Tark and Mara who? I did warn you. Explanation here
In a universe not far from here, but somehow very like here, Tark was busy writing.
“Darling, what are you doing?” asked Mara, newly transplanted eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement and distrust. Her husband’s industrious expression was severely out of place in their six-bedroomed chrome-and-mirror penthouse.
Tark never did any work at home. Tark didn’t do any work at work. He had meetings with excitable people who usually opened nightclubs – eventually – and she knew their joint earnings had something vaguely to do with turning up at parties. Then she had her book deal, for pin money; that said, the last monthly royalty cheque for her most recent erotic gardener crime novel had been a paltry €70,000.
“I have taken on my own writing project,” said Tark, the tip of his tongue protruding from the corner of his oddly tiny mouth. Combined with the exceptional…
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