If this novel is ever published with a scratch-and-sniff cover — which incidentally, I think it might be successful enough to warrant — this is what it would smell of: cheap petrol, lust, the ripe, acidic scent of decaying corpse, cat litter, $2,000 suits, Cristal champagne, decaying encyclopaedia, corruption, fumes from the power plant, betrayal, sausage.
If this novel is ever published with a scratch-and-sniff cover — which incidentally, I think it might be successful enough to warrant — this is what it would smell of: cheap petrol, lust, the ripe, acidic scent of decaying corpse, cat litter, $2,000 suits, Cristal champagne, decaying encyclopaedia, corruption, fumes from the power plant, betrayal, sausage.
In short, a heady noseful of Moscow, an intoxicating perfume that will whirl you off your feet and set your moral compass spinning. For an expat lawyer such as the narrator, Nick, it is the whiff of opportunity, where even he has a chance with ‘premier-league women’ — not by dint of his personal charms, you understand, but because of his job, his salary, his British citizenship.
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