Sophie Kinsella
Sophie Kinsella
Madeleine Sophie Wickham is a British author of chick lit. Apart from numerous short stories, she has written several successful stand-alone novels as Madeleine Wickham but is perhaps best known for her work under the pen name Sophie Kinsella. The first two novels in her best-selling Shopaholic series, The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic and Shopaholic Abroad were adapted into the film Confessions of a Shopaholic starring Isla Fisher. Her books have been translated into over 30 languages...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth12 December 1969
CountryUnited States of America
Mind your own Brazilian!" The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. Oops. OK. The trick when you've said something embarrassing by mistake is to pretend nothing happened.
I once tried to give him a friendly little "drugs chat". He politely corrected me on every single fact, then said he'd noticed I drank above the recommended guidelines of Red Bull and did I think I might have an addiction? That was the last time I tried to act like the older sister.
That's the way it goes. Some things happen and some things don't. This one is obviously just wasn't meant to be. Except deep down... I still believe it was.
So", says Jack at at last..."you broke up with Connor". Wow. So we're straight to the point. "So", I reply defiantly. "You decided to stay". "Yes, well...", "I thought I might take a closer look at some of the European subsidiaries." He looks up. "How about you?" "Same reason." I nod. "European subsidiaries".
Hi." "Hi." I shrug, as though to say "Whatever." In my peripheral vision I can see Magnus exhale. He looks a teeny bit nervous. "So." "So." I can play this game too. "Poppy." "Poppy. I mean, Magnus." I scowl. He caught me out.
I'm never going to believe a Poirot mystery again. Never. All those witnesses going, "Yes, I remember it was 3:06 p.m. exactly, because I glanced at the clock as I reached for the sugar tongs, and Lady Favisham was quite clearly sitting on the right-hand side of the fireplace." Bollocks. They have no idea where Lady Favisham was, they just don't want to admit it in front of Poirot. I'm amazed he gets anywhere.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what could have been. It’s too unbearable.
Rule of life. If you bother to ask someone’s advice, then bother to listen to it.
Jeez Louise. I know why rich people are so thin: it's from trekking around their humongous houses the whole time.
Just because of that one disastrous blind date she had last year, where the guy turned out to be fifty-nine, not thirty-nine (He claimed it was a typo. Yeah, I’m sure his finger just happened to slip two spaces to the left).
I bet he never goes on YouTube. He's too busy. It's only tragic cases like you and me who are always online.
You never know how things are going to turn out, however much you plan. But you already know that.
... what would Poirot do? Poirot wouldn't flap around in a panic. He'd stay calm and use his little grey cells and recall some tiny, vital detail which would be the clue to everything.
Great. Just great. One glimpse of his body and I have a full-blown crush. I honestly thought I was a bit deeper than that.