Lilly was left by her violent husband after a brief marriage. Left as a young, attractive woman with no kids to support, a well-paid, interesting career, a supportive family, plenty of friends, and enough cash to keep the marital home.
Yet this book reads like one of those childhood-abuse memoirs, the type with a grainy photo of a teddy bear on the cover, sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. "I turn my face away, into my 245th glass of wine, as another close friend tells me how thin and young and attractive I am, and how I never did a single thing wrong in my marriage except to be non-stop incredible.
"But a tear rolls down my high-cheekbone and I find myself sending more texts to my ex, and calling him, and hacking into his emails and voicemail, but that's acceptable because I'm a hack. Then I change into my new dress, which is a size 8 today but was a size 10 yesterday and might be a 12 tomorrow (don't worry, I'll keep you updated). And I think to myself, will I ever stop bleating self-pityingly?"
The Fleet Street newsroom stuff is fascinating and funny. But the constant wah-wahing over the world's least-damaging divorce just got on my tits.