2.4 10
by Laura Zigman

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Elise meets Donald on a flight to Washington, D.C., where he teaches and she edits self-help books. He is dreamy: 6’6” with unflinching green eyes and a proclivity for speaking frankly. Incredibly, they fall in love, get engaged, and start discussing wedding invitations.

And then Elise meets her—Adrienne—Donald’s stunning,

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Elise meets Donald on a flight to Washington, D.C., where he teaches and she edits self-help books. He is dreamy: 6’6” with unflinching green eyes and a proclivity for speaking frankly. Incredibly, they fall in love, get engaged, and start discussing wedding invitations.

And then Elise meets her—Adrienne—Donald’s stunning, leggy ex-fiancée. Adrienne is newly single and planning a move to D.C. Cleavage-baring, half-French, and with a degree from Yale, she seduces men with one flick of her hair. Worst of all, she and Donald have remained “good friends” since they broke up. Convinced that Adrienne is out to win Donald back, Elise begins stalking both of them obsessively . . . and starts adding up clues to what looks like a brazen affair.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Delightfully frothy. . . . It’s a fun ride.” —Chicago Tribune

“[Zigman] has produced another book of the moment. . . . A fun read.” —New York Daily News

“This is one rampaging hoot of a book, likely to strike a resounding chord. . . . The fun here is in the details.” —The Seattle Times

Her is as addicting as Zigman’s previous work. . . Sharp, hilarious.” —Bookpage

“A howl. . . . As scary as it is funny.” —USA Today

USA Today
In Zigman's zany romantic comedy Her, "ex" marks the spot . . . Her is as scary as it is funny. . . . A howl.
Lively and funny. . . . Her is as addicting as Zigman's previous work. . . Sharp, hilarious.
The heroine of Zigman's third novel (Dating Big Bird, Animal Husbandry) is thirty-four-year-old Elise. Fleeing New York after quitting her job at an adolescent girls' magazine, Elise lands in Washington, D.C., and she meets and falls in love with Donald. As the couple's April wedding date approaches, so does Adrienne, Donald's ex-fiancée. An Ivy League graduate and incomparable beauty, she insinuates herself back into Donald's life by claiming joint custody of the dog she once shared with Donald. She wins over Elise's quirky, loyal girlfriends. She even arranges for a French designer to make Elise's wedding gown, saving her from looking like "some off-the-rack Vera Wang loser." Tired of these manipulations, Elise begins conducting surveillance on Adrienne, hoping to reclaim her man—and her life. Zigman's latest contribution to the "single girl" genre of fiction is filled with funny repartee among hip characters who know their way around designer clothing shops. Zigman's fans will enjoy this entertaining, fast-paced book.
—Susan Tekulve

Publishers Weekly
Zigman's third novel, a wild tale of a woman's "transformation... from bride-to-be to madwoman" is for anyone who's ever felt prewedding jitters and the pangs of obsessive jealousy. Having left her job at a teen magazine in New York City to pursue a quieter life in Washington, D.C., Zigman's narrator, Elise, meets her perfect guy Donald, a reformed bond trader now teaching English at Sidwell Friends on the Delta shuttle. Or her almost perfect guy. Donald's one fault is that he was engaged to Adrienne, and her name crops up in just about every conversation. Though Donald and Elise swiftly fall in love and begin planning their wedding, Elise cannot help obsessing over the brilliant and "horrifyingly gorgeous" former fianc e. But like the paranoiac who is being followed, Elise may have good reason to be jealous. Only months before the wedding, Adrienne takes a job in Washington, D.C., and reinserts herself into Donald's life, fueling Elise's jealousy as well as a slapstick plot having to do with Donald's dog, Elise's wedding dress and liposuction. Zigman is better at caricature than characterization, and her emphatic, read-aloud style sometimes falls flat on the page. Yet some scenes when Donald meets Elise, for instance are fresh and smart and almost perfect, as are many of her one-liners. (May) Forecast: Zigman's Animal Husbandry was made into the movie Someone Like You (starring Ashley Judd), and Her, which smacks of My Best Friend's Wedding and other zany takes on upcoming nuptials, is begging to be sent to Hollywood, too. Zigman who's as zippy with the one-liners in conversation as she is in writing will plug her book on NPR and Today, and these appearances, plus certain attention in women's magazines, will win her new fans. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
This slim profile-cum-cautionary tale of an obsessed, driven woman brings Fran oise Sagan's Bonjour, Tristesse to mind, though it's less downbeat. Popular author Zigman (e.g., Animal Husbandry) tells the story of Elise, whose relationship with fianc Donald is put to the test when his aggressive, drop-dead-gorgeous ex-fianc e, Adrienne, decides to relocate to Washington, DC, and looks him up. Immature Donald's not much of a prize he's obsessive to the point of absurdity on the subject of his weight and prone to dropping his trousers when upset. The question for readers, then, is whether they want to read a story, however well written, about annoying, even mean-spirited people. Zigman dissects paranoia and single-Jewish-woman angst perfectly and no doubt will connect with a number of readers, but the tale's attempts at humor are forced and the ending contrived. The moral of this story is that smart women are often dim, and perhaps that's just not quite enough. Recommended for public libraries where there's a demand for women's fiction. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 2/15/02.] Jo Manning, Barry Univ., Miami Shores, FL Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A slim, slight, mean-spirited tale of a woman's obsession with her fiance's ex-fiancee, from the author of Dating Big Bird (2000), etc. This might have made an entertaining or even enlightening subplot in a novel with a larger vision, but the limited scope and shallow characterizations will leave readers feeling unsatisfied, and maybe cheated. Elise and Donald, both New York City transplants to Washington, D.C., meet on the shuttle. Donald has left a Wall Street career for a more satisfying life as a teacher; Elise has left a job editing Sassy magazine to become a freelance editor of self-help books while returning to school to become a teacher. A year later, when the two are living together and planning their wedding, Adrienne, Donald's supersophisticated, superhumanly gorgeous ex announces that she's moving to D.C. Elise, who notes that Donald mentioned Adrienne on their first date and has regularly talked about her since, decides that Adrienne wants Donald back. Enlisting her two friends-Fran, the cynical one; and Gayle, the innocent one-in her battle, she proceeds to behave abominably, going through Donald's dresser drawers, listening to his voice mail, stalking Adrienne. Too ugly to be funny, too thick with failed wisecracks to take seriously, the story fails to deliver on any level. The characters are so thinly drawn-Fran is insulting and smokes cigarettes; Gayle likes to eat; and Donald, the object of contention, is little more than there except for his habit of dropping his pants and getting on all fours when happy or angry, behavior that remains unexplained and unexplored. It, like so much else, is so readily sacrificed to yet another cliched laugh-line (New York has better foodthan Washington! Men like large breasts! Jews are pessimistic! Gayle wants to eat again!) that even the mandatory personal-growth denouement (" . . . what happens will happen whether I am watching or not") comes only by means of assertion, not drama. Nothing new, and the recycling is graceless. Book-of-the-Month Club/Quality Paperback Book Club/Literary Guild alternate selection

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Product Details

Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
Edition description:
First Edition
Product dimensions:
5.19(w) x 7.97(h) x 0.59(d)

Read an Excerpt


We were, as it happened, Donald and I, deciding that evening on how we would have our wedding invitations printed—Engraving? Thermography? Lithography?—when Adrienne, Donald's ex-fiancée, called to share her good news: she was leaving New York to accept a job in Washington, where we lived, just after the first of the year.

It was late November.

We were planning an April wedding.

And until that instant when the phone rang and Donald ran to the Caller ID box by the desk and froze, I had been planning–perhaps naively, perhaps idiotically–on taking the high road when it came to Adrienne and her relentless pursuit of friendship with Donald. I had vowed, without any true understanding of just how deep-rooted and, well, virulent, my particular strain of jealousy was, I see now, to put an end to my obsession. My suspicion. My frenzied insecurity. I had vowed, as they say, at long last, to get a grip.

On my demons.

On my nemesis.

On her.

Clearly this was wishful thinking on my part; a momentary lapse of delusional optimism (quite common, I'd read, with most brides-to-be), for nothing of the sort–maturity, acceptance, suffering in silence–was in the cards.

Especially now that she–Adrienne–would be living, as it were, in our backyard.

We had been staring intently at three pieces of Crane's Ecruwhite Kid Finish stationery stock that I'd managed to sneak out of Neiman Marcus's sample book as "souvenirs"–the salesman, stout, balding, moist, had excused himself to take a phone call from an important customer: "And will this be a surprise celebration for the Chief Justice?" (This was, after all, Washington.) The three sample invitations were identical except for the method of printing (which is why I had lifted them: to better understand the hefty price differential) and the surely fictional inviters and betrotheds (Mr. and Mrs. Henry Stewart Evans request the honour of your presence at the marriage of their daughter Katherine Leigh to Mr. Brian Charles Jamison. . . . Mr. and Mrs. Wendell Fields, III, request the honour of your presence at the marriage of their daughter Tiffany Jane to Mr. Phinneas Welch. . . . Our joy will be more complete if you will share in the marriage of our daughter Blah blah blah to Mr. Blah blah blah.). Running our fingers slowly and carefully over the print on each card; holding them up to the light; sniffing them, even (my suggestion), yielded nothing. We were failures in the study and appreciation of fine printing techniques.

"Okay, I give up," Donald said, throwing the invitation he was holding down onto the table and leaning back in his chair until its joints creaked ominously. "Which is which?"

"Beats me." Neiman's had, I explained, not been kind enough to reward my little theft by providing me the answers on the back of each like a set of helpful flash cards.

Donald brought his chair abruptly forward, sat upright, and yawned passionately. He stretched his arms across the table, pushing the sample invitations aside as he did, and reached for my hands.

"Honey?" he said languidly.

"What?" I said flatly.

"May I speak frankly?"

"Must you?"

Had he ever spoken any other way? Couldn't we, just once, I wondered, get through some task (eating dinner, washing dishes, having sex) without his need to speak frankly?

"Fine. Speak," I said, waving my hand, giving up. Relieved now to have license to speak his mind (a technicality: he spoke his mind quite freely without my permission, as you'll see), he smiled broadly, then brought his shoulders up in a fake cringe, as if to indicate that he felt just terrible about what he was going to say–even though, I knew, he didn't.

"I'm bored," he said, finally, his confession a guilty pleasure (he was a true Catholic, through and through). "I have to be honest, I'm having a hard time caring"–broad smile, shoulders up, fake cringe–"about how the invitations get printed. I mean, why are we doing this?"

I couldn't have been more bored myself, but I wouldn't have admitted it for the world. Instead, I let my mouth sag slightly into a sad pout.

"Doing what?" I asked. "Getting married or discussing the invitations?"

The phone rang.

"Discussing the invitations, of course," he said. He reached to give my hands a reassuring little squeeze but I withheld them for effect. "I want to get married."

The phone rang again.

"Because." I was about to explain how costly engraving was compared to the other options and how since we couldn't tell the difference anyway, we could, with a completely clear conscience, opt for the cheapest method of the three–lithography–but I was too distracted by the third ring of the telephone. On the beginning of the fourth ring he rose from the dining room table where we'd been sitting, took three steps over to the desk, leaned across it, turned back to look at me, and cringed–this time for real.

"It's Adrienne."

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