The Other Half: You know how they live. This is how they die.

Contents Landing Page Title Page Dedication Epigraph Contents SATURDAY 1 2 SUNDAY 3 4 5 6 7 MONDAY 8 9 10 11 12 TUESDAY 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 WEDNESDAY 21 22 23 24 25 26 THURSDAY 27 28 29 30 31 FRIDAY 32 33 34 35 36 37 SATURDAY 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 SUNDAY 45 46 47 48 49 MONDAY 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 WEDNESDAY 58 Acknowledgements About the Author Copyright 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 For my late, and much missed, nan.vi
 
 
 
 
 
 
 vii
 
 
 
 What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 
 
 
 What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
 
 
 What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
 
 ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’, John Keats
 
 * * *
 
 
 He was misanthropic and gifted with the sly, sharp instinct for self-preservation that passes for wisdom among the rich.
 
 Put Out More Flags, Evelyn Waugh
 
 
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 Contents
 
 
 
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 SATURDAY 
 1 
 2 
 SUNDAY
 3 
 4 
 5 
 6 
 7 
 MONDAY 
 8 
 9 
 10 
 11 
 12 
 TUESDAY 
 13 
 14 
 15 
 16 
 17 
 18 
 19 
 20 
 WEDNESDAY 
 21 
 22 
 23 
 24 
 25 
 26 
 THURSDAY 
 27 
 28 
 29 
 30 
 31 
 FRIDAY 
 32 
 33 
 34 
 35 
 36 
 37 
 SATURDAY 
 38 
 39 
 40 
 41 
 42 
 43 
 44 
 SUNDAY 
 45 
 46 
 47 
 48 
 49 
 MONDAY 
 50 
 51 
 52 
 53 
 54 
 55 
 56 
 57 
 WEDNESDAY 
 58 
 Acknowledgements 
 About the Author 
 Copyright 
 
 
 
 
 
 1
 
 
 THE OTHER HALF
 
 
 
 2
 
 
 
 
 
 3
 SATURDAY
 
 
 4
 
 
 
 
 
 5
 1
 
 A girl is dying. A girl who wears bespoke perfume. She wants you to inhale her deliciousness; to know that she is untouched by the dirt, the smog, the filth of your London. Pathetic men rub their underdeveloped legs against her arse as they commute to their piteous ‘careers’ on the hamster-cage tube. She wants other women to covet her manicure as she types an ‘empowering’ Instagram post about her ‘inner glow’. People follow her. A be-legginged messiah to the inflexible, undesirable, slovenly masses. She drinks spirulina, kombucha and matcha, but she doesn’t eat wheat or dairy. She’s faking an allergy to mask her disordered eating, which she won’t seek help for because it feels so very normal nowadays. It’s a shame, she used to like eating bread. She waxes everything. Everything. She is filthy. Filthy. Used to do anything, absolutely anything, if it meant he’d stay with her.
 A girl is dying. She is savvy. Astute. Commercially minded. Clever. She’s clever. She knows that all she really has 
 
 7
 2
 
 Midsummer Night, North London
 The McDonald’s in Kentish Town had seen some sights, but this was something different. At 6 p.m. an elegant man strode through the automatic doors. Wing-collar shirt, cummerbund and silk bow tie. Expensive shoes: Italian. They made a clipped noise when he walked, much like his vowels when he spoke. He strolled up to the counter and asked to speak to the manager. The server peered around him nervously, looking for a non-existent camera. The manager was dutifully found and propositioned like a comely whore. The gentleman, and there really couldn’t be another word for a man dressed in such a manner, was going to use the upstairs area – usually reserved for children’s parties on Saturday mornings – for a private gathering that evening. His guests were arriving at 7.30 p.m. and the staff were to bring food upstairs (the order had already been courteously written out in fastidious copperplate) at 8 p.m. for them. They were not to be disturbed after that. The