Cecily: I spent my evening with a famous architect and a very famous French writer whose name eludes me now that I am ridiculously drunk. We spoke in French of love and lost love. And I now have thirty-two roses. One for every woman the famous writer ever loved and one for me.
Alexander: Thirty-one seems to be an awfully large number; were I to fall in love with thirty-one men I would not know who I was, much less how to find my creativity again.
Cecily: He is ninety-two years old.
thedailymails 