Dex: couldn't you have just hired someone to move this stuff?

Emma: no.

Dex: look, I would have paid.

Emma: all right, lift from your end. You’ve obviously never done a day’s work in your life.

Dex: look, seriously, Em, my plane leaves in four hours.

Emma: all right, well, all the more reason why you should lift.

Dex: God’s sake. Look, I’m doing you a favor.

Emma: and I am so, so grateful. Stop whinging [wɪndʒ].

Dex: I bet this bed would tell some stories.

Emma: yeah, short stories, horror stories. I think I’m gonna be very happy here.

Dex: what is that smell?

Emma: onions. Onions and disappointment.

Dex: right.

Emma: no, it't not that bad. It's nothing that a lick of paint, and a nuclear ['nuklɪɚ]warhead ['wɔrhɛd] can't fix. I've got my typewriter. I've got my books, I'm in London. I think it's going to be all right. I might actually get things done.