The Muse

Somewhere inside her memory, a drawbridge had been lowered, and the foot soldiers of her past were pushing through.

I always find that the time before a party is happiest,’ Olive said. ‘Nothing’s had the chance to go wrong.’

She had never had a friend like this, in her private room, combing her hair, listening to her, talking about silly nonsense and the uselessness of one’s parents; how the future was perfect, because they hadn’t lived it yet.

She’d always thought of gold leaf as an alchemist’s dream, a contained ray of sun.

I first started writing as a little girl because I liked imagining parallel possibilities. That was all it was.

A church bell rang in the distance, a sombre line of twelve dongs to hold the time before it slipped away once more.

In London, there were many different ways to live, but few to change the life you had.

She had that cheery unselfconsciousness that always makes a person beautiful, however unremarkable their face.

‘Why are we so trapped by the hours, the minutes of every day? Why can’t we live the life that’s always out of reach?’

You can do more with rumour than you can with fact