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On the heels of her national bestsellers Jemima J and Mr. Maybe, British sensation Jane Green delivers a sparkling tale of old friends reunited and old jealousies rekindled.
Catherine Warner and Simon Nelson are best friends: total opposites, always together, and both unlucky in love. Cath is scatterbrained, messy, and–since she had her heart broken a few years back–emotionally closed off. Si is impossibly tidy, bitchy, and desperate for a man...
On the heels of her national bestsellers Jemima J and Mr. Maybe, British sensation Jane Green delivers a sparkling tale of old friends reunited and old jealousies rekindled.
Catherine Warner and Simon Nelson are best friends: total opposites, always together, and both unlucky in love. Cath is scatterbrained, messy, and–since she had her heart broken a few years back–emotionally closed off. Si is impossibly tidy, bitchy, and desperate for a man of his own. They live in London’s West Hampstead along with their lifelong friends, Josh and Lucy, who are happily married with a devil-spawn child and a terrifying Swedish nanny, Ingrid.
All’s well (sort of) until the sudden arrival of a college friend–the stunningly beautiful Portia, who’s known for breaking hearts. Though they’ve grown up and grown apart from Portia, the four friends welcome her back into the fold. But does Portia have a hidden agenda or is she merely looking to reconnect with old friends? Her reappearance soon unleashes a rollicking series of events that tests the foursome’s friendships to the limit and leaves them wondering if a happy ending is in store.
Fortunately, Cath has plenty to take her mind off Portia’s schemes–like her gutsy decision to leave her job in advertising to fulfill her dream of opening a bookstore. And then there’s James, the sexy real-estate agent who keeps dropping by even after the bookstore deal is done. With his irresistible smile and boyish charm could he be the one to melt Cath’s heart?
Told with Jane Green’s captivating wit and flare, Bookends is above all a story about friendship–its twists, turns and complications–and how it weathers the challenges of love, ambition, marriage, and, most of all, growing up. Warmhearted, sophisticated, and full of delicious surprises, Bookends is Green’s most dazzling novel yet.
"A near-perfect romantic wish-fulfillment fantasy...only the coldest hearts will not be warmed."
"Single or spoken for, you'll find a character you can relate to in this page-turner about dating, marriage, parenthood, career goals, jealousy and of course love."
"You'll love this one...a bit of candy perfect for the bath, pool, or beach."
"Page-turningly irresistible...[Green] has perfect pitch."
"Quick, witty, unputdownable and perfect beach reading. Don't miss it."
"A hugely enjoyable novel about love and friendship."
"The author of the successful Mr. Maybe does it again."
– She (London)
"Funny and poignant—you'll devour it in one sitting."
The first time I met Josh, I thought he was a nice guy but a transient friend. The first time I met Si I fell hopelessly in love and prayed I'd somehow be able to convert him.
But the first time I met Portia I thought I'd found my soul mate.
She was the sister I'd always longed for, the best friend I'd always wished I had, and I truly and honestly thought that, no matter what happened with our lives, we would stay friends forever.
Forever feels a long time when you're eighteen. When you're away from home for the first time in your life, when you forge instant friendships that are so strong they are destined, surely, to be with you until the bitter end.
I met Josh right at the beginning, just a few weeks after the Freshers' Ball. I'd seen him in the Students' Union, propping up the bar after a rugby game, looking for all the world like the archetypal upper-class rugger bugger twit, away from home with too much money and too much arrogance.
He—naturally—started chatting up Portia, alcohol giving him a confidence he lacked when sober (although I didn't know that at the time), and despite the rebuffs he kept going until his friends dragged him away to find easier prey.
I'm sure we would all have left it at that, but I bumped into him the next day, in the library, and he recognized me instantly and apologized for embarrassing us; and gradually we started to see him more and more, until he'd firmly established himself as one of the gang.
I'd already met Si by then, had already fallen in love with his cheeky smile and extravagant gestures. I was helping out one of the girls on my course who was auditioning for a production of Cabaret. It was my job to collect names and send them into the rehearsal hall for the audition.
Si was the only person who turned up in full costume. As Sally Bowles. In fishnet stockings, bowler hat, and full makeup, he didn't bat an eyelid as the others slouched down in their hard, wooden chairs, staring, jealous as hell of his initiative. And his legs.
He went in, bold as brass, and proceeded to give the worst possible rendition of "Cabaret" that I've ever heard, but with such brazen confidence you could almost forgive him for being entirely tone-deaf.
Everybody went crazy when he'd finished. They went crazy because he so obviously loved, loved, being center stage. None of us had ever seen such enthusiasm, but even though Si knew every song, word for word, he had to be content with camping it up as the narrator, as Helen, the director, said she never wanted to hear him sing again.
Eddie was a friend of Josh's. A sweet gentle boy from Leeds who should probably have been overwhelmed by our combined personalities, but somehow wasn't. He was easy company, and always willing to do anything for anybody he cared about, which was mostly us, at the time.
And then of course there was Portia. So close that our names became intertwined: CatherineandPortia. Two for the price of one.
I met Portia on my very first day at university. We were sitting in the halls of residence common room, waiting for a talk to begin, all sizing each other up, all wondering whom to befriend, who seemed like our type, when this stunningly elegant girl strode in on long, long legs, crunching an apple and looking like she didn't have a care in the world.
Portia, with her mane of dark auburn hair that reached down between her shoulder blades. Portia, with her cool green eyes and dirty laugh. Portia, who looked like she should have been a class-A bitch, but was, then, the greatest friend I'd ever had.
Her confidence took my breath away, and, when she flung her bag down on the floor and sank into the empty chair next to mine, I prayed she'd be my friend. She stretched out, showing off buttersoft suede thigh-high boots, exactly the boots I'd dreamt of wearing if I ever got thin enough, and, taking a last bite of the apple, tossed it with an expert flick of the wrist into the dustbin on the other side of the room.
"Yesss!" she hissed triumphantly, her cut-glass accent slicing through the room. "I knew all those years as goal shooter would pay off sometimes," and then she turned to me. "I'm Portia. When does this bloody thing start?"
Portia had more than enough confidence for both of us. We found, within minutes, that despite our different backgrounds we had the same vicious sense of humor, the same slightly ironic take on life, although it took a few years for the cynicism to set in.
We made each other laugh from the outset, and there never seemed to be a shortage of conversation with Portia. She had a prime room—one of the most coveted in the building. A large bay window overlooked the main residential street, and Portia repositioned the armchairs so that they were in the bay, draping them with jewel-colored crushed-velvet throws. She sat there for hours at a time, watching people go by.
Most of the time I'd be there too. The net curtains would be rolled around the string of elastic from which they hung, and in summer the window would be open and we'd sit drinking bottles of Beck's, Marlboro Lights dripping coolly from our fingers, waiting for the men of our dreams to walk past and fall head over heels in love with us.
They frequently did. With Portia, at any rate.
Even then she had more style than anyone I'd ever met. She would go to the hippie shops in town and pick up brightly colored beaded dresses for a fiver, tiny mirrors sprinkled all over them, and the next day I'd find her finishing off two stunning new cushions, the mirrors glinting with ethnic charm.
She did have money, that much was obvious, but there was never anything snobbish or snooty about Portia. She'd been brought up in the country, in Gloucestershire, in a Jacobean manor house that could probably have provided accommodation for most of our campus.
Her mother was terribly beautiful, she said, and an alcoholic, but, Portia sighed, who could blame her when her father was sleeping with half of London. They had a pied-a-terre in Belgravia, to which Portia eventually decamped when she refused to go back to boarding school, opting to do her A-levels in a trendy tutorial college in London instead.
It was a world away from my own background. I was intimidated, impressed, and in awe of her life, her lifestyle. My life had started in deepest, darkest suburbia, in an ordinary prewar semi on a main road in North London. My father, unlike Portia's landowning, gambling, semi-aristocratic parents, is an accountant in a local firm. My mother is a housewife who works occasionally as a dinner lady in the local primary school.
As far back as I can remember I would escape from my humdrum world by burying myself in books—the one true love of my life when growing up.
I love Mum and Dad. Of course. They are my parents. But the day I went to university I realized that they had nothing to do with me anymore, nothing to do with my life, with who I wanted to be, and never was I more aware of cutting the umbilical cord than when I met Portia.
I used to wonder whether style was something you were born with, or whether it was something you could buy. I'm sure that it's something you're born with, and Portia was just fortunate in being able to afford the very best as well. I still have no doubt, however, that she could have made a bin bag look sophisticated. The rest of us would shop at Next, but she always looked like she was wearing Yves Saint Laurent. She'd joke about it, about our sweaters covered in holes, and our faded old Levi's, the more rips and holes in them the better. She'd laugh about how she found it physically impossible to walk in anything with less than three-inch heels due to a birth defect. She'd sink to her knees and grab the bottom of my favorite sweater—a sludge-green crocheted number that, with hindsight, was pretty damn revolting—begging, pleading, offering me bribes to burn the sweater and have her N. Peal cashmere sweater instead.
There were a few people who were jealous of her. There always are. I remember one night when Portia was cornered by some big rugby bloke in a pub. She politely declined his offer of a shag, to which he responded by screaming obscenities at her and telling her she was a rich bitch and the most hated girl at university. He made some references to her being a daddy's girl, and then said she was the university joke. Eventually, when she recovered from the shock, she slapped him as hard as she could and ran out to the garden of the pub.
I found her there. I hadn't known what was going on. I'd been in the other room, chatting to people, and it was only when I noticed Portia hadn't come back that I went looking for her.
She was curled up in a heap at the bottom of the garden. It was raining and she was soaking wet, her hand covered in blood, her skin torn through to the bone. She was sobbing quietly, and I took her in my arms. After a while I insisted she go to hospital for stitches. Even there she refused to say what had happened, and the next day the rumors flew that he, the rugby oik, had hit her, had pushed her down the stairs. She never said anything about the incident, neither confirmed nor denied, thereby making the rugby bloke into something of a pariah with women.
Months later we were sitting in a café on the high street, when Portia suddenly said, "Do you remember that night? The night of the bloody hand?"
I nodded, curious as to what she was going to say, because she'd never spoken about it before.
"Did you think he'd hit me? Pushed me down the stairs?"
I shrugged. I didn't know.
"I did it myself," she said, lighting up a cigarette and examining the tiny scar on the knuckle of her right hand. "It's this thing I do," she said nonchalantly, dragging on the cigarette and looking around the room as if to say that what she was telling me wasn't important. "I have a tendency to hurt myself. Physically." She paused. "When I'm hurting inside." And then she called the waitress over and ordered another coffee. By the time the waitress had gone, Portia was on to something else and I couldn't get back to the subject again.
It was the first indication I'd had that Portia wasn't perfect. That there might be things in her past that weren't perfect. It was only as I got to know her better that I realized the effect her parents had had on her.
It wasn't that they didn't care, she said. It was quite simply that they hadn't been around enough to care. Her mother lay in bed all day, in an alcoholic haze, and her father disappeared to London, leaving Portia to fend for herself.
This cutting, this occasional self-mutilation when life became too hard, was clearly an act of desperation, of Portia screaming to be noticed, to be heard. But if you didn't know, you wouldn't know, if you know what I mean. She was funny, generous, and kind. When she got fed up with my persistent moaning about my mop of dull, mousy hair, she whisked me to the hairdresser's and instructed them to do lowlights.
The girl at the hairdresser's didn't like Portia, didn't like her imperious manner, but Portia's mother went to Daniel Galvin, so Portia knew what she was talking about. When Portia said not the cap, the foil, they listened, and when she chose the colors of my lowlights, they listened. And when they finished, Portia showed them a photograph of a model in a magazine, and they cut my hair so that it fell softly around my face, feathery bits brushing my cheek. I had never felt beautiful before, only ever mildly attractive on a very good day, but for a few minutes, in that crappy local hairdresser's surrounded by old dears with blue rinses, with Portia smiling just behind me, I felt beautiful.
Portia was the most sought-after girl at university. As the builders at the end of our road one summer used to say, "She's got class." When I walked past they'd scream, "Cor, fancy a night out, love?" To which I'd smile coyly and continue walking, faintly irritated by the interruption, but nevertheless flattered that they had even bothered to notice me.
When Portia walked past they'd fall silent. Downing their tools one by one, they'd step to the edge of the scaffold to watch her glide by, her face impassive, her eyes fixed on the middle distance. And once she'd passed they'd look at one another with regret, regret that she wouldn't talk to them, regret that twelve feet up a collection of steel poles was the closest they'd ever get to a woman like Portia.
But the thing was that underneath, beneath the designer trappings and soigné exterior, Portia was just like me. We were both eternal romantics, although we hid it well, and both desperately needed to be loved.
Portia had been practically abandoned by her parents since birth, and, though my background wasn't quite so dramatic, I was the product of people who should never have got married, of people who spent their lives arguing, shouting, who led me to believe, as a young child, that it was all my fault.
My parents were still together, very much so, but I suppose every family has its problems, and mine no less than anyone else. We just don't talk about it. Everything is swept under the carpet and forgotten.
Perhaps that's why I loved Portia so much. She was the first person I'd met with whom I felt able to be completely honest. Not immediately, but she was so warm and so open herself (years of therapy, she said) that it was impossible not to fill the silences after her stories with memories of my own.
We gradually allowed more people to enter into our world. Only a select few, only the people who shared our humor, but eventually, by the end of the year, we were a small group of misfits, all from completely different walks of life, but all somehow feeling as if we had found another family.
So there was Eddie, Joshua, Portia, and Si. It never occurred to me that we didn't have any close female friends, but with each other we never needed them. Sarah entered halfway through the second year, by virtue of going out with Eddie, but, although we made her feel welcome, she never really belonged.
Posted June 29, 2009
I Also Recommend:
Jane Green has touched my heart with every novel that she writes. She is by far my favorite author. Green gives her readers exactly what they want, whether it be tears of joy or pain we are sucked in from cover to cover. "Bookends" has many lovable characters, whom we can all feel close too. From the 'Ironic' Cath to the lovable Si we feel true pleasure in wishing we all could form lasting friendships such as these. This novel not only makes you value your friends even more, but it brings in a reality that not everything is as it seems. Some things are just too good to be true, and others are surely not what you could ever have expected. If your a fan of Green's novels or any chick lit "Bookends" is a MUST read.
Again, 2 thumbs up!
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Posted October 3, 2012
This book is one of the best and addicting books I have ever read. Jane Green makes the characters so inviting and realistic that you feel as though they are friends you hqve had forever. A definite must read!!!
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Posted June 14, 2012
Ive read most of her books and than i picked up jemima j wem goin to the beach, it had to be my absolute favorite.... funny but had life lessons as well... def recommend!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 8, 2012
Posted July 25, 2011
Posted June 24, 2008
I picked this up in an airport several years ago, finished it before the flight landed, and was completely satisfied. Sort of made me feel warm and calmly happy. Haven't read it in years, and thought I'd give it another shot. Absolute winner again. I think it made me feel even better the second time around. I've dabbled in some other Jane Green 'Straight Talking, Babyville, etc.' but was less impressed. This one's a winner!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 26, 2008
I liked 'Babyville', so I figured I'd try another Jane Green book. This one was disappointing. It was very slow moving and didn't appear to have any point. The event that drove a wedge in their friendship during the early years seemed petty and lame, and not something that would affect the rest of their lives. That set the tone for the rest of the book, where the characters made huge assumptions (usually wrong) and didn't really do anything but live their average, boring lives. Not something that makes for an interesting novel. I'm about to start 'Swapping Lives' and hope to god it's better than the snooze fest I just forced myself to finish.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 19, 2007
This book was extremely boring. The only character that was even mildly interesting was Lucy. Did not like Cath at all. Si was ok but did not like the little twist at the end with his story. All in all, a big disappointment.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 2, 2007
This was my first Jane Green book and I have read it more times than I can count. It was an absolute page-turner. The characters are the kinds you get facinated with and it was a book I couldn't put down. One of my favorites, I highly recommend it!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 19, 2006
Posted June 27, 2006
I had a hard time getting into this book. Not sure if it was because I couldn't relate to any characters or what. I read up to the 4th chapter and was just plain board.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted May 2, 2006
Posted January 1, 2006
Although it has been quite a few years since I read Jemima J and Mr. Maybe, I can honestly say that Bookends was the best of all of Green's material I have read. Bookends was a good book to get lost in -- a great overnight or weekend read. It pairs the idea of light and airy with more serious tones to keep the reader on his or her toes while enjoying the plotline as well.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 19, 2005
This book was fun, the characters were well drawn, the story kept me interested throughout. This would be a great book to take to the beach and get lost in it. I will read all of Jane Green's novels.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted August 3, 2005
my teacher recommended me this book alongside a few others. i read the book while on a trip to chicago this summer. i didnt really like it. i loved some characters and others i couldnt convince myself to like. everything seemed a bit out of the ordinary and sometimes even predicatble. it was an easy read but not one of my favoritesWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted February 13, 2005
I loved this book. This was my first Jane Green book and I couldn't put it down. As soon as I read it, I went out and got Jemma J, excellent as well. Easy reading-could finish it in a few days.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted October 17, 2004
Posted May 18, 2004
I thought Bookends was terrific. I loved all of the characters, and wish there would be another book with them. After reading Bookends, I had to run to the Library and get another Jane Green book to read. She's comparable to Meauve Binchy!!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted February 17, 2004
While I enjoyed this book I have read better. I did in fact fall in love with the honesty of the narrator and i felt as though everything that happened to her was happening to me. I would reconmend this to someone looking for a nice weekend read.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 24, 2003
I purchased this book because I have read (and loved) three of Jane Greens other books (Babyville, Jemima J, and Mr. Maybe). It took me a long time to get into the book. I kept reading a page or two at a time, then put it down and pick something else up, etc... All the while thinking in my head 'this is definitely a 2 star book'. But the last 100 - 150 pages of the book really shined through for me, and I have to say that Green has pulled out another 5 star winner. I wish she would have gotten to the point of the story sooner, but once she was there it was an excellent read with a fantastic conclusion.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.