‘Don’t throw your talent away,’ she said, placing a hand over mine. The skin of the back of her hand was like lichen.
Michel saved me from further painful exploration of this line of thought by bringing two perfect soufflés to the table. He pierced them and inserted a spoonful of Armagnac with the skill of a surgeon.
‘Ooh, look. They can't stay up for long,’ said Irene, prodding hers with a fork so that it collapsed, ‘like the men in my life, dear, darling Michel.’
from White Lightning by Justin Cartwright