Pretty Things. Виржини Депант

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      “I don’t see how.”

      “I want to get it done quickly. I don’t want to meet twelve thousand people and introduce myself and be nice. Claudine knew tons of people, even if no one was interested in her they at least remember her legs. The telephone hasn’t stopped ringing since yesterday, if we do it in her name, it’ll go much faster. What I want is cash, and we have a way to get it.”

      “You’re dreaming. You can’t make an album just like that, you have to—”

      “I’m not dreaming at all, listen to the answering machine.”

      Then, he realizes, “What did you say? We can make an album faster? You’re counting on me for—”

      “Everything. I don’t want to see anyone. You do everything and you make the tracks. No offense, but it’s probably the first time in a while that you’ve had the opportunity to do something.”

      “No way.”

      “Listen to the answering machine.”

      She plays the messages; at first he won’t listen. She fascinates him a little, her reckless courage, she scares him a little too. Obscene stubbornness, she’s a calm kind of crazy. And then the names catch his ear and he starts listening.