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Alexandra Potter

Alexandra Potter Books

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One Good Thing

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Calling Romeo

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Me and Mr. Darcy

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Going La La

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Who's That Girl?

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“But here’s the thing: shock and disbelief don’t simply disappear overnight. Worse still, you don’t want to disappoint or burden anyone by admitting you’re still not over it. That last weekend you weren’t really busy; you just couldn’t face getting dressed. That the future, which used to seem so secure, now scares the living daylights out of you.”

“I pity you Juliet. You don't know what love is. You think it's Valentine's Day, and weekends in Italy. You think it's drinking champagne in some expensive restaurant and being bought stupid bloody underwear. But that's just the trimmings. The decoration. They're just gestures. Without trust, and respect, and kindness, they don't mean shit. I thought love was about caring about someone day in and day out, about being there when it's rucking amazing and still wanting to be there when it feels like crap, I thought it was about forever.”

“Honestly, no wonder men and women have difficulty communicating. Just because a woman says something, it doesn’t mean she actually means it. If that were the case, when a man asks a woman what’s wrong and she says ‘nothing’, she would actually mean nothing, and not, in fact, that she is furious with him for a variety of reasons.”

“The Fear paralyses you. It grips you by the throat so you can’t breathe and makes your heart thump loud and fast in your ears. It makes you feel like you’re going to die and part of you wants to. That’s why it’s so horrible. Because after it’s finished beating you up, you beat yourself up even more. It’s your dirty little secret and I’ve kept mine for years.”

“So what if there are no sparks or butterflies? Sparks and butterflies break your heart and drive you to the edge of insanity. They give you adrenaline-fuelled highs and desperate-on-the-kitchen-floor lows. I’ve never done heroin but often think it must be like that kind of love. It’s an addiction. A craving followed by a fix.”

“So, who is it?" Stella is persisting, somewhat suspiciously. "What's his name?" But if I don't tell her the truth, what do I say? My mind draws a blank. I don't want to lie to her- "um..." walking back to the bedroom, I notice the postcard Spike chose for me resting on my top of my dresser. I haven't written that one yet. Absently I pick it up and turn it over. On the back is written "Matthew Macfadyen as Fitzwilliam Darcy." "Fitzwilliam," I blurt. "No, what's his first name?" she asks. "That is his first name.”

“Missing someone has to be one of the worst human emotions. All the other feelings like anger and fear and horror get some much more airplay, as if their intensity gives them more value, but whereas those emotions come in violent bursts and are gone again, the gnawing ache of loss has to be simply endured. It's like background noise, it's always there, it never goes away. You just have to try to block it out, distract yourself, hope that tomorrow the hole they left behind has grown a little smaller.”