Four hours later Liv wakes in a box room with an Arsenal duet cover and a head that thumps so hard she has to reach up a hand to check she isn't being assaulted. She blinks, stares blearily at the little Japanese cartoon creatures on the wall opposite and lets her mind slowly bring together the pieces of information from the previous night.
Stolen bag...she closes her eyes. Oh, no.
Strange bed...she has no keys. Oh, God she has no keys. And no money. She attempts to move, and pain slices through her head so that she almost yelps.
And then she remembers the man. Pete? Paul? She sees herself walking through deserted streets in the early hours. And then she sees herself lurching forward to kiss him, his own polite retreat.
"You are delicious..."
"Oh, no," she says softly, then puts her hands over her eyes.
"Oh, I didn't..."
She sits up and moves to the side of the bed, noticing a small yellow plastic car near his right foot. Then, when she hears the sound of a door opening, the shower starting up next door, Liv grabs her shoes and her jacket and lets herself out of the flat into the cacophonous daylight.
Liv runs. Every morning, and some evenings too. Running has taken the place of thinking, of eating, sometimes of sleeping. She runs until her shins burn and her lungs feel as if they will explode...She plugs in her iPod earphones, closes the door of the block, rams her keys into the pocket of her shorts, and sets off at a pace. She lets her mind flood with the deafening thumping beat, dance music so relentless that it leaves no room for thought.
Jojo MoyesConned any other women out of their valuables lately ?" she says quietly, so quietly that only he will hear it.
"Nope. I've been too busy stealing handbags and seducing the vulnerable."
Her head shoots up and his eyes lock on hers. He is, she sees with some shock, as furious as she is.
I'd like to hope you end up a miserable, lonely woman. But actually, I hope you have children one day, Ellie Haworth. Then you'll know how it feels to be vulnerable. And to have to fight, to be constantly vigilant, just to make sure your children get to grow up with a father.
Jojo MoyesI had a hundred and seventeen days in which to convince Will Traynor that he had a reason to live.
Jojo MoyesTags: sad heartbreak emotional
It’s just that the thing you never understand about being a mother, until you are one, is that it is not the grown man—the galumphing, unshaven, stinking, opinionated offspring—you see before you, with his parking tickets and unpolished shoes and complicated love life. You see all the people he has ever been all rolled up into one.
Jojo MoyesEu nunca, jamais me vou arrepender de ter feito as coisas que fiz. Porque, quando se está preso numa coisa destas, os únicos lugares aonde se pode ir são os lugares da nossa memória
Jojo MoyesThere are things you don’t notice until you accompany someone with a wheelchair. One is how rubbish most pavements are, pockmarked with badly patched holes, or just plain uneven. Walking slowly next to Will as he wheeled himself along, I noticed how every uneven slab caused him to jolt painfully, or how often he had to steer carefully round some potential obstacle. Nathan pretended not to notice, but I saw him watching too. Will just looked grim-faced and resolute. The other thing is how inconsiderate most drivers are. They park up against the cutouts on the pavement, or so close together that there is no way for a wheelchair to actually cross the road. I was shocked, a couple of times even tempted to leave some rude note tucked into a windscreen wiper, but Nathan and Will seemed used to it. Nathan pointed out a suitable crossing place and, each of us flanking Will, we finally crossed.
Jojo MoyesFirst I put on what I thought of as my ‘artistic’ outfit, a green smock dress with huge amber beads stitched into it. I imagined the kind of people who went to concerts might be quite arty and flamboyant. Will and Nathan both stared at me as I entered the living room.
‘No,’ said Will, flatly.
‘That looks like something my mum would wear,’ said Nathan.
‘You never told me your mum was Nana Mouskouri,’ Will said.
I laughed and shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. My mum doesn’t really go out. And it’s not my cup of tea.’
‘Like films with subtitles weren’t your cup of tea?’
I frowned at him. ‘I’m not your project, Will. This isn’t My Fair Lady.’
‘Pygmalion.’
‘What?’
‘The play you’re referring to. It’s Pygmalion. My Fair Lady is just its bastard offspring.
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