Chocolate is the glue that holds together a disparate group of London ladies in British writer Matthews's frothy latest. When "secretary-aspiring-to-be-an-executive" Lucy Lombard discovers her boyfriend is cheating on her, she convenes an emergency meeting of the Chocolate Lovers' Club at upscale chocolatier Chocolate Heaven. But Lucy isn't the only one with a problem: Nadia, a stay-at-home Indo-Brit mom, has a husband with a gambling problem; Chantal, an American transplant journalist, has married into money and a loveless marriage; and old-money do-gooder Autumn's shifty brother moves in with her, causing plenty of disruption to Autumn's tranquil abode. As the dramas play out, Chantal gets the worst of it: her extramarital lover makes off with some of her expensive jewelry. Other romances alternately fizzle and sizzle as the chocoholics chow down on their confections and concoct a plot to get back Chantal's jewelry. Though the narrative's chocolate crutch can get tedious (sometimes very), the Brit humor and unexpected subplots are rewarding. (Feb.)Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Chocolate Lovers' Clubby Carole Matthews
There's one thing that Lucy Lombard can't live without, and that's chocolatecreamy, delicious chocolate. Sharing her obsession are three other addicts: Autumn, Nadia, and Chantal. Together they form a select group known as The Chocolate Lovers' Club. Whenever there's a crisis, they meet in their sanctuary, a cafe called Chocolate Heaven. With a cheating
There's one thing that Lucy Lombard can't live without, and that's chocolatecreamy, delicious chocolate. Sharing her obsession are three other addicts: Autumn, Nadia, and Chantal. Together they form a select group known as The Chocolate Lovers' Club. Whenever there's a crisis, they meet in their sanctuary, a cafe called Chocolate Heaven. With a cheating boyfriend, a flirtatious boss, a gambling husband and a loveless marriage, there's always plenty to discuss....
"Combine Bridget Jones with "Sex and the City" and you've got "The Chocolate Lovers' Club....Matthews' style is quick-paced, smart and savvy with a sly, tongue-in-cheek humor that will have readers chuckling out loud...an indulgence worth savoring."
This chick-lit read is a yummy Valentine's treat! Four pals are addicted to discussing their lives while indulging at Chocolate Heaven café.
- St. Martin's Press
- Publication date:
- Edition description:
- First Edition
- Product dimensions:
- 5.40(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.90(d)
Read an Excerpt
The Chocolate Lovers' Club
By Carole Matthews
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2007 Carole Matthews
All rights reserved.
"Hit me again," I say. Eyebrows are raised. "Are you sure?"
"I can handle it."
"You can overdose on this," he warns. "Even you, a hardened user."
In times of crisis, my drug of choice is single plantation Madagascar. There is nothing — absolutely nothing — that it fails to cure. This is the remedy for anything from a broken heart to a headache — and I've had plenty of both in my time, I can tell you.
"Bring it on, boy." I nod solemnly and my dealer hands over my drugs, making me sigh with relief. Chocolate. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm! Lovely, lovely, creamy, sweet, delicious chocolate. I just can't get enough of it.
Taking my first bite, I feel its warm, comforting taste start to edge through my pain. There are times when chocolate really is the answer to all of your prayers.
"Getting there," I say with a wan smile.
"The posse will be here soon and then you'll be okay."
"I know. Thanks, Clive. You're a savior."
"All part of the service, dear." He high-fives me in a very camp way — but then he's gay, so he's allowed.
Taking my stash, I find a sofa in the corner and sink into it. My weary bones start to relax and, breathing in the strong vanilla scent, I feel my head starting to clear too.
I'm not alone in my desires. Oh no. I'm part of a small but perfectly formed sect that we've christened the Chocolate Lovers' Club. We have just four members in our guilty gang, and we meet here at Chocolate Heaven as often as we can. This place is an addict's paradise — the equivalent of the opium den for the chocoholic. It's tucked away in a cobbled back street in a smart area of London, but I'm not going to say where, because then my secret would be out and hordes of wide-eyed, craving women would descend on our special place and spoil it. It's like when you discover a great holiday destination — miles and miles of deserted, white beaches, intimate little restaurants and nightspots — then you tell everyone about it and how fabulous it is and next year it's been swamped by people on EasyJet flights, and you can't move on the beach for bloated bodies in beaded sarongs from Matalan and ghetto blasters. All the intimate little restaurants now serve sausage and chips and the nightspots offer half-price drinks and have foam machines. For now though, Chocolate Heaven is the haunt of the chosen few and long may it remain so.
I let my head drop back and score once more, popping another divine chocolate into my mouth with yet another heartfelt sigh.
I'm Lucy Lombard, and I suppose I'm the founding member because I'm the lucky soul who found Chocolate Heaven first. Today, an ad-hoc meeting of the Chocolate Lovers' Club has been hastily convened. If any one of us texts CHOCOLATE EMERGENCY, we all try to drop whatever we're doing and run for our sanctuary. It's the equivalent of telling an on-call doctor that his heart patient has just flatlined. This time I'm the one who's called the meeting. Wait until I tell my best girls what's happened — they won't believe it. Or maybe they will.
Autumn is the first to arrive. As I finish my last chocolate, she bursts through the door. "Are you okay?" she asks breathlessly. Autumn Fielding is one of life's carers.
"Marcus. Again," I offer. Marcus is supposed to be my dearly beloved boyfriend — but more of that later.
She tuts sympathetically in return.
Many moons ago, I used to come in here alone and skulk in the corner. I don't really like eating in front of other people and I particularly don't like to be watched when I'm eating chocolate. I suspect druggies don't like to be watched either as they tuck into a crack pipe or mainline their heroin. There's something slightly sleazy about being observed while taking part in your particular perversion. (Unless your particular perversion is being watched, I guess.) I don't actually drool, but I feel that I look as if I do. And, I think you'll agree, drooling is best done in private.
It was during one of my many solo visits that I met Autumn. There wasn't a spare seat in the place except the one next to me, so she plonked herself down and we hit it off immediately. But then I don't think anyone would not like Autumn — as long as you don't mind people who can't help being constantly nice. A small word of caution though. Parents, be warned: If you're going to call your daughter Autumn, she will inevitably grow up to have curly red hair and will vote for the Green Party — -just as this one does.
Autumn is a dark-chocolate person. In the world of chocolate psychology — and I'm sure there is one — this may indicate that she's hiding her dark side. Autumn nibbles her chocolate — eking out each piece with a thousand tiny tasting bites, which I think makes her feel less guilty about the poor people. She suffers terrible guilt when she feeds her chocolate habit. The rest of us agonize about the number of calories we're consuming and how long they're going to sit on our hips. Autumn agonizes about the starving children who have to survive on a bowl of rice every day and can't have chocolate — not ever. I don't worry about starving children — I try to block them out of my vision completely as, quite frankly, I have more than enough stuff to worry about at home.
"We need hot chocolate to give us a lift," Autumn says as she unwinds her scarf — no doubt hand-knitted by some poor Mexican teenager earning a quid a year in a filth-ridden slum.
"Clive," I shout over at the counter to our friend and supplier. "The others will be here soon. What about getting some hot chocolate on the go for us?"
"Will do," he says, and bustles into action.
Then Nadia arrives. She comes and gives me a hug and looks deeply into my eyes. "He's not good for you."
"I know." We all know. She didn't even need to ask who was the cause of my crisis. It's always Marcus. "I've just ordered hot chocolate."
Nadia Stone was the next person to come along to take our cozy couple to the realms of a gang. She arrived one lunchtime at Chocolate Heaven looking stressed and tearful, before ordering a wide selection of goodies from Clive's business and life partner, Tristan, with more haste than good taste. Both Autumn and I empathized with that as we have been there a million times ourselves. It was only right that we took her under our wing there and then.
Autumn and I had already slipped into the habit of meeting up at least once a week — twice if our stress levels warranted it. Now we all have a sort of rolling arrangement.
Nadia is the only one among us who is a mother. She has a demanding three-year-old — aren't they all? Her son's called Lewis, and night after night without proper sleep was the main reason for her tears, but things are better now. Lewis sleeps through on enough occasions to allow Nadia to function in the real world.
Nadia is not discerning in her choice of chocolate. She says it's her only respite, but she seems to wolf it down without tasting it. A sin in my book. If you have an addiction, you should at least be able to savor it. Nadia eats her chocolate for comfort — along with 99 percent of the female population, I should imagine. Like me, she is on the comely side of size ten. She blames it on never regaining her figure after the birth of Lewis. I'd blame it on the fact that she snaffles all of her son's chocolate before he can get near it. She even admits to licking the chocolate off his digestive biscuits when he's not looking.
"I hate the British weather." The final member of our foursome to arrive is Chantal. Flopping into her seat, she shakes the rain from her glossy hair.
Originally from sunny California, Chantal Hamilton, like Nadia, is also married. She has a fabulously wealthy husband, Ted, who is some kind of financial genius in the City. Chantal is the oldest among us — pushing forty — but is by far the most gorgeous and glamorous. She's tall, slender, always immaculately groomed, ridiculously beautiful and talented. If she were a horse, she'd be a thoroughbred. Her hair is cut into a sleek, dark bob by one of the top stylists in London — one of those who's on the telly all the time. There's never a hair out of place. Chantal is invited into the VIP room and gets complimentary champagne with her hairdo. How the other half live! She wears the kind of shoes that make my feet hurt just looking at them, and frequents the type of designer boutiques where you require appointments and have sales advisors who would terrify punters with bank accounts within the normal range. Yes, Chantal Hamilton has everything in life.
Everything but a husband who wants sex with her.
It's true. In this day and age, when we assume everyone is mad for it, Chantal and Ted make love about once a year. Twice, if she can get him drunk at Christmas on the lethal combination of vodka and something she calls "egg nog." Sounds hideous. Either Valentine's Day or her birthday can be counted on as a cert — but the rest is in the lap of the gods. Chantal wishes it was more to do with Ted's lap.
Despite her good breeding and high-class image, Chantal is also an indiscriminate chocolate eater who refuses to admit that she is an addict. Our American friend simply insists that she has "a sweet tooth." I'd call that deep denial.
"So why are we here?" Chantal wants to know. "You should have seen the butt on the photographer I just had to blow off." Chantal has ways other than chocolate of dealing with her husband's lack of desire to exert his conjugal rights. Not to put too fine a point on it, she prefers to blow her photographers rather than blow them off "It had better be good."
"It's not," I say morosely.
Clive brings over a tray laden down with four glasses of steaming hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and shavings of milk chocolate. He puts it down on the low coffee table in our midst. A curl of steam rises into the air. It looks just the thing to warm our cold toes — and the cockles of my broken heart.
"I've made some feuillantines," he tells us with a dramatic raising of his eyes heavenward, indicating bliss. "Thin slivers of wafer flavored with ginger, clove, nutmeg and cinnamon." We coo our approval. "You have to try them."
Quite frankly, who are we to argue?
"Here we go, ladies." There is a collective sigh of anticipation as I hand out the glasses.
My fellow club members and I snuggle down into the soft, deep sofas. We sip the hot chocolate in unison and there is a second collective sigh — of appreciation.
"Well?" Chantal says.
Autumn already has a ring of chocolate round her mouth and is wide-eyed with expectation.
I look round at the circle of my good friends. "Are you sitting comfortably?" They all nod at me and we simultaneously reach for a thick, chocolaty feuillantine.
"Then let me begin ..."CHAPTER 2
She who eats chocolate must work out — it's one of the first rules of the universe. So, on Tuesday evenings I go to a yoga class. I finish the last bite of my Mars Bar and throw the wrapper in the bin. It's six o'clock and I'm hauling my gym bag from under my desk with the hope of making a prompt escape.
I'm currently working at Targa, a computer company that specializes in data recovery — whatever that might be. All I know is that I work here more frequently than anywhere else in my role as a temporary secretary thoroughly wasting the degree in Media Studies that I struggled so hard to get — despite the fact that everyone views it as a "nonsense" qualification. Targa has endemic levels of stress, sickness and the deployment of duvet days. I think some of my colleagues would benefit more than I do from going to my yoga class. Whenever anyone falls pregnant they seem to find a reason to sack the poor, unfortunate woman — which can take some time and creativity. So, I've done more than my fair share of extended maternity cover over the last few years. Employment legislation means nothing here.
One of the few reasons that I like working at Targa is that it's perilously close to Chocolate Heaven and, if I'm brisk, I can nip there during my lunch hour. My current job is to cater to the wide and varying whims of six assorted salesmen, under the eagle eye of Sales Manager, Mr. Aiden Holby
"Hi there, Gorgeous," Aiden Holby says as he passes my desk. "Off to put your legs behind your neck tonight?"
Targa is a very politically incorrect company too. Sexual harassment and general abuse of the staff is encouraged — mainly because it's the only form of relief from the constant stress. An ability to flirt outrageously and a wide vocabulary of offensive language are both necessary requirements of recruitment.
"Yes. Yoga beckons."
"What I wouldn't give to see you bending over in one of those tight little Lycra leotards."
He holds up his hand. "Don't interrupt me. I'm having a male moment."
"Dream on," I tell him as I head for the door.
"I'm having a drink later with the guys at the Space Bar," he says, turning up his 100-kilowatt smile. "Join us."
"Can't. But thanks."
"I'll buy you some of that chocolate vodka you're so fond of."
It's tempting. There's only one thing that can count as better than chocolate and that's a chocolate-alcohol combo. "I'd better give it a miss," I say, trying to be virtuous.
"I was hoping to get you drunk so that you'd seduce me."
"You couldn't afford that much vodka."
He laughs softly. "Goodnight, Gorgeous. See you tomorrow."
Aiden always addresses me as Gorgeous, but I'm not sure whether it's because he does, in fact, think I'm gorgeous, or because they've had so many temps through the office that one generic name fits us all. Saves all that pesky remembering. I don't, however, call him Gorgeous — even though he is.
Aiden Holby is possessed of a rare charm. All the female members of staff, particularly those of a certain age and of an impressionable disposition, think he's fab. He's tall, dark and ridiculously handsome. The fact that he's got an irrepressibly cheeky smile and naughty twinkling eyes hasn't exactly escaped my attention either. I do occasionally find myself talking in glowing terms about Mr. Aiden Holby at the Chocolate Lovers' Club and the girls have duly nicknamed him Crush. Not that I do have a crush on my boss — not really. Besides, while Mr. Aiden "Crush" Holby is a resolutely single man, I am a woman in a committed, long-term relationship. I'm loyal to Marcus to the nth degree — even though my friends at the Chocolate Lovers' Club quite often point out that my loyalty is entirely misguided.CHAPTER 3
I join the throng heading down into the Tube and scoot along a few stops to my health club where the yoga class is held. This isn't a particularly salubrious club, but it's just about within my meager budget. Actually it's beyond my meager budget, but I'm not about to split hairs. There are no gleaming chrome and frosted-glass surfaces here. Despite the constant smell of cheap disinfectant in the locker rooms, it's not as clean as it might be, and you don't catch me lingering in the showers — and there's a faint odor of stale sweat in the workout studios. The air-conditioning never works properly either and it's been a very warm day — the sort of day when Toffee Crisps go all soft and chewy in your handbag. I know because that's what I'm going to have for dinner on the way. But if I come here to punish my body on a regular basis, then it can just about keep pace with my calorie consumption.
I conduct a continuing battle with myself not to blossom into the more rotund side of chubby. I'm short, a natural blonde and not too much of a heifer considering my addiction — although I probably would be described as "ample" or "curvaceous" should I ever find myself the subject of a tabloid scandal. Luscious Lucy or Juicy Lucy would be my red-top moniker. I'll stop short of Lardy Lucy.
I used to have ambitions, but I'm not sure that I do anymore. I only know that I don't want to spend the rest of my life filing papers and fetching coffee for people who don't even bother to get to know me because I'm not going to be around for long enough. After all these years, I'm still mired in student debt, but one day I'll stop spending all my money on excess calories and start saving up for sensibledom. Even though I'm tipping the scales at the wrong side of thirty, I'm very comfortable with it.
Excerpted from The Chocolate Lovers' Club by Carole Matthews. Copyright © 2007 Carole Matthews. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Meet the Author
Carole Matthews is an international bestselling author of romantic-comedy novels. Her unique sense of humor has won her legions of fans and critical acclaim all over the world, and in the UK, her books are consistent bestsellers. The hilarious For Better, for Worse was selected by "Reading with Ripa" on Live with Regis and Kelly as their book of the month, and consequently, it hit the USA Today and New York Times extended bestseller lists. Carole is currently published in twenty-four countries. She has appeared on television and is a regular radio guest. When she is not busy writing novels or television scripts, she manages to find time to trek in the Himalayas, Rollerblade in Central Park, take tea in China, and snooze in her garden shed in Milton Keynes, England.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
See all customer reviews
Lucy Lombard is addicted to one thing, chocolate. Her craving can come in any shape or form as long as it is chocolate. Headaches vanish with one bite. Problems at work instantly vanish with one bite of gooey chocolate. Heartaches do not exist except if she has no chocolate nearby, but so far that has not happened as she is always prepared.------------- She and three other chocoholic fanatics (Autumn, Nadia and Chantal) formed THE CHOCOLATE LOVERS' CLUB. The quartet meets at Chocolate Heaven to discuss issues that disturb anyone of them where they can toast one another with a bar. It is not the talking and listening that provides this group solace instead it is the chocolate. Cheating boyfriend, womanizing bosses, an addicted gambling spouse and a failed marriage mean nothing once the foursome take their first nip of eternal sweetness.----------------- THE CHOCOLATE LOVERS' CLUB is an amusing chick lit tale starring four females who believe Willy Wonka¿s chocolate factory is sweet heaven as they use chocolate as their panacea for anything negative. Besides needing monthly blood tests for diabetes as the anti Atkins Diet, the story line is a lighthearted look at friendship with chocolate being a shallow link that brings this quartet together. Although the friends seem one dimensional, the audience will enjoy this sweet tale that sees the world through chocolate colored glasses.-------------- Harriet Klausner
One of my favorites. :)
"The Chocolate Lovers Club" is the story of four friends who in times of trouble and woe, meet up to console each other and eat chocolate. It seems their major problems have to do with men (bosses, spouses, lovers). Their stories intertwine, yet it didn't hold my interest; not for them or the delicacies they enjoy eating so much.
This book was a fun read, left me wanting more chocolate and a little more of the characters as I became friends with them through the novel.
I loved this story of friendship and love. Although a great chick lit, it is not your typical storyline. Easy, short chapters making it an easy read. Fantastic work.