: Hannah Beer
: I Make My Own Fun 'A dark, crazed reversal of Notting Hill'
: Atlantic Books
: 9781805460251
: 1
: CHF 11.60
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 288
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
'Darkly humorous and outrageous, this is your next obsession' LUCY ROSE 'A riotous dissection of celebrity culture' INDEPENDENT 'An absolute banger of the highest order' ALICE SLATER 'I adored this book' KATY BRENT 'The most entertaining debut of the year' KIA ABDULLAH _____________________________ She's the woman who has everything. But she wants more. She wants you... Everyone knows Marina, the A-list movie star. But very few know Marina, the absolute monster. Years at the top have proved that whatever Marina wants, she gets. But when she meets bartender Anna, Marina discovers something that can't be bought: Anna's affection. As Anna remains unmoved, Marina's advances become more desperate - and her obsession more dangerous. The price of fame is heavy - and someone will have to pay for it... _________________________ Readers are loving I Make My Own Fun... 'Absolutely brilliant' 'A stellar and entertaining read' 'Enthralling reading experience' 'Sharp and spiky' 'I will definitely be recommending'

Hannah Beer is a writer from North West England. She lives in London and works in communications. A reformed fangirl, she has an encyclopaedic knowledge of celebrity culture that she writes about in her newsletter Emotional Speculation. When not working or writing, she enjoys reading, going to gigs and cooking elaborate meals for her friends.

LONDON


The hotel suite in London is fussy and looks almost full to bursting with the sorts of odds and ends that are always associated with a particular British luxury by those who have no direct experience of it: antique vases, endless lamps, tasselled throw pillows as far as the eye can see. It’s easy to imagine the type of people this room caters to: rich Europeans looking for somewhere ‘proper’ as a base whilst they visit distant relatives, obnoxious Americans seeking out some authenticEnglish cosiness, Australians obsessed with the Royal Family.

The thought of theoohs andaahs those people might exclaim when they walk into the space makes me feel nauseous. I prefer hotels to feel like a blank canvas for my own taste, even if I’m only in them for a few nights. Usually, Jules would have ensured that my things were in place by the time I entered the suite, removing any trace of the hotel’s decor choices and fixing some paintings from my own collection to the wall, but the one I chose for this trip is propped unceremoniously against a dresser on the back wall. Too exhausted from eight hours of Henry’s yapping and Jules’s incompetence to investigate the hold-up, I just gesture in its general direction to Jules on the way to my evening session with my trainer.

‘Tell Henry I’m with Magnus, Jules,’ I say as I leave, ‘and can you make sure he doesn’t bother me now until tomorrow?’ It’s a rhetorical question. I don’t need to wait for her response before I let the suite door swing shut behind me.

Tomorrow is the final premiere for the schmaltzy, spacey, Academy-catnip film Henry and I have produced together. Well,together is a loose term; Henry is, it goes without saying, a moron, and I allow him minimal input into any of our shared projects, including our relationship. He doesn’t mind: it’s a small price to pay for what I’ve given him. Years ago, I hand-selected him from a long list of inoffensively handsome actors of middling talent to be my public-facing boyfriend. If it weren’t for me, he’d never even have dreamed of fulfilling his greedy, unimaginative ambition for fame. I dragged him by his perfectly silky, Ken-doll locks right up to the A list. Without me he’d be a recurring part on a