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It's a bit of a thankless task though, trying to explain things to Lea. Pete now looks like an Expressionist film star from the early Thirties, or someone who's just come down, with a bump, from a month-long drug binge (his reaction to Lea's declaration of love - 'wow, that's brilliant!' - seemed much the same as you'd have expected from a pilled-up, white-gloved, round-the-clock raver from back in the day.) He has the haunted look of a man who's had this kind of conversation once too often before, and it's not hard to picture him reflecting to himself, in his quieter moments, that actually, it's not him that's ke-razy, it's everyone else. And I'm guessing that the 'trying to sort things out with Nikki' chat, which, OK, he possibly should have, now must seem about as appealing as the prospect of attacking the old chap with a cheese grater.
Mistress A will be fine, and Pete's really not responsible for Lea, Nikki, or the fookin' dead woman's emotional issues, which I dare say may have to be dealt with, in years to come, by trained professionals.
Basically, Pete spent what felt like about an hour and a half talking to a brick wall, with heavy buttressing, this evening, and it got him prescisely nowhere. Hard to blame him if he can't be arsed from here on in. |
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