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Losing Clementine by Ashley Ream

Losing Clementine by Ashley Ream

Ratings: (0)|Views: 156|Likes:
Published by WilliamMorrowBooks
In thirty days Clementine Pritchard will be finished with her last painting and her life.

World-renowned artist and sharp-tongued wit Clementine Pritchard has decided that she's done. After flushing away a medicine cabinet full of prescriptions, she gives herself thirty days to tie up loose ends—finish one last painting, make nice with her ex-husband, and find a home for her cat. Clementine plans to spend the month she has left in a swirl of art-world parties, manic work sessions, and outrageous acts—but what she doesn't expect is to uncover secrets surrounding the tragedy that befell her mother and sister. In an ending no one sees coming, will we lose Clementine or will we find her?

A bold debut from an exciting new voice, Losing Clementine is a wonderfully entertaining and poignant novel about unanticipated self-discovery that features one of the most irresistible, if deeply flawed, characters to grace contemporary fiction in years.
In thirty days Clementine Pritchard will be finished with her last painting and her life.

World-renowned artist and sharp-tongued wit Clementine Pritchard has decided that she's done. After flushing away a medicine cabinet full of prescriptions, she gives herself thirty days to tie up loose ends—finish one last painting, make nice with her ex-husband, and find a home for her cat. Clementine plans to spend the month she has left in a swirl of art-world parties, manic work sessions, and outrageous acts—but what she doesn't expect is to uncover secrets surrounding the tragedy that befell her mother and sister. In an ending no one sees coming, will we lose Clementine or will we find her?

A bold debut from an exciting new voice, Losing Clementine is a wonderfully entertaining and poignant novel about unanticipated self-discovery that features one of the most irresistible, if deeply flawed, characters to grace contemporary fiction in years.

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Published by: WilliamMorrowBooks on Feb 16, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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09/29/2013

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30 Days 
I threw the teapot out the window.It plummeted three oors and shattered into a hundredwhite porcelain pieces right behind Mrs. Epstein, whom Ihad never much liked anyway.“Hey!” she yelled up at me.“Sorry,” I said, hanging hal my upper body over the sill.Then I turned back inside, grabbed hal a dozen teacups, anddumped those out, too.I wasn’t that sorry.
Crash. Crash-crash. Crash-crash-crash.
It was very satisying.“Have you lost your mind?” Mrs. Epstein screamed, danc-ing around in her sensible shoes to avoid ying debris.“Yes,” I said and used hal my body weight to shove thesash back down.It would’ve been more satisying to slam it, but fty yearso paint made that impossible. Unortunate. I was really intodoing things that were satisying at the moment. I had, just
 
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that aternoon, fred my shrink. When you’ve really and trulydecided to kill yoursel, what’s the point o a shrink?That was also satisying. Both the fring and the deciding.Then I positively on-purpose hit the car o the asshole whoalways parks six inches across my building’s driveway. I took his bumper hal o and did not leave a note, because he deserved it.I’ll be dead in thirty days. Let him try to take me to small claimscourt.Upstairs, I did not hang up my jacket and drank orange juicestraight rom the carton. I even spit in it a little because I could. All exceptionally satisying. That’s when I decided I didn’t liketea very much.
Crash. Crash-crash. Crash-crash-crash.
I should’ve done this ages ago.The edges o my studio are or living. That’s where I keepmy kitchen, my television, and, o in the corner behind somerepurposed red velvet curtains, my bed. The center is where Iwork. That’s not a metaphor. It’s a spatial description. The com-mute rocks.I ipped through a stack o stretched canvases leaning againstthe rough stucco wall.No, no, no, no. Yes.I picked a square one, our eet by our eet. That would do.I dropped it onto the easel. I’d fred Jenny, my assistant, theweek beore, just ater she’d stretched hal a dozen o these.Her last name is Pritchard, too, no relation. She’s twenty-our and looks even younger. When I let her go, she looked at me asi I’d slapped her hard across the ace. Even her cheeks turnedred. Tears pooled in her bottom lashes, and she tore around theplace snatching up papers and her bag and fnally a coee mug I’d given her when she frst started. I should’ve had her prime thecanvases, too, beore she let, but I hadn’t thought o it.

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