. Madness sets things alight. But be careful with the ash, says the boy, and laughs. Can you shut up for a bit? says Nurit. Not you, she says to the boy, I mean Paula. Paula obeys. Carmen and Karina, perhaps taking the order to be directed at them too, also keep quiet, waiting to see what Nurit will do next. Betty Boo is scraping the bottom of the styrofoam pot with a spoon to extract the last remnants of ice cream. She licks the spoon, deposits the empty container on the table and hurls the spoon into it. Then she stands up and looks around to see who’s still awake. I’m off to sleep in a bed. She takes two steps and turns back: And you know what? Whoever wrote whatever and whoever did whatever they did to me or whatever I did to myself… She pauses for effect, then declares: Yes, Only If You Love Me is a piece of shit, the worst book I’ve written by a long chalk. It just goes to show that you should never write with your cunt.