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304 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1997
It’s like there’s a mystical connection between heroine and bad luck, with some kind of built-in momentum factor. It’s like you’re cruising along in a beautiful car on a pleasant country road with the breeze in your hair and the smell of eucalypts all around you. The horizon is always up ahead, unfolding towards you, and at first you don’t notice the gradual descent, or the way the atmosphere thickens. Bit by bit the gradient gets steeper, and before you realise you have no brakes, you’re going pretty fucking fast.
So what did we do, once the descent began? We learned how to drive well, under hazardous conditions. We had each other to egg each other on. There was neither room nor need for passengers. Maybe we were also thinking that one day our car would sprout wings and fly. I saw that happen in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It’s good to live in hope.
There was a time, after that Indian summer of our falling in love – after we’d gone through the money Candy’s grandmother had left her, after we’d done a few scams and had a pretty good run for six months or a year – when we knew it would be good to slow down or stop and see where we were. It’s funny how difficult that would turn out to be. It would be almost a decade before the car finally came to a silent stop on an empty stretch of road a long way down from where we’d started. Almost a decade before we’d hear the clicking of metal under the bonnet and the buzzing of cicadas in the trees all around us.