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world.”
    â€œI dunno.”
    â€œYou should give it a go. Can’t hurt, can it? Anyway, if you get a strong following that’s a good thing to tell publishers when you write your next submission letter.”
    Bree put her wine on the floor and lay down heavily on the sofa, putting her head in Holdo’s lap. He looked confused and nervously stroked her mousy-pink hair.
    â€œThere are no more submission letters. I’ve tried everyone.”
    â€œWell, write another book.”
    â€œThat’s what you said last time. And I did it. That’s not worked either.”
    She looked back at the mute telly. Jake Gyllenhaal was wandering round, dressed as a skeleton.
    â€œWhy couldn’t I have had the idea to write about a paranoid schizophrenic who saves the world?” she asked, in a childish whine.
    â€œThis film bombed at the box office.”
    She turned over so she was looking right up into Holdo’s nostrils. “Really? But everyone loves it now.”
    â€œYeah, but it didn’t open well. Barely sold any tickets. You know what it’s like – credible things never do well. But shove a formulaic romantic comedy onto the screen, or yet another superhero special-effects spunk-a-thon, and people trample all over each other to see it.”
    Bree thought again of Mr Fellows. “Do you not think it might be because people want to escape their humdrum lives for a while? Instead of wallowing in them?”
    Holdo scoffed. “Are you kidding? Those populist things aren’t real . They’re not important. They’re not going to hang around and make man stop and really think for decades to come. They’re disposable trash. In the long run, people want a mirror held up to them. They want to look at themselves and be scared at what they see. They want to be confronted , challenged…”
    He went on a bit. Holdo was always worse after a few glasses of vino.
    â€œâ€¦I dunno, Bree. You’re kinda weirding me out. I think you’re letting this rejection get to you. You usually HATE all that kind of stuff. Don’t change who you are. You’re perfect.”
    He looked down at her blearily, like an adoring puppy. An adoring puppy whose water bowl had been spiked with wine. Bree got off his lap before the alcohol made things happen.
    â€œCome on then.” She downed her glass. “Let’s get wasted.”
    An hour later and Holdo was monologuing as the Rolling Stones played on his state-of-the-art stereo.
    â€œI know, I know, I know, they made millions of pounds, but ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’, it’s, like, almost prophetic. The way they understood consumerism and just how…empty it is. That line about someone not being a man, you know, because he smokes a different brand of cigarette?”
    Bree nodded her head heavily.
    â€œâ€¦Well, it just sums us up, doesn’t it? How brainwashed we are by adverts. And branding. And how segregated we are now. Like, no one knows their neighbours any more, do they? Who lives next door? I dunno. Do you know who lives next door?”
    Bree shook her head heavily.
    â€œThat’s exactly my point. I mean, how are we supposed to be satisfied when we don’t even know our neighbours?”
    He talked himself out. They sat for a while, listening to the music.
    If we were cooler, we would be smoking right now.
    Bree wasn’t sure where the thought came from but it surprised her. It surprised her more to realize she was right. They should be smoking! An illegal substance preferably. Then this monologue would seem less pathetic, less bitter, less trite and would instead be delivered in a hazy smoky atmosphere of cool, hipster-ness. They definitely should be smoking. Wasn’t that what young disenchanted people were supposed to do? Not drink two bottles of very expensive French burgundy.
    She lay her fuggy head on the armrest and half-closed her eyes. As she stretched