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I Think I Love You

I Think I Love You

3.0 100
by Allison Pearson

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Petra and Sharon, two thirteen-year-old girls, are both desperately in love with a world-famous pop star. Together they pore over his photos, read his fan club letters, and even enter a contest whose winners will meet him in person.
Twenty years later, Petra is pushing forty, on the brink of divorce, and fighting with her own thirteen-year-old


Petra and Sharon, two thirteen-year-old girls, are both desperately in love with a world-famous pop star. Together they pore over his photos, read his fan club letters, and even enter a contest whose winners will meet him in person.
Twenty years later, Petra is pushing forty, on the brink of divorce, and fighting with her own thirteen-year-old daughter when she is given the opportunity of a lifetime: the chance to meet the teen idol she loved so long ago. A moving tale of friendship and celebrity, I Think I Love You perfectly captures the intensity of first love—a love that never entirely goes away.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Pearson (I Don't Know How She Does It) dips into Nick Hornby country in her slick latest. In 1974 Wales, 13-year-old Petra is in love with David Cassidy, an obsession she shares with her best friend, Sharon. When they hear that Cassidy is playing a concert in London, the girls sneak away to see him, bringing Petra into brief contact with Bill, who writes for The Essential David Cassidy Magazine. Nearly 25 years later, Petra is separated and seeing how she had sacrificed her ambitions for her husband's when, after her mother's funeral, she discovers a letter her mother had intercepted years before. The letter was informing Petra she had won the Ultimate David Cassidy Quiz, and her prize was a trip to meet the star in California. A magazine picks up the story of Petra's missed opportunity, and suddenly Petra and Sharon, along with Bill, who now works for this magazine, are headed to Las Vegas for a belated meeting. Petra has a piercing wit and a boundless charm, but it's Pearson's insights into friendship, celebrity worship from the inside out, and the knocks you take in life that create a winning novel of hope, lost and found. (Feb.)
Library Journal
Arriving nine years after Pearson's best-selling debut, I Don't Know How She Does It, her second novel is a very different book. It begins in 1974 with Petra, a teenager in south Wales, who is pop star David Cassidy's biggest fan. As Petra and her best friend, Sharon, read The Essential David Cassidy Magazine, they moon over every song and outfit. Alternating chapters focus on Bill, a young journalist who pretends to be Cassidy as he writes the magazine. Petra and Sharon spend hours answering questions about their idol for a contest that could win them a chance to meet Cassidy. The novel's second half takes place in 1998; Petra is an adult with her own teenage daughter and a troubled marriage. After her mother dies, Petra discovers that her mother never told her she won the contest. She contacts the magazine publisher (now Bill, of course) and finds herself on the way to meet Cassidy. VERDICT The Briticisms and cultural references can be hard for an American reader to understand at times. And while the second half is well paced, the first half drags a bit. If David Cassidy was your man back in the day, this is the book for you. [200,000-copy first printing; four-city tour.]—Beth Gibbs, Davidson, NC
Kirkus Reviews

Welsh teenager obsessed with pop star David Cassidy finally gets an opportunity to meet her idol, 24 years later than expected.

In 1974, with his bell-bottom catsuits, shaggy hair and come-hither green eyes, Partridge Family star David Cassidy is everything to awkward 13-year-old Petra Williams. She loves him with the near-hysterical devotion shared by many of her contemporaries. A smart girl, Petra gets little emotional support from her strict, German-born mother Greta. She prefers the house of her best friend Sharon, a boisterous, sweet-natured classmate who is almost as besotted with David as she is. Their world, with its emotional highs and lows, is little understood by adults, with one exception. Bill Finn is a young editor at The Essential David Cassidy Magazine. Not only does his work make him privy to the secret world of teenage girls, he actually is David, at least in print. His ghostwritten monthly "letters" from the star stir the fans, while embarrassing the author, who does not have the heart to even tell his girlfriend what he does. Like Petra, he is present at the singer's notoriously crowded London "farewell" concert, during which 750 girls ended up needing medical treatment. After that, Petra starts to grow out of her infatuation, becoming an accomplished music therapist with a teenaged daughter of her own. But after separating from her husband, she goes through her late mother's things and discovers something Greta had long kept from her. Back in the '70s, Petra had won a contest giving her the chance to meet David. Overcome with conflicting emotions, she tries to claim her prize, and lucks out when Bill Finn gets wind of her story. Now the successful (and single) head of a magazine group, he arranges a dream trip to Las Vegas for Petra and Sharon to finally meet the singer. He tags along, nursing a crush of his own. Witty and engaging, Pearson's follow-up to the bestselling I Don't Know How She Does It (2002) skillfully captures the overwrought emotions of youth, as well as their more subtle but no less ardent adult counterparts.

Big-hearted exploration of the bittersweet pleasures of unrequited love.

Michiko Kakutani
…Ms. Pearson does a winning job of making Petra and Bill, and Petra's best friend and fellow David worshipper—the sunny, good-hearted and slightly ditsy Sharon—as funny and incisive as characters created by, say, Nick Hornby or Stephen Fry, though with considerably more tenderness and felt emotion. Her portraits somehow manage to combine effervescence with earnestness, a finely tuned sense of absurdity with nostalgia, satiric wit with genuine warmth…a groovy little novel…
—The New York Times
From the Publisher
“A delightful, giddy novel. . . . [Pearson] finds those universal chords, the stuff of great novels.” —Los Angeles Times 
“What I Don't Know How She Does It did for working mothers, I Think I Love You does for every woman who’s gone through life with an idealized notion of love. . . . An entertaining, thoughtful story that women of any age can relate to.” —The Oregonian 
“It was impossible not to be captivated by this romantic comedy.” —Chicago Tribune
“Pearson writes with such humor and affection for her characters. . . . Combines effervescence with earnestness, a finely tuned sense of absurdity with nostalgia, satiric wit with genuine warmth.” —The New York Times 
“Anyone who ever swooned over the pages of Teen Beat will delight in the premise of I Think I Love You. . . . Offers comedic relief of the highest order.” —The Minneapolis Star-Tribune
“[A] funny, tender novel about first love—and whether we ever really grow out of it.” —O, The Oprah Magazine
“Pearson renders teenagedom with authenticity and poignancy. . . . Lovely.”—The Washington Post
“An absolute hoot. . . . Another gem.” —Newsweek
I Think I Love You will have special resonance for baby boomers who experienced the early 1970s as young teens. . . . But Pearson’s empathetic portrait of Petra transcends the era, as does Petra’s tender recollection of her first, unobtainable love.” —The Wall Street Journal
“Pearson grabs 1970s nostalgia by its weepy, pop-culture heartstrings in I Think I Love You, an homage to teen crushes. . . . Sweetly told.” —USA Today
“[Petra] is the beating heart of the story, quick with nostalgic references and the bewitching, heartbroken thrills that come close to the urgency of first love.” —The Daily Beast
“Capture[s] the heady intensity of a teenage crush. . . . If you were a David Cassidy fan yourself, you may find that the book is enough to fuel a trip down memory lane.” —The Boston Globe
“Pitch-perfect. . . . Insightful, funny. . . . A tasty and surprising stew. . . . Hits the right notes.” —The Plain Dealer
If you’ve ever been a teenage girl, you know exactly how the desperation feels and maybe understand why it was so hard for me at the age of 48 to restrain myself when Cassidy walked by. If you don’t understand the phenomenon, read Pearson’s book for some entertaining insight.” —Catherine Mallette, The Dallas Fort Worth Star-Telegram 
“Petra has a piercing wit and a boundless charm, but it’s Pearson’s insights into friendship, celebrity worship from the inside out, and the knocks you take in life that create a winning novel of hope, lost and found.” —Publisher’s Weekly
“Read this if you remember plastering your walls with your idol’s posters, singing along with the radio or screaming at a concert. . . . Whimsically sweet.” —Newark Star-Ledger
“Flawless and funny. . . . Manages to inhabit the tricky territory of the adolescent mind so convincingly that you can almost hear your own teenage self speaking.” —The Daily Telegraph (London)
“Too young to have saved your Friday nights for The Partridge Family? You’ll still enjoy this insightful story about how our youthful passions shape who we become.” —People
“[A] deceptively sparkly book. . . . Does for the pop crush what Nick Hornby has done for football and vinyl, but Pearson, the voice of a generation of frazzled women who think perfection is within their grasp, has added something extra to the mix.” —The Sunday Times (London)
“Charming.” —The New York Post
“Reading this book made me remember what it was like to be in love. . . . This book is about big things—friendship, motherhood, love, loss—seen through the prism of smoke from a joss stick, set to jingly jangly music that still makes the hair on the back of the neck stand up.” —Liz Jones, Evening Standard (London)
“Pearson knows how to capture emotion, from adolescent infatuation to grownup devastation.” —The Miami Herald
I Think I Love You . . . delves deeply into celebrity obsession, adolescence and motherhood. . . . Anyone who has ever loved a celebrity they’ve never met will appreciate this book.” —Bookreporter.com

Product Details

Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
6.60(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.40(d)

Read an Excerpt




His favorite color was brown. Brown was such a sophisticated color, a quiet and modest sort of color. Not like purple, which was Donny’s favorite. I wouldn’t be seen dead in purple. Or in a Donny cap. How much would you have to like a boy before you went out wearing a stupid purple peaked cap?

Honest, it’s amazing the things you can know about someone you don’t know. I knew the date of his birth—April 12, 1950. He was a typical Aries, but without the Arian’s stubbornness. I knew his height and his weight and his favorite drink, 7Up. I knew the names of his parents and his stepmother, the Broadway musical star. I knew all about his love of horses, which made perfect sense to me because when you’re that famous it must be comforting to be around someone who doesn’t know or care what famous is. I knew the instrument he learned to play when he was lonely. Drums. I knew the name of the dog he left behind when he had to move away from New Jersey. I knew that when he was a boy he was small for his age and he had a squint and had to wear an eye patch and corrective glasses, which must have been hard. Harder than for a girl even. I didn’t wear my glasses if I could help it. Only in class for the blackboard, though I couldn’t see well without them and it got me into trouble a few times when I smiled in the street at total strangers I mistook for members of my family. A few years later, when I got contact lenses, I was stunned by the trees. They had leaves, millions of leaves, with edges so sharp and defined they looked like God had made each one with a pastry cutter.

Basically, before I was sixteen, the world was one big Impressionist painting, unless I screwed up my eyes really tight to bring it into focus. Some things, as I would discover, were best left a blur.

Back then, I wasn’t interested in the real world. Not really. I answered my parents’ questions, I gave the appearance of doing homework, I lugged my cello into school on my back, I went downtown on Saturday afternoons with girls who sometimes felt like friends and sometimes didn’t, but I was living for Him. Each night, I spread my long dark hair out on the pillow and made sure to sleep on my back so my face was ready to receive a kiss in case he came in the night. It wasn’t that likely, obviously, because I lived in South Wales and he lived in California, which was five thousand miles away, and he didn’t even have my address, although I had once sent a poem for him to a magazine. Choosing the right color paper took longer than writing the actual poem. I settled on yellow, because it seemed more mature than pink. I thought all the other girls would choose pink and part of loving him was finding better ways to please him so he would know how much more I cared. They didn’t sell brown writing paper or I would have used brown, because that was his favorite color. Sometime later—three weeks and four days if you’re counting, and I definitely was—a reply came in the post. It was seventeen words long, including my name. It didn’t matter that the letter said they were sorry they couldn’t publish my poem. In some crucial way, I felt as though I had made contact with him at long last. Someone important in London, someone who had been in the same room as him, had touched the yellow paper I had touched and then typed my name on an envelope and licked the stamp. No rejection slip has ever been more treasured. It took pride of place in my scrapbook.

I knew exactly where he lived in California. In a canyon. A canyon was like one of our valleys, only much bigger. We said much bigger. David said way. Way bigger. Way was American for much. America was so big that Americans would drive one hundred miles just to have dinner with someone and they didn’t think that was a long way to go. In America, way to go means you’ve done something well. Way to go, baby! And they have gas instead of petrol.

Other words I had learned were cool, mad and bathroom. You have to be careful because a bathroom is not a bathroom in America, it’s a toilet.

“The Americans are a most polite people who are not standing for vulgarity,” said my mother, who was German and beautiful and disapproved of many things. You might say that my mother’s whole life was a battle to keep the vulgar and the ugly at bay. In our town, she had found the perfect enemy. I just liked knowing American words because they brought me closer to Him. When we met, it would be important to retain my individuality, which was one of the top things David looked for in a girl.

In every interview I had read, David said that he preferred a girl to just be herself. But to be honest with you, I was unsure of who myself was, or even if I had one, although I still maintained a touching faith that this unknown and as yet undiscovered me would be deeply appealing to David when we eventually met. How could I be sure? The understanding in his eyes told me so. (Oh, those eyes. They were deep green pools you could pour all your longing into.) Still, I reckoned that meeting David would be awkward enough without any unnecessary confusion, so I did my best to pick up American. It would be tricky to go to a bathroom in his house in Los Angeles, for example, and find there was no bath, wouldn’t it? Or imagine saying someone was mad. David would think that I meant they were angry. Crazy means mad in America. Back then, I couldn’t imagine David ever being angry, he was so gentle and sensitive. Sorry, do I sound mad?

“Donny Osmond’s a moron,” Sharon said firmly. She was kneeling on the floor, picking at the staples in a centerfold with her thumbnail, trying to free a male torso. The slender, headless body was naked to the waist and practically hairless, except for a fine golden down just above the belt, which boasted a heavy bronze buckle. It looked like the door knocker to an Aztec temple. Sharon eased the poster off the frail metal pins until it rested on her hands, trembling a little in the hot air blowing from the small heater beside her. Sharon’s bedroom was small, painted a sickly shade of ointment pink and reeked of burned hair, a bad cotton-candy smell that got in your nostrils and stayed there. Sharon had dried her hair in front of the heater and a few strands had gotten sucked into the back, but we didn’t really notice the smell, so absorbed were we in our work.

“I don’t think Donny’s a moron, to be honest with you,” I said carefully.

“All the Osmonds are morons. I read it in a mag,” she insisted, without looking up from the poster. Sharon was an expert restorer. The best artist in our class. When she grew up she could probably get a job in a museum or an art gallery. I loved to watch her work. The way she rolled her tongue into a little tunnel when she was concentrating and applied her attention to the tiny puncture holes in David’s stomach, soothing the torn paper with her fingertips until the flesh appeared to seal up.

“There you go, lovely boy,” she said, and placed a noisy smacking kiss on his belly button before adding the poster to the pile.

There was a prickle in my throat like a piece of trapped wool. I badly wanted to correct Sharon about the Osmonds’ being morons, but our friendship was still too new to risk disagreement. We liked each other because we agreed. We agreed because we both thought David Cassidy was the most wonderful boy currently alive and maybe in all of human history. At thirteen years of age, I couldn’t imagine the luxury of having a friend you could disagree with. If you disagreed with her, you could fall out. Then, before you knew it, you’d be back out there in the playground by yourself, sighing and checking your watch every couple of seconds to indicate that you did have an arrangement to meet someone and were not, in fact, the kind of sad, friendless person who had to pretend they were waiting for friends who did not exist.

Even worse, you could find yourself entering into anxious negotiations with some other borderline outcast to be your partner in PE so you didn’t have to be in a pair with Susan Davies—Susan Smell, who had a disease of the skin no one could spell. Her face, her arms and her legs were all cratered, like the surface of the moon, only some days the holes were filled in with the chalky dust of calamine lotion. We knew exactly what it was because our mothers dabbed the lotion on us when we got chicken pox. The angry, itchy spots were like tiny volcanoes around which the soothing pink liquid hardened into a tempting lava crust. Mustn’t pick it, mind, or it would leave a scar. The worst thing about Susan Davies, apart from the way you felt really sorry for her but still didn’t do anything to help her, was the stink. Honest to God, Susan smelled so bad it made you retch in the corridor when she went past, even though she always walked on the side with the windows.

“Donny’s a Mormon. I think it’s a religion they founded in Utah,” I said cautiously, trying the sounds in my mouth.

Ooh. Ta.

I knew exactly what Mormons were. Donny Studies were part of my deep background research on David. I knew everything about the other Osmonds, too, just in case, even Wayne. At a pinch, I could have given you the star sign of every member of the Jackson 5, and details of their difficult upbringing, which was in such contrast to their carefree, joyful music. Twiddly diddly dee, twiddly diddly dee. Twiddly diddly dee. Dee dee!

You know, I can never hear the opening chorus of “Rockin’ Robin” without a spasm of regret for what became of that remarkable little boy and all his sweetness.

Even as a child, I had this overdeveloped taste for tragic biographical information, a sort of twitching inner radar for distress. I may have been the only one not to be in the least bit surprised when Michael Jackson began to take leave of his adorable black face in painful cosmetic stages. You see, I understood all about hating the way you looked and wanting to magic away the child who made a parent feel angry or disappointed. When you grow up, they call this empathy. When you’re thirteen, it just makes you feel like you’re not so horribly alone.

“D’you reckon Mormons all have to wear purple because it’s Donny’s favorite color?” I asked.

Sharon giggled. “Get away with you, Petra, you’re a case, you are!”

We thought we were hysterically funny. We laughed at anything, but lately boys had become a particular target for our witticisms. We laughed at them before they could laugh at us, or ignore us, which curiously felt even more wounding than being teased or insulted. You know, I always liked Sharon’s laugh better than mine. My laugh sounded like a nervous cough that only starts to let itself go too late, when the joke has passed. Sharon made that happy, hiccupy sound you hear when you pull a cord in a doll’s back. She looked a bit like a doll, did my new maybe friend. She was round and dimpled and her eyes were an astonishing bluebell blue beneath the palest barely there lashes. Her hair was that bone-dry flaxen kind that bursts out of a person’s head like a dandelion clock. When we sat next to each other in Chemistry, her hair would float sideways on an invisible current of hot air from the Bunsen burner and stick to my jumper. If I tried to sweep it off, the static gave me a shock that made my arm swarm.

Sharon was pretty in a way everyone in our group could agree was pretty without feeling bad about it. It was a mystery. Her weight seemed to act as a sort of protective jacket against jealousy. When she lost her puppy fat I think we all sensed it might be a different story. In the meantime, Sharon posed no threat to Gillian, who had gotten the two of us together in the first place and who was the star of our group. No, that’s not right. Gillian was our sun. We all revolved around her and you would do anything, anything at all, really humiliating and shameful things, just in the hope she might shine on you for a few minutes because the warmth of Gillian’s attention made you instantly prettier and more fascinating.

As for me, the jury was still out on my looks. I was so skinny that next to Sharon I looked like a Victorian matchgirl. And don’t go thinking, “Oh, get her, she’s proud of her figure.” Skinny is not the same as slim, no way. Skinny is the last-girl-but-one-to-get-a-training-bra be- cause you’ve got nothing up top. God, I hate that expression. Up top. “Hasn’t got much up top, has she?”

Where we lived, girls had Up Top and Down There. You don’t want to let a boy go Down There, but sometimes he was allowed Up Top, if you’d got anything there, like.

Skinny is always being late for hockey and being made to run five times round the games field because you keep your blouse on until the others have left the changing room so they don’t see your sad little girl’s vest. A vest with a single shaming rosebud on the front.

The magazines told us to identify our good points. Mine was eyes. Large and gray-blue, but sometimes green-blue flecked with amber, like a rock pool when the sun is shining on it. But my eyes also had these liver-colored smudges under them that no cucumber slices or beauty sleep could ever cure. I never stopped trying though.

“Petra’s dark circles are so bad she could go to a masked ball and she wouldn’t need a mask,” Gillian said, and everyone laughed, even me. Especially me. Be careful not to show her what really hurts or she’ll know exactly where to put the knife in next time.

My worst feature was everything else, really. I hated my knees, my nose and my ears—basically anything that stuck out. And I had pale skin that seemed even paler because of my dark hair. On a good day, I looked like Snow White in her glass coffin.

Expertly, my mother took my face in one hand, chin pinched between thumb and forefinger and tilted it sharply toward the bathroom light. She squeezed so tight my jaw ached. “You are not unattractive, Petra,” my mother said coolly. “Bones really quite good. If you pluck the brows when you are older, here and here, like szo, revealing the eyes more. You know, you are really not szo bad.”

“It’s too bad, Mum, not so bad. I don’t look too bad.”

“That is exactly what I am saying to you, Petra. Relax, please. You are not szo bad for a girl at her age.”


Meet the Author

Allison Pearson, an award-winning journalist and author, is a staff writer for the London Daily Telegraph. Her first novel, I Don’t Know How She Does It, became an international bestseller and was translated into thirty-two languages. It is now a major motion picture, adapted by Aline Brosh McKenna and starring Sarah Jessica Parker. Her most recent novel, I Think I Love You, is set to become a stage musical. Allison has given inspirational speeches around the world on women’s issues and she can be contacted via her website www.allisonpearson.co.uk.  She is a patron of Camfed, a charity that supports the education of more than a million African girls (www.camfed.org). Pearson lives in Cambridge with her husband and their two children. 

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I Think I Love You 3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 100 reviews.
ARB More than 1 year ago
I had high expectations for this book but it was a difficult read with all the english lingo, I had to force myself to finish it. I am glad I didnt pay full price for it. Very little about David Cassidy and too much about the reporter who wrote as him. A big dissapointment!
bookchickdi More than 1 year ago
When you hear the title of Allison Pearson's new novel, I Think I Love You, you know right away that David Cassidy plays a role in the story. Petra and her best friend Sharon are thirteen years old in 1974, and David Cassidy mania is in full bloom. They live in Wales, and when they find out that he will be playing a concert near them, they buy tickets for the show. Of course, Petra will have to lie to her very strict mother about where she is going. Pearson does a terrific job taking the reader right back to her teen years, wanting desperately to belong in the popular girls' crowd, being insecure about her looks, whether she has the right clothes, will a boy ever want to date her? All those feelings come rushing right back. Petra has to deal with Queen Bee Gillian, whom every girl will recognize right away, with her manipulative ways and hurtful, cutting comments. Gillian does her best to cause problems between Petra and the sunny Sharon. And when a boy whom Gillian likes likes Petra, the claws really come out. While that story is familiar, it is the David Cassidy angle that makes this story unique. Petra and Sharon know EVERYTHING about David, and when a David Cassidy fan magazine offers a trip to California to meet him on The Partridge Family TV show set, they team up to win the trivia contest. The novel also follows Bill, who wants to be a rock magazine journalist, but ends up writing for the David Cassidy fan magazine, in the voice of David himself. A pivotal section of the story occurs at the concert, which Bill has to cover. The crowds push forward, and several girls are injured; one girl is killed. (That incident really occurred at the concert- I remember reading about it when it happened.) Fast forward twenty-fours years later: Petra has to deal with her mother's death, and her husband leaving her for a younger woman. Her husband even has the nerve to bring Petra his dirty sheets to wash- he doesn't have a washing machine on his houseboat- and she does them! Oh, Petra. Going through her mother's things, she finds out that she and Sharon won the David Cassidy fan contest 24 years ago; her mother hid the letter from her. Petra calls the magazine office, and all the stars align, because the magazine's boss thinks it would make a terrific human interest story to take them to Las Vegas to meet David Cassidy. Readers will no doubt relate to Petra, with all of her insecurities. And reading this novel made me want to dig out my old Partridge Family albums (yes, I had them all) and The Partridge Family Season One DVD (yes, I bought it). Pearson has a transcript of the fascinating interview she did with Cassidy for The Daily Telegraph in 2004 in the back of the book, which inspired the novel. Now all I have to do is find Cassidy's 2007 memoir, Could It Be Forever? My Story. Cause that has got to be one juicy read. This book will appeal to all the women who loved David Cassidy as a young girl, or any woman who fondly remembers her tween celebrity crush. And just try to get that song out your head.
LASR_Reviews More than 1 year ago
Would you take the chance to go back and have the one thing you wanted and never knew you got? Thus is the premise of I Think I Love You. I wasn't totally sure what I'd selected to read, even when I got a hold of the blurb. I mean, David Cassidy was popular long before I was born. I'd heard of him, but he isn't my idea of an idol. But that's what's great about this book. So what if I didn't grow up loving David Cassidy. I had the New Kids on the Block for my generation. Ms. Pearson's story is so fluid, so intriguing, I can super-impose the persons I know in place of David and it works. That's the beauty of the book. It works. The characters are interesting and flawed. I could relate to them immediately. I read this book in nearly one sitting, it's that fascinating. This book is told in two halves. One half is told via the Petra and Bill of 1974. Feathery hair, wide bottom pants, and the golden tones of Donny Osmond, The Bay City Rollers and yes, David Cassidy floating through the air. I wasn't there, but as seen through the eyes of Petra and Bill, I could be. I laughed at times and found myself rueful at others. I could relate to Petra's circle of friends. The girls are a tad stereotypical, but really, in school, there are always stereotypical people. But I liked being there. It was a trip down memory lane complete with the sadness and frustration of trying to deal with people who felt better than you. Then there's the 1998 versions of Petra and Bill. Both are wiser and have been kicked around by life. It was both interesting and sad to see what had become of them. I won't go into much more detail, but the journey they take is totally worth the read. If you want characters that will stick with you long after the book closes, then you need to read this book. It's a fun trip down memory lane and lots of fun. I give I Think I Love You 4 books. Originally posted at the Long and Short of It Romance Reviews
grumpydan More than 1 year ago
In 1974 Wales, Petra and Sharon are two fourteen year old girls obsessed with David Cassidy and want to attend his last performance in England. Bill is an aspiring journalist but works for a magazine entitled The Essential David Cassidy Magazine. When the magazine holds a contest for someone to visit David on the set of the Partridge family Petra and Sharon do their best to answer each questions correctly and it is one hard questionnaire. Petra's bubble is burst when she sneaks off to the contest with friends where there is mass hysteria and one girl dies. Back at home, she is punished. Twenty-four years later while cleaning the house of her recently deceased mother , Petra finds the letter from the magazine stating that she had won the contest. Although, the magazine and th publishing company no longer exists, she contacts the publishing company that bought out the old company and before she knows it (after being considered a kook), she is whisked off to the magazine to made up and soon to Las Vegas to finally meet David Cassidy. Recently, having been dumped by her husband, Petra needs something in her life. And Bill is now the head of this publishing firm. Funny how that is. This is a story about the struggle of life, whether a teen or adult. It is never easy. I enjoyed the nostalgia first half because I remember David Cassidy and Bobby Sherman and the girls all going gaga over them. The second half of the novel when Petra is an adult losing love and finding it again makes it all the more romantic. The actual interview with David Cassidy at the end of the novel was an added bonus.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Was here
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
*Starts preping the room*
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Deaths my enemy falls all the way into his spaceship
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Im not in the mood. Leave NOW.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Weak storyline, with characters I didn't much like.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Shut up how old is u talkin like that
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The description of the book sounded interesting as I grew-up during The Partridge Family era, but I could not get into this book! I revisited the book a few times hoping that it would "grab me in" so that I could finish and I could not.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It was cute and funny. It reminded me of crushing on my favorite singer and or actor when I was younger. What ever happened to Tiger Beat magazines?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is the worst book that I read in a long time. Our book club picked this for this month's book and we aborted it mid month and picked something else because everyone hated it. I wanted 0 stars for this book. But the computer made me pick at least 1
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago