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Getting Over It
     

Getting Over It

4.7 50
by Anna Maxted
 

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"Maybe it will be good for you to be on your own for a bit."

"Why?" I say in a bored tone.

Lizzy dabs her mouth with her napkin (her perfect lipstick remains perfect) and declares, "You've got to be happy alone before you can be happy with someone."

"Liz," I say, "did you read that in GirlTime?"

"I might have," says Lizzy airily. "So?"

"I wrote it

Overview

"Maybe it will be good for you to be on your own for a bit."

"Why?" I say in a bored tone.

Lizzy dabs her mouth with her napkin (her perfect lipstick remains perfect) and declares, "You've got to be happy alone before you can be happy with someone."

"Liz," I say, "did you read that in GirlTime?"

"I might have," says Lizzy airily. "So?"

"I wrote it."

Wickedly funny and unfailingly honest, Getting over It charts the misadventures of Helen Bradshaw, a caustically charming twenty-something who isn't exactly living out her dreams. She's a lowly assistant editor at GirlTime magazine, drives an ancient Toyota, and has a history of choosing men who fall several thousand feet below acceptable boyfriend standard. Not to mention that she shares an apartment with a scruffy, tactless roommate, her best girlfriends are a little too perfect, and the most affectionate male in her life--her cat, Fatboy--occasionally pees in her underwear drawer.

Then Helen gets the telephone call she least expects: Her father has had a massive heart attack. Initially brushing off his death as merely an interruption in her already chaotic life (they were never very close, after all), Helen is surprised to find everything else starting to crumble around her. Her pushy mother is coming apart at the seams, a close friend might be heading toward tragedy, and, after the tequila incident, it looks as though Tom the vet will be sticking with Dalmatians. Turns out getting over it isn't going to be quite as easy as she thought.

Hilarious, wise, and compulsively readable, Getting over It marks the debut of one of the freshest, boldest new voices in women's fiction.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
'Maxted writes beautifully' — The Express

'Warm, poignant and very funny' — Marian Keyes

'A brilliant debut' — Cosmopolitan

'Maxted is a gifted comic writer' — The Times

Marian Keyes
I loved Getting Over It! Its tone is so breezy and subversive, but with a heart of vulnerability. Helen is a fabulous character, and Maxted's handling of the emotional fallout of death is spot-on. Most important, Getting Over It never loses its humor or its warmth — a great achievement.
Suzanne Finnamore
Getting Over It is a charming and compelling debut.
Evening Standard
There is nothing cocklewarming, or tearjerking, about Getting Over It. It is far too witty, and clever, for that. Its protagonist's bad habits, moral weaknesses and drunked lapses are its greatest asset. Like Bridget Jones, it refuses to gloss over life's ordinary squalor; unlike Bridget, however, its heroine's traumas are serious, giving it an edge which makes her predecessor's worries seem laughably small. It's compelling, humane, and worryingly funny, and better written than many more 'literary' novels. The difference between Maxted's novel and her would-be peers is honesty.
Barnes & Noble Guide to New Fiction
In this "very funny," "hip" fiction debut, Helen Bradshaw - a young woman with a past she needs to get over (including hopeless boyfriends, a dreary job with an irritating boss, annoying roommates, and a self-obsessed mother) -- gets a telephone call that changes her life. Though most of our readers liked it, others wrote, "too frantic for me. Will appeal to twenty-somethings, but will wear older readers out." "What does 'scuppering' mean anyway?"
Library Journal
Maxted, contributing editor to Cosmopolitan UK, has a quick wit and creates amusing characters in her first novel. Helen, the thirtyish heroine, is a features writer for a trendy women's magazine. She's reeling with grief at the sudden death of her father, and her stress is compounded by the neediness of her mother and grandmother. Helen has plenty more on her plate--she is being evicted from her apartment, she is trying to save a friend who is being abused by her fianc , and her neurotic cat suffers a series of psychosomatic ailments. Behind the hilarious one-liners, there's a serious theme: it's tough for a young person to "be in charge" when a parent dies. Unfortunately, the appeal of this likable, if nonessential, novel will be limited in the United States by its many British colloquialisms. In addition, the book is far too long and loaded with slapstick scenes; its episodic content would have worked better as linked short stories. For larger collections.--Joyce W. Smothers, Monmouth Cty. Lib., Manalapan, NJ Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\
Jane
If you liked A Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing...
Wulff
[An] affecting tale of tragic loss, told with wit and gumption.
People
Kirkus Reviews
Yet another London career girl looks for fulfillment, though newcomer Maxted's narrator has enough endearing charm to make her stand out from the rest of the Bridget Jones clones. When she begins her story, 26-year-old Helen Bradshaw is relatively happy as an assistant at a woman's magazine, flatmate to sweet Luke and sexy Marcus, and center of a close-knit circle of girlfriends. But when her father suddenly dies of a heart attack, Helen spends the rest of the year (and the novel) "getting over it"—a flippant suggestion offered far more easily than achieved. At first Helen seems a pillar of strength, comforting her increasingly withdrawn and suicidal mother and moving on with her own life in quick time. The personal blunders Helen continually makes, however, suggest unresolved grief and conflicted feelings about a father who was distant in the best of times. It's a lot to handle, especially for a girl who's engaged in a colossal fight with Marcus (with whom she regrettably slept in a moment of weakness), the romantic pursuit of Tom (who always catches Helen at her very worst moments), and a struggle over what to do about her friend Tina, whose perfect boyfriend is beating up on her. It's a wonder Helen makes it to work in the morning—though once there she assiduously avoids working. All this drama is conveyed in the lightest manner, with an overload of hip references (Fox Mulder and Quentin Tarantino turn up on the same page), and seesaws between annoying and entertaining. Finally, though, Helen's plight succeeds in winning the reader's sympathy, the slight and the heartfelt strike a companionable balance, and by the end all hopes areforour heroine's happiness. A friendly summer read that manages to rise above the lighter-than-air comic fluff that terminally inflates many another Bridget Jones wannabe—by now a genre all its own.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780099410188
Publisher:
Random House of Canada, Limited
Publication date:
07/25/2000
Pages:
416
Product dimensions:
5.12(w) x 7.87(h) x 1.02(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

When it happened, I wasn't ready for it. I expected it about as much as I expect to win Miss World and be flown around the planet and forced to work with screaming children. Which is to say, it was a preposterous notion and I never even considered it. And, being so awesomely unprepared I reacted like Scooby Doo chancing upon a ghost. I followed my instinct, which turned out to be hopelessly lost and rubbish at map-reading.

Maybe I was too confused to do the right thing. After all, the right thing rarely involves fun and mostly means making the least exciting choice, like waiting for the ready-cook pizza you've torn from the oven to cool to under 200 degrees before biting into it. Or deciding not to buy those sexy tower-heeled boots because they'll savage your shins, squeeze your toes white, lend you the posture of Early Man, and a vast chunk of your salary will moulder away at the back of your wardrobe. If we always made the smartest choice we'd never get laid.

That said, the day it all began, I came close to making a very smart choice. Here it is, bravely scrawled in black ink, in my blue Letts diary:

I am dumping Jasper, tomorrow.

Words that whisk me back to another time. Barely one year ago but it seems like an age. Yet July 16th remains as sharp in my mind as if it was today. Maybe it is today. And this is how today begins:

I am dumping Jasper, tomorrow.

He deserves it for being called Jasper, for a start. And for a finish, he falls several thousand feet below acceptable boyfriend standard.

Funny thing is, at the age of five I knew what that was. I was dating the boy across the road and I routinely ate his tea before embarking on mine. I also tantrumed until he surrendered his Fisher Price wheely dog. And I refused to play in his bedroom because it smelt of wee. Then I grow up and start taking crap.

Unfortunately, Jasper is beautiful. Tall, which I like. The only time I've had dealings with a short man is when my overbearing friend Michelle set me up on a blind date. He rang the bell, I wrenched open the door, and looked down. And I'm five foot one. Two Weebles wibble wobbling their way down the road. Michelle's excuse was that when she met him he was sitting down. So Jasper, at six foot, is a delight. I wear five-inch heels so he doesn't notice the discrepancy. He has floppy brown hair, eyes so paradise blue it's incredible he actually uses them to see and, my favourite, good bone structure. And despite being the most selfish man I've ever met - quite a feat - he's a tiger in the sack.

I'm on my way there now. Sackbound. For one last bout. Except I'm stuck in traffic on Park Road. There appear to be roadworks with no one doing any work. I'm trapped in my elderly grey Toyota Corolla (a cast-off from my mother who was thrilled to be rid of it, please don't think I'd go out and buy one even if I had the money) and trying to stay calm. In the last twenty minutes I've rolled forward a total of five inches. I might ring Jasper to say I'll be late. The road converges on approximately fifty sets of lights and everyone is barging — as much as you can barge when you're stationary. It's 2.54. I'm due at Jasper's at 3.30. Great. My mobile is out of batteries. I pick the skin on my lip. Right. I'm phoning him.

I assess the gridlock - yes, it's gridlocked — leap out of the car, dash across the road to the phonebox, and dial Jasper's number. Brrrt brrt. Brrrt brrt. Where is he? He can't have forgotten. Shit, the traffic's moving. I ring his mobile — joy! he answers. 'Jasper Sanderson.' Never says hello like a normal person. He's so executive. I hate it but I love it. He sounds suspiciously out of breath.

'Why are you out of breath?' I say sharply.

'Who's this?' he says. Jesus!

'Your girlfriend. Helen, remember?' I say. 'Listen, I'm going to be late, I'm stuck in traffic. Why are you out of breath?'

'I'm playing tennis. Bugger, I forgot you were coming over. It'll take me a while to get home. Spare key's under the mat.'

He beeps off. 'You're such an original,' I say sourly, and look up to see the gridlock has cleared and swarms of furious drivers are hooting venomously at the Toyota as they swerve around it.

Forty minutes later I arrive at Jasper's Fulham flat. I ring the bell, in case he's already home, but silence. I kick the mat to scare off spiders, gingerly lift a corner with two fingers, and retrieve the key. Ingenious, Jasper! The place is a replica of his parents' house. There's even a silver framed picture of his mother as a young girl on the hall table — and a right prissy miss she looks too. Happily, he's never introduced me. His most heinous interior crime, however, is a set of ugly nautical paintings that dominate the pale walls. Thing is with Jasper, just when I think I can't take any more he does something irresistible, such as iron the collar and cuffs of his shirt and go to work hiding the crumpled rest of it under his jacket. I poke the scatter of post to check for correspondence from other women and see the green light of his answer machine flashing for attention. Jasper calling to announce a further delay. I press play.

As the machine whirrs, the key turns in the lock. Jasper flings open the door and I turn, smiling, to face him. Oof he's gorgeous. I'll dump him next week. This week, he's mine to have and to hold and to feel and to feel bad about. He's like eating chocolate for breakfast — makes you feel sluttish, you know you shouldn't, you ought to stick to what's wholesome but Weetabix is depressing even with raisins in it. Jasper is un-nutritious and delicious. He opens his eminently kissable mouth to say 'Hiya babe!' but is beaten to it by a high silvery voice that echoes chirpily over the tiled floor and bounces gaily from one eggshell wall to the other.

'Hiya Babe!' trills the voice. 'It's me! Call me! Kiss! kiss!'

The smile freezes on my face. Jasper and I both stare at the answer machine which, having imparted its treachery, is now primly silent. Knowing the answer, I croak, ˆ la Quentin Tarantino, 'Who the fucking fuck was that?'

Jasper is not amused. If this were Hollywood there would be a muscle twitching in his jaw and his chiselled face would turn pale under its caramel tan. As it is, he carefully places his sportsbag on the floor, and rests his tennis racquet neatly on top of it. I feel a rip of fury tear through my chest and I want to snatch up the Prince and wallop him. At least he was playing tennis, although he's so damn sneaky I wouldn't be surprised if it was an elaborate cover. He gazes at my red fear-ruffled face and says smoothly, 'My ex. She likes to keep in touch.'

I'll bet she does.

'When did you last see her?' I snarl.

'A week ago,' he replies. 'We just talked.' Ho really.

I'm like Fox Mulder. I want to believe. And Jasper wants me to believe too. He's tilted his face to a penitent angle. Cute, but from what I know of Jasper, plus the gut-crunching phrase 'it's me' induces scepticism. 'It's me' is as proprietorial as a Doberman guarding a chocolate biscuit. A woman does not ring an ex-boyfriend and say 'It's me' because for all she knows — and she obviously doesn't — there is now another me. Me.

'Did you have sex with her?' I roar.

Jasper looks hurt. 'Of course I didn't, Helen,' he purrs. 'Louisa calls everyone Babe.'

Names ending in ah. Argh! I narrow my eyes and give him my best shot at a cold stare. The big brave words 'You're sacked' are warm, ready to roll, but they stick, feeble and reluctant, in my throat. Now, I tell myself, is not the moment. Why, he'll think I'm in love with him! The only decent thing to do is to walk. 'I'm going home,' I say huffily. The rat steps gratefully aside. I intend to sweep out in a Gone With The Wind flourish and it's going to plan until I reach the doorstep and trip. I stumble, and I'm unsure if the snorty-gasp I hear is Jasper not quite trying to suppress mirth but I don't look back to find out. Face clenched, I stomp down his concrete garden path, plonk into the Toyota, lurch hurtle a three-point turn during which I dent the door of a parked MG, and rattle off into the fading afternoon.

You wanker. You wanker. I wrestle my mobile out of my bag in case he calls grovelling then remember it's dead. Piece of crap. I am driving as the crow flies. You wanker. I have no intention of gracefully erasing myself from the picture so Louis-ah can steal the scene. I can't decide if he rutted or refused her. Jasper likes to be in demand. But then he likes to lead a streamlined existence. When he first saw my bedroom he murmured, 'I think you've been burgled.' He also tells me with pride about the morning he sat next to a bearded guy on the tube and tried to read the Telegraph over his shoulder. The man rustled his property in pique and snapped, 'Papers! Forty-five pence from the newsagent!' Jasper replied narkily, 'Razors! Forty-five pence from the chemist!' Jasper — unironed shirts aside — likes his life and all that surrounds it to be just so. Shagging his moony old ex would be too messy, it would disrupt his timetable. Then again. You wanker.

She's reared her smugly head before. A month into our relationship, as I like to call it. Jasper called to say he couldn't meet as he was staying with his friend Daniel in Notting Hill. Beyond my surprise that Jasper had a friend in Notting Hill, I didn't question it. We were at that googly-eyed stage where you kiss in public and annoy everyone who is less in lust than you so I trusted him. The next afternoon, he suddenly said, 'I told you a pack of lies last night.' What. 'I . . . I stayed with my ex.' Turned out he'd missed the last tube home (he doesn't drive, his most unfanciable trait) and so he'd walked to Kensington and rung on the ex's doorbell. 'She was really good about it.' Good about it! I'm sure she was great about it! Further interrogation revealed that she'd fed him Cornflakes with brown sugar for breakfast. The sly witch — she was trying to nurture him! Happily, she was too needy to appeal and so a large bowl of cereal was wasted. But maybe she's sharpened up. And maybe my appeal is blunted. Oops, my personality is showing.

The first weeks were glossy enough. I met Jasper at a book launch - for a paperback sex manual. I'd gone from work with Lizzy and Tina. Partly because Laetitia our misnomered features editor didn't want to go and it is my job as features skivvy on Girltime magazine to pick up her slack. And also because Tina, the fashion assistant, and I are hardcore champagne tarts - anything for a free chug of Krug (or Asti, let's face it). And although Lizzy is health & beauty assistant in professional and personal life and her drink of choice is soya milk — she's so sweet, really walks the talk — she can be persuaded. We twisted her well-toned arm.

The launch was in a smelly Soho backstreet. I'd glammed up for the occasion - black trousers, black boots (five inches - that's the lowest I stoop and not just in the shoe department), black top. The celebrity funeral look. I'd also smeared a blop of metallic silver glitter on my cheekbones. It looked scarily Abba-ish but that evening I felt quite strongly I could not attend the launch without it. I'd have felt awkward and incomplete. The older I get and the more tediously responsible I'm forced to be the more I hanker for tokens of childhood. I now own: a tiny pink zippy purse with coloured beads that you itch to pick off. A plastic helicopter that you attach to the ceiling on a string, that whizzes round with flashing red lights. A kaleidoscope. A copy of Elmer by David McKee. A dartboard (well, it's not a sophisticated pursuit, is it?) And a spoilt kitten named Fatboy.

Usually I don't talk to people at parties. I survey the hordes of glamorous best friends all gabbling, laughing, bonding in inpenetrable cliques and I want to run away home. I feel my make-up turning shiny, my face creaks from one unsettled expression to another, and I'm the podgy teenager of twelve years ago, complete with dorky specs, a brown satchel and a blue scratchy duffel coat with shark tooth buttons and a huge hood. Now, of course, I'd be a fashion victim. But the Jasper party was different. I was one of a sparkly three-girl group, I glugged two glasses of sparkly wine in the first twenty minutes, and I was smeared in more sparkly glitter than a Christmas fairy. I sparkled! So it was only natural that Jasper appeared before me and offered me a fag.

'I don't smoke,' I said primly. In a flash of brilliance I added coyly, 'I'm a good girl.'

He didn't miss a beat. He replied, 'Well, you look filthy.'

It was the best compliment I've ever had. What could I do but shag him out of gratitude?

Jasper was 'in publishing' which turned out to mean he wrote press releases for a pipsqueak company based in Hounslow. I, therefore, terrier-torso assistant on Girltime magazine based in Covent Garden, was a great contact. Not that we review many books on Elizabethan sanitation or the indigenous insects of Guatemala but, roughly at the point I looked on his ravishing face and he gazed at my sparkly one, we decided to do business together. For a few weeks I upheld my airbrushed image. I exaggerated the importance of my job. Tina advised me on what to wear, i.e. grey, occasionally. I avoided taking him to the flat. And I edited all trace of squareness from my conversation and pumped up the wacky free-spirit factor. Like Bjork but better dressed. Shameful but it works. Of course, I realised after three days that we had bugger all in common - he called orange juice 'OJ' and was stockpiling to put his son through Eton (a tad premature as he didn't yet have one) — but I don't like sameyness so it was fine by me.

He likes to be amused so it was fine by him. But sometimes, more recently, I've been sure the bubble is at bursting point. We spent an afternoon in the park last Saturday and I swear we had nothing to say to each other. He walked me to my car, and I was certain he was going to end it. Sure he was going to sock it to me sledgehammer straight in that efficient, emotionless, poshboy way — 'Helen, it's not working out.' But he didn't. He kissed me a breezy goodbye as if nothing was amiss.

I brooded all the way home. I dislike silence. I fear its potentiality. I prefer to fill it with my own voice which inevitably gabbers out something goonish. Last week, I blurted, to a shop assistant offering help: 'No thanks, I'm just mooching.' To the receptionist at Lizzy's health club who enquired how I was: 'Ready for a bout of exercise.' To Jasper, horny an hour after lunch at Pizza Express: 'I think I'm still digesting.' Sexy lady!

So, as the silences grow, I slowly blow my sassy cover. He doesn't seem to have twigged, but I feel increasingly uncomfortable. He doesn't get my jokes and I feel wrong and not right. I am so not right for Jasper and he is so not right for me but he still seems amused by me and he has a decent-sized penis. Breaking up is hard to do. Louisah does not make it easiah.

I swing into Swiss Cottage and begin the three-hour search for a parking space. You'd think no one ever went out around here. Sometime the next day I manage to squeeze the Toyota between a Saab and a Mini an hour's walk from the flat and start plodding down the road. I'm scrabbling for my keys when the door is wrenched open. My flatmate Luke looks, if possible, even scruffier and wild-eyed than normal.

'What!' I sing, to his loud silence. He is regarding me oddly. 'Jasper's rung!' I suggest. 'I've won the lottery! Not a pissy three hundred grand — an eight million rollover! You want a bike and a house! And a trip to Bali — we'll fly Concorde!'

God knows why Bali, I don't even like hot countries — I get heat rash if I stand too near the toaster — but Luke's expression makes me want to keep talking.

He shakes his head. Then he reaches and grasps my upper arm.

'No, Helen,' he says. 'Your mum rang. Your dad. Your dad's dead.'

What People are Saying About This

Suzanne Finnamore
Getting Over It is a charming and compelling debut.
— (Suzanne Finnamore, author of Otherwise Engaged)
Gregory Maguire
Lost love can be gotten over, and grief survived, but the infectious snarky voice—overs of Anna Maxted's endearing heroine may well prove habit—forming. Get Getting Over It, and then see if you can.
—(Gregory Maguire, author of Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister and Wicked)
Marian Keyes
I loved Getting Over It! Its tone is so breezy and subversive, but with a heart of vulnerability. Helen is a fabulous character, and Maxted's handling of the emotional fallout of death is spot-on. Most important, Getting Over It never loses its humor or its warmth -- a great achievement.

Meet the Author

Anna Maxted is a freelance writer and the author of the smash international bestsellers Getting Over It, Running in Heels, and Behaving Like Adults. She lives in London with her husband, author Phil Robinson, and their son.

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Getting Over It 4.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 50 reviews.
Amber Georgieff More than 1 year ago
Having recently lost my own father from a heart attack, I was searching for a book I could relate to without being bogged down by preachy, wishy washy prose. This book was it. Throughout the entire book I chuckled and cried and re-read. Very enjoyable and heart wrenching; I would highly recommend as a satisfying read! Thank you, Ms. Maxted, for hitting the nail squarely on the head!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Funniest book EVER!!! I laughed so hard that I was wiping tears out of my eyes just to keep reading. Excellent read!
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Leslie Cuel More than 1 year ago
On the same lines as Bridget Jones' Diary but not quite as good. An ok read. Laughed out loud a couple of times.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I admit to being an avid reader, but once the book began, I could not put it down! The characters were each vivid, and inwardly have same emotions much of us share--yet dare not speak. Hilarious and gloomy plots, yet they thicken with personality! Definitely reccommend! Will read again!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
The issues covered are touching and thought provoking. Maxted's work is so vivid that I felt I was right there with the character, feeling what she felt. Needless to say I shed a few tears. Yet the witty analogies used never ceased to make me laugh. They were all good for grins and laughs.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I read alot of books so I should know a good book when I read one. And I do. This is one of them. I've read it twice in the past 3 months and having just finished it a second time, I am amazed that I am left with an even greater impression. I even went so far as to put down the book and call my dad.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The book had a lot of misfortunate occurances that were hard on the character. overall, it was a pleasant read but boring at times, I just wanted to see what would happen to the character.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Such a great book. Anna Maxted has the ability to create quirky characters that keep you laughing, while she gives them real, serious problems to confront. I had to have a copy of this book because it's one that I will read over and over again. This sounds cheesy, but it really had me laughing out loud one minute, and choked up the next. I like this one better than Running in Heels, but I did enjoy that one too.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book made me laugh out loud. It has the element that most books are searhing for...humor. I love this book and I HIGHLY recommend this book. It is a literary masterpeice.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book covered some serious topics but always remained humorus. Maxted makes the characters come alive. I laughed so hard in parts that I had to stop reading. (very hard to do i might add because I rarely even put this book down it was so addicting) I can't wait for the next one Anna!
Guest More than 1 year ago
I found this book to be extremely good, however not as good as Running In Heels. Between Tom, Her Mother, and her boss i couldn't help but sympathise wtih Helen. I thought that the characters and dialogue were well written. I love Anna Maxted, her characters always have a dark side, but you just know that everything will turn out ok for them. Getting Over It is a great read and it will keep you hooked and rooting for Helen from beining to end (although you may feel like pulling you hair out with frustration at times).
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was so heartwarming and funny and quirky and I could not put it down!! Anna Maxted did a really awesome job of creating her own little world (revolving around Helen) that made me sad to leave it when the book ended. I don't usually go for these types of books, but this one really compelled me. Read it!! You won't regret it.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I was impressed by this book. As someone before me warned, it's not full of concepts you can sit around & ponder (for very long). It's not a "literature story". But it is a good book. Fun, quick read. It's funny, sad, happy. It's just kinda cool, you're kind of peeking in on this 20-something woman and watching her life, her mistakes, her triumphs. I don't read much modern romance & no (gasp) I haven't read Bridget Jones, but maybe I will now.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The author, Anna Maxted, provided the reader with a multi-dimensional character who exhibited realistic emotions. Personally speaking, it was refreshing to read a story about a character in which the 20 somethings of 2002 can identify.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I think the main character may have been a little monotonous, but she was still fun to read. At times I felt the story lagged a bit but overall I was glad I read the book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was so great! I think Anna Maxted covered the spectrum of emotions in this book. You'll laugh with Helen, cry with Helen and want to kick her for being ignorant and clueless...Anna Maxted has a new fan!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is excellent! I purchased the 403 page book on a Monday and finished it by that Saturday. It was so good that I didn't want to put it down! Any woman can relate to the ups and downs in Helen's life. It's truly worth reading!