The start of the chapter of the book I never write. Treacherous women I love
Diane
Every woman falls in love with a treacherous woman at some point. Mine was a blonde with a heart of darkness. We met in New York in a hostel.
She was French Canadian. She despised most things and most people. Her utter contempt made her compelling.
And her lies. And her access. She was having an affair with the owner of the Mudd Club. It meant we could go…
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