Facile, two-dimensional, immature characters whinge interminably about their respectively troubled childhoods. All Parisians have coffee and croissant for breakfast in a little cafe. Love is as simple as a wet t-shirt at the wrong moment; betrayal a sigh of relief as the cliches fall into place; a holiday or lunchtime drink with a friend undertaken with almost Catholic reluctance to enjoy little luxuries. There's no reason to read it, so don't.
Silly idiotic book. How glad I am to have finished it.
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