Margaret Leigh

What many people don’t understand is that lives are not locked boxes, but open easily to the right touch.

Sometimes escape mattered more than anything; it was easy to forget that, in all the tales, when you found your deepest desire it brought you grief. When the Tin Man’s wish was granted, the first thing his new heart did was break.

(Four. Move deliberately. Your body bloats with tension; you’re bigger than you were. You knock things over)

He’d not been repulsive, and if something about him had left her with this quiet unease, it was to do with her own private demons. With her own damn heart that didn’t work the way it used to. And also, perhaps, because she knew that every encounter left a trace—that half an hour with Jay Harper, and she knew enough about him to find him any time

That evening she felt restless; animated, but not in a good way. Animated like one of those East European cartoons, where the figures jerk and the background never changes.

It was easy to drift under pressure; to forget, while burgling, what burglary meant. Alison had once tried a dress on mid-job. “I could have just put it in my bag. What was I going to do if it didn’t fit, take it back?” But she had forgotten, momentarily, that she was a burglar, not a real person.

There was this to be said for kindness to strangers: it didn’t take long for the strangers to put you off. You could be cured immediately, and never have to bother again.

A single woman in her forties declaring herself happy is many things—brave, a treasure, inspiring, impressive—but she’s not happy. That’s the perception.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a man-hater. Marriage, though, that’s taking it a little far.” She turned back to Zoë. “You ever think of marrying again?” “No.” “You should. You’re still young enough. You don’t think all men are bastards, do you?” “No, I think most people are bastards,” said Zoë. “It leaves less room for error.