As Jake washed the sick off, he was tempted to go upstairs and get a sweater. “You are a talented writer, inhibited by a fascist pig -virtually a one-parent family. Journalists and television crews came down and raved about the charms of the village and the valley. Across the room her eyes met Janey’s, which were mocking and slightly contemptuous.
Rupert had arrived late, parking his filthy Rolls Royce, with the blacked-out windows, across the pavement. By the time the reporters had finished with Mary-Jo, Jake had consumed at least a bottle and a half of champagne. “Thank you very much,” he said politely. “You look absolutely shattered,” he said to Jake.
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