A discomforting read in the form of a letter written by Franca, a Dutch graduate, trapped in an abusive heteronormative relationship. At its intense core is a dinner party from hell, played out dish by dish, to maximum shocking effect. Rippling out from this are Franca's reflections on her childhood, first love and the imprisoning trauma of spousal abuse. Compelling, with shards of the darkest humour, be warned this contains sexual violence.
I descend again. Feet touching the floor, two of eight, and the blood sinking into them so that my head feels light. Here are you, and Andrew, and Evan, and here's the cake covered in goo and reminding me of the show where they put people's body parts in food and made it look appetising. Except this cake doesn't look appetising at all. It looks nauseating, drooping black and glistening. We all watch as you cut ten equal pieces and put four onto small plates, stick forks into the tops.
'It looks like murder on a plate,' Andrew says. I look at him. You do the same. Andrew's prodding his slice with his fork. 'No wonder you never bake, Fran. Should thank the Lord. Allowing me to live.'
