Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman: A Novel

( 22 )

Overview

Get ready to cheer for Rose Lloyd, a woman of young middle-age who proves that starting over doesn’t have an age limit. After twenty-five years spent juggling husband, career, and kids with admirable success, Rose suddenly finds both her marriage and her career in unexpected ruin. Forced to begin a new life, she is at first terrified, then energized, by her newfound freedom—it’s amazing what prolonged reflection, a little weight loss, a new slant on independence, and some Parisian lingerie will do for the ...

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Overview

Get ready to cheer for Rose Lloyd, a woman of young middle-age who proves that starting over doesn’t have an age limit. After twenty-five years spent juggling husband, career, and kids with admirable success, Rose suddenly finds both her marriage and her career in unexpected ruin. Forced to begin a new life, she is at first terrified, then energized, by her newfound freedom—it’s amazing what prolonged reflection, a little weight loss, a new slant on independence, and some Parisian lingerie will do for the psyche! Witty, insightful, and emotionally resonant, Buchan’s novel will strike a chord with anyone who has ever wondered what Middle Age would look like from the other side of the looking glass (answer: much better than you could ever expect).

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Buchan's latest novel finds the carefully managed life of 48-year-old Rose Lloyd, a successful book review editor, turned upside down. First, her husband of 25 years announces he's leaving Rose for her own sexy assistant. Next, insult is added to injury: Rose is fired from her job and replaced by none other than the woman who broke up her marriage. Buchan lends a compelling emotional depth to her main characters, seamlessly merging Rose's struggle to rise above the betrayal, shock and fear of middle-aged "invisibility" with flashbacks to her youth, recollections of her first love to a now famed travel writer, memories of family vacations and her grown kids' childhood. With extensive stage and theater work to her credit, and incorporating myriad voices to the diverse cast, Gilpin makes the book's transition to a 10-hour unabridged audio format exceptionally smooth. Narrating mostly in a proper British accent, which perfectly suits Rose's "delight in domesticity" and enhances the book's dry, slightly askew sense of humor, Gilpin also captures the outrage of Rose's son and daughter (both of whom have their own relationship issues), the American drawl of her old flame (who makes an unexpected return), the grumpy rumblings of an elderly neighbor she cares for and the feisty opinions of her mother, making for a good production listeners will enjoy. Simultaneous release with the Viking hardcover (Forecasts, Dec. 23, 2002). (Feb.) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Happy for 25 years, Rose watches aghast as both her career and her marriage suddenly go down the drain. A best seller in England that's slated for the post-Bridget Jones crowd. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Britisher Buchan’s US debut, the story of a middle-aged wife who, when her life and marriage fall apart, manages to fight back, move on, even hope for something better. Rose Lloyd, book editor for a London paper, is happily married to Nathan, an executive on the paper, and the mother of two adult children, Sam and Poppy. Her life is probably as good as it gets, and though Rose isn’t complacent, she is certainly unprepared for the betrayals about to implode her life. Nathan announces he’s leaving and moving in with her trusted assistant, the younger and sexy Minty. Reeling, she learns next that she’s to be replaced as editor by Minty because her boss wants someone younger, with new ideas, running the book section. Her woes mount as she hears that her mother needs surgery and Nathan is no longer paying her medical insurance. Her much loved cat dies, daughter Poppy e-mails from Thailand that’s she’s married hippie boyfriend Richard, and Nathan also wants their house for him and Minty. A bitter blow, because Rose has loved fixing it up and making a beautiful garden. At first she weeps, wonders where she went wrong, can’t eat, drinks too much. But then she begins to fight back. She visits a college friend in Paris who makes her buy some sexy clothes, is given some interesting jobs, is befriended by a Cabinet Minister who’s been hurt by a scandal caused by his mentally ill wife, and meets up again with her first love, American Rhodes scholar Hal Thorne, now a famous travel writer. As she recalls how she met and parted from Hal, she learns that Nathan is finding life with Minty more complicated than he’d expected and that he misses his family. With her children making interesting changes intheir lives, Rose is ready for a few herself. A wry and elegant tale about a woman of a certain age fighting back and winning unexpected victories.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780142003725
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA) Incorporated
  • Publication date: 12/30/2003
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 368
  • Sales rank: 352,182
  • Product dimensions: 5.14 (w) x 7.78 (h) x 0.70 (d)

Meet the Author

Elizabeth Buchan

Elizabeth Buchan is the author of several highly acclaimed and bestselling books of fiction, including the bestselling Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman, The Good Wife Strikes Back, Everything She Thought She Wanted, and Consider the Lily.

Biography

Elizabeth Buchan has seen success on both sides of the publishing fence. She began her career writing for Penguin, then took a job as a fiction editor at Random House. When she began writing for herself, she managed motherhood, writing and editing. Her medium is the romance novel, but Buchan produces much more than just escapist love stories. In an interview with iMagazine.com, she explains, "Romantic fiction is a wider, richer and more honorable tradition than it is given credit for. It includes some of the greatest novels ever written -- Jane Eyre, Tess of the D'Urbevilles, Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice and Anna Karenina."

Although Buchan is best known for her romance novels, her first book was actually a biography of one of the world's most beloved children's authors. Beatrix Potter: The Story of the Creator of Peter Rabbit was released 1988. Written for young readers, the book covers Potter's extraordinary life, her art and her lasting contribution to children's literature.

Her first novel, Daughters of the Storm (1989), intertwines the fates of three women as the fate of a nation hangs in the balance. On the eve of the French Revolution, Sophie, Heloise and Marie each seek freedoms of their own -- in love and society -- and forge a friendship that will change their lives forever. In Light of the Moon (1991) Evelyn St. John is in occupied territory in France during World War II. When she meets and falls in love with someone who is supposed to be the enemy, political truths are redefined in the name of love.

London's Sunday Times called Buchan's third novel "the literary equivalent of the English country garden" when it was released in 1993. Consider the Lily is the story of two cousins -- one rich, the other poor -- and their competition for the love of the same man. Set against the backdrop of the English countryside in the years between the two world wars, the novel became an international bestseller and Buchan won the 1994 Romantic Novelists' Association Novel of the Year Award.

Eventually, after the success of Consider the Lily, the call to write became so loud that Buchan retired from her publishing career. Her fourth novel, Perfect Love (1996) also marks a shift in Buchan's novels. Her first three were historical romances, but with the fourth, characters and settings are brought into the 20th century. Here, Prue Valor has been in a proper English marriage with the much older Max for twenty years. Without explanation, but certainly with much guilt, Prue begins an affair with her stepdaughter's new husband (they are the same age) when they realize they cannot deny their attraction for each other. Living magazine said of the book, "The real battle in this novel is between raging passions and English restraint."

Set in the high-finance world of London in the 1980s, Against Her Nature (1997) tells the story of the fallout from being the subject of rumors of incompetence amid a devastating Lloyd's crash. Two women, Tess and Becky balance their fast-paced game of success with every opportunity afforded them, including children. In Secrets of the Heart (2000), four thirty-somethings have found love and must now find a way to hold on to it. Only two succeed in this clever story about the deals we make for love.

Buchan's next novel, Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman (2003) was released to much critical acclaim. This is the story of what happens during the "happily ever after." Shocked at her husband's affair and the collapse of their marriage, Rose reviews the last twenty years of her life, remembers the carefree woman she used to be, and makes a triumphant decision to fight back by moving on. The book became a New York Times bestseller, film rights to the book were snatched up almost immediately, and The Boston Globe called it "a thoughtful, intelligent, funny, coming-of-middle-age story."

Questions of fulfillment are also the subject of 2004's The Good Wife. Fanny is the devoted woman behind a very public, very busy politician -- yet her own ambitions disappeared somewhere along the way. Likewise, in Everything She Thought She Wanted (2005), two women must decide just how much happiness they can sacrifice in order to stay with their husbands.

In her earlier books, Buchan brought intelligence and depth to the historical romance novel. Her later books have also captured the hard choices women must make in love, in family and in society. With humor and intelligence, her contemporary characters are Bridget Jones aged 25 years, at the point where she has attained the life she sought so long ago, but finds that the searching never ends.

Good To Know

Buchan is married to a grandson of John Buchan, the author of The Thirty-Nine Steps.

In our interview, Buchan reflects that "one of the great joys that hedges around the business of writing is making contact with other writers. I belong to a group that meets every month or so in a shabby old pub in north London, and we sit down to dinner, all of us writers, all of us totally absorbed by the problems, pleasures, and rewards of the process."

Buchan has had several books published in the UK, includiing: Daughters of the Storm (1988), Light of the Moon (1991), Consider the Lily (1993), Perfect Love (1995), Against Her Nature (1997), and Secrets of the Heart (2000).

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    1. Also Known As:
      Lizy
    2. Hometown:
      London, England
    1. Date of Birth:
      May 21, 1948
    2. Place of Birth:
      Guildford, Surrey, England
    1. Education:
      Upper Second Honours Degree in English Literature and History, University of Kent at Canterbury, 1970

Read an Excerpt

'Here,' said Minty, my deputy, with one of her breathy laughs, 'the review has just come in. It's hilariously vindictive.' She pushed towards me a book entitled A Thousand Olive Trees by Hal Thorne with the review tucked into it.

For some reason, I picked up the book. Normally I avoided anything to do with Hal but I did not think it mattered this once. I was settled, busy, different, and I had made my choice a long time ago.

When we first discussed my working on the books' pages, Nathan argued that, if I ever achieved my ambition to become the books editor, I would end up hating books. Familiarity bred contempt. But I said that Mark Twain had got it better when he said that familiarity breeds not so much contempt but children, and wasn't Nathan's comment a reflection on his own feelings about his own job? Nathan replied, 'Nonsense, have I ever been happier?' and 'You wait and see'. (The latter was said with one of his lovely, strong-man I know-better-than-you smiles, which I always enjoyed.) So far, he had been wrong.

For me, books remained full of promise, and contained a sense of possibility, any possibility. In rocky times, they were saviours and lifebelts, and when I was younger they provided chapter and verse when I had to make decisions. Over the years of working with them, it had become second nature to categorize them by touch. Thick, rough, cheaper paper denoted a paperback novel. Poetry hovered on weightless and were decorated with wide white margins. Biographies were heavy with photographs and the secrets of this subjects' life.

A Thousand Olive Trees was slim and compact, a typical travelogue whose cover photograph was of a hard, blue sky and a rocky, isolated shoreline beneath. It looked hot and dry, the kind of terrain where feet slithered over scree, and bruises sprouted between the toes.

Minty was watching my reaction. She had a trick of fixing her dark, slightly slanting eyes on whoever, and of appearing not to blink. The effect was of rapt, sympathetic attention, which fascinated people and also, I think, comforted them. That dark, intent gaze had certainly comforted me many times during the three years we had worked together in the office.

'"This man is a fraud,'" she cited from the review.

'" And his book is worse . . ."'

'What do you suppose he's done to deserve the vitriol?' I murmured.

'Sold lots of copies,' Minty shot back.

I handed her A Thousand Olive Trees. 'You deal. Ring up his agent, Dan Thomas, and see if he'll do a quickie.'

'Not up to it. Rose?' She spoke slowly and thoughtfully, but with an edge I did not quite recognize. 'Don't you think you should be by now?'

I smiled at her. I liked to think that Minty had become a friend, and because she always spoke her mind I trusted her. 'No. It's not a test. I just don't wish to handle Hal Thorne's books.'

'Fine.' She picked her way round the boxes on the floor, which was packed with them, and sat down. 'Like you said, I know how to deal.' I am not sure she approved. Neither did I, for it was not professional behaviour to ignore a book, certainly not one that would receive a lot of attention.

My attention was diverted by the internal phone. It was Steven from Production. 'Rose, I'm very sorry but we are going to have to cut a page from Books for the twenty-ninth.'

'Steven!'

'Sorry, Rose. Can you do it by this afternoon?'

'Twice running, Steve. Can't someone else be the sacrificial lamb? Cookery? Travel?'

'No.'

Steven was harassed and impatient. In our business - getting a paper out - time dictated our decisions and our reactions. After a while, it became second nature, and we spoke to each other in a shorthand. There was never time for the normal give and take of argument. I glanced at Minty. She was typing away studiously, but she was, I knew, listening in. I said reluctantly, 'I could manage it by tomorrow morning.'

'No later.' Steven rang off.

'Bad luck.' Minty typed away 'How much?'

'A page.' I sat back to consider the problem, and my eye fell on the photograph of Nathan and the children, which had a permanent place on my desk. It had been taken on a bucket-and-spade holiday in Cornwall when the children were ten and eight. They were on the beach, with their backs to a grey, ruffled sea. Nathan had one arm round Sam, who stood quietly in its shelter, while the other restrained a squirming, joyous Poppy. Our children were as different as chalk and cheese. I had just mentioned that a famous novelist had also taken a house in Trebethan Bay for six months to finish a novel. 'Good heavens.' Nathan had made one of his faces. 'I had no idea he was such a slow reader.' I had seized the camera and caught the trio as the children howled with laughter at this latest example of his terrible jokes. Nathan was laughing, too, with pleasure and satisfaction. See? he was saying to the camera. We are a happy family.

I leant over and touched Nathan's face in the photograph. Clever, loving Nathan. He considered that the job of fatherhood was to keep his children so amused that they did not notice the unpleasant side of life until they were old enough to cope, but he also loved to make them laugh for the pleasure of it. Sometimes, at mealtimes, I had been driven to put my foot down: at best, Sam and Poppy's appetites were as slight as their bodies and I worried about them. 'Mrs Worry, do you not know that people who eat less are healthier and live longer?' demanded Nathan who, typically, had gone to some pains to find out this fact to soothe my fears.

Back to the problem. As always with the paper, there were political factors, none significant in isolation but, taken together, they could add up. I said to Minty, 'I think I'd better go and fight. Otherwise Timon might get into the habit of paring down Books. Don't you think?' The 'don't you think' was cosmetic for I had made up my mind, but I had fallen into the habit of treating Minty (just a little) in the way I had treated the children. I thought it was important to involve them on all levels.

Timon was the editor of the weekend paper in the Vistamax Group for which we worked and his word was law. Minty had her back to me and was searching for Dan Thomas's telephone number in her contacts book. 'If you say so.'

'Do I hear cheers of support?'

Minty still did not look round. 'Perhaps better to leave it. Rose. We might need our ammunition.'

When it was a question of territorial battles, Minty was as defensive as I was. This made me suspicious. 'Do you know something that I don't, Minty?' Not a silly question. People and events in the group changed all the time, which made it a rather dangerous place to work, and one had to become rather protean, undercover and dangerous to survive.
'No. No, of course not.'

'But. . .?'

Minty's phone rang and she snatched it up. 'Books.'

I waited a moment or two longer. Minty scribbled on a piece of paper, 'An ego here bigger than your bottom,' and slid it towards me.

This implied that she would be on the phone for several minutes, so I left her to it and walked out into the open-plan space that was called the office. The management reminded its employees, frequently and cheerily, that it had been designed with humans in mind, but the humans repaid this thoughtfulness with ingratitude and dislike: if it was light and airy, it was also unprivate and, funnily enough, despite the hum of conversation and the under-lying whine of the computers, it gave an impression of glaucous silence.

Maeve Otley from the subs desk maintained, with a deep sense of grievance, that it was a voyeur's paradise. It was true: there was nowhere for staff to shake themselves back into their skins, or to hide their griefs and despairs, only the fishbowl where the owners had not bothered to put in a rock or two. I grumbled with Maeve, who was another friend, against the imposition, the terrorism of our employers, but mostly, like everyone else, I had adapted and grown used to it.

On the floor below, Steven was surrounded by piles of computer printout and flat-plans, and looked frantic. A half-eaten chicken sandwich was resting in its container beside him with several small plastic bottles of mineral water. When he saw me bearing down on him, he raised a hand to ward me off. 'Don't, Rose. It's not kind.'

'It's not kind to Books.'

He looked longingly at his sandwich. 'Who cares, as long as I can get it done and dusted and into bed? You, Rose, are expendable.'

'If I make a fuss with Timon?'

'You won't get diddly . . .'

No headway there. 'What is so important that it thieves my space? A shepherd's pie?'

'A nasty demolition job on a cabinet minister. I can't tell you who.' Steven looked important. 'The usual story. A mistress with exotic tastes, cronyism, undeclared interests. Apparently, his family don't know what's coming, and it's top secret.'
I felt a shudder brush through me, of distaste and worry. In the early days, I used to feel plain, unadorned guilt for the suffering that these exposes caused. Latterly, my reaction had dulled. Familiarity had made it commonplace, and it had lost its capacity to disturb me. Yet I hated to think of what exposure did to the families. How would I cope if I woke up one morning to discover that my everyday life had been built on a falsehood? Would I break into pieces? The effect on the children of these stories of deceit and betrayal did not bear too much thought either. But I accepted there was little I could do, except resign my job in protest. And are you going to do that?' asked Nathan, quite properly. 'No.' So my private doubts and occasional flashes of guilt remained private.

'I feel sorry for them; I said to Steven. All the same, I ran through a list of possible candidates in my head. I was human.
'Don't. He probably deserves it.'

'Or is it a she?'

Steven took a bite of his sandwich. 'Are you going to let me get on?'

By chance, Nathan stepped out of the lift with Peter Shaker, the managing editor, as I was going in. 'Hallo, darling,' I murmured. Nathan was preoccupied, and the two men conferred in an undertone. It always gave me a shock, a pleasurable one, to see Nathan operating. It was the chance to witness a different, disengaged aspect of the man I knew at home, and it held an erotic charge. It reminded me that he had a separate, distinct existence. And that I did too.

'Nathan,' I touched his arm, 'I was going to ring. We're due at the restaurant at eight.' He started. 'Rose. I was thinking of something else. Sorry. I'll - I'll see you later.'

'Sure.' I waved at him and Peter as the doors closed. He did not wave back.

I thought nothing of it. As deputy editor of a daily paper published by the Vistamax Group, Nathan was a busy man. Friday was a day packed with meetings and, more often than not, he stumbled back to Lakey Street wrung out and exhausted. Then it was my business to soothe him and to listen. If the look on his face was anything to go by, and after twenty-five years of marriage I knew Nathan, this was a bad Friday.

The lift bore me upwards. Jobs and spouses held things in common. With luck, you found the right one at the right time. You fell in love with a person, or a job, tied the knot and settled down to the muddle and routine that suited you. I admit it was not entirely an accident that Nathan and I worked for the same company - an electronics giant which also published three newspapers and several magazines under its corporate umbrella — but I liked to think that I had won my job on my own merits. Or, if that was not precisely true, that I kept on my own merits.

Poppy hated what Nathan and I did. At twenty-two, she had stopped laughing and believed that lives should be useful and lived for the greater good, or she did at the last time of asking. 'Why contribute to a vast, wasteful process like a newspaper?' she wanted to know. 'An excuse to cut down trees and print hurtful rubbish.' Poppy had always fought hard, harder than Sam, and her growing up had been like a glove being turned inside out, finger by finger. If you were lucky, it happened gently, the growing-up part, and Poppy had not fared too badly, but I worried that she had her wounds.

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Table of Contents

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First Chapter

Chapter 1

"Here," said Minty, my deputy, with one of her breathy laughs, "the review has just come in. It's hilariously vindictive." She pushed toward me a book entitled A Thousand Olive Trees by Hal Thorne with the review tucked into it.

For some reason, I picked up the book. Normally I avoided anything to do with Hal but I did not think it mattered this once. I was settled, busy, different, and I had made my choice a long time ago.

When we first discussed my working on the books pages, Nathan argued that, if I ever achieved my ambition to become the books editor, I would end up hating books. Familiarity bred contempt. But I said that Mark Twain had got it better when he said that familiarity breeds not so much contempt but children, and wasn't Nathan's comment a reflection on his own feelings about his own job? Nathan replied, "Nonsense, have I ever been happier?" and "You wait and see." (The latter was said with one of his ironic, strongman I know-better-than-you smiles, which I always enjoyed.) So far, he had been wrong.

For me, books remained full of promise, and contained a sense of possibility, any possibility. In rocky times, they were saviors and lifebelts, and when I was younger they provided chapter and verse when I had to make decisions. Over the years of working with them, it had become second nature to categorize them by touch. Thick, rough, cheaper paper denoted a paperback novel. Poetry hovered on the weightless and was decorated with wide white margins.

Biographies were heavy with photographs and the secrets of their subjects' life.

A Thousand Olive Trees was slim and compact, a typical travelog whose cover photograph was of a hard, bluesky and a rocky, isolated shoreline beneath. It looked hot and dry, the kind of terrain where feet slithered over scree, and bruises sprouted between the toes.

Minty was watching my reaction. She had a trick of fixing her dark, slightly slanting eyes on whoever, and of appearing not to blink. The effect was of rapt, sympathetic attention, which fascinated people and also, I think, comforted them. That dark, intent gaze had certainly comforted me many times during the three years we had worked together in the office.

" 'This man is a fraud,' " she cited from the review. " 'And his book is worse . . . ' "

"What do you suppose he's done to deserve the vitriol?" I murmured.

"Sold lots of copies," Minty shot back.

I handed her A Thousand Olive Trees. "You deal. Ring up Dan Thomas, and see if he'll do a quickie."

"Not up to it, Rose?" She spoke slowly and thoughtfully, but with an edge I did not quite recognize. "Don't you think you should be by now?"

I smiled at her. I liked to think that Minty had become a friend, and because she always spoke her mind I trusted her. "No. It's not a test. I just don't wish to handle Hal Thorne's books."

"Fine." She picked her way round the boxes on the floor, which was packed with them, and sat down. "Like you said, I know how to deal." I am not sure she approved. Neither did I, for it was not professional behavior to ignore a book, certainly not one that would receive a lot of coverage.

My attention was diverted by the internal phone. It was Steven from production. "Rose, I'm very sorry but we are going to have to cut a page from Books for the twenty-ninth."

"Steven!"

"Sorry, Rose. Can you do it by this afternoon?"

"Twice running, Steve. Can't someone else be the sacrificial lamb? Cookery? Travel?"

"No."

Steven was harassed and impatient. In our business-getting an issue out-time dictated our decisions and our reactions. After a while, it became second nature, and we spoke to each other in a shorthand. There was never time for the normal give and take of argument. I glanced at Minty. She was typing away studiously, but she was, I knew, listening in. I said reluctantly, "I could manage it by tomorrow morning."

"No later." Steven rang off.

"Bad luck." Minty typed away. "How much?"

"A page." I sat back to consider the problem, and my eye fell on the photograph of Nathan and the children, which had a permanent place on my desk. It had been taken on a bucket-and-spade holiday in Cornwall when the children were ten and eight. They were on the beach, with their backs to a gray, ruffled sea. Nathan had one arm round Sam, who stood quietly in its shelter, while the other restrained a squirming, joyous Poppy. Our children were as different as chalk and cheese. I had just mentioned that a famous novelist had also taken a house in Trebethan Bay for six months to finish a novel.

"Good heavens." Nathan had made one of his faces. "I had no idea he was such a slow reader." I had seized the camera and caught Poppy howling with laughter at this latest example of his terrible jokes. Nathan was laughing, too, with pleasure and satisfaction. See? he was saying to the camera. We are a happy family.

I leaned over and touched Nathan's face in the photograph. Clever, loving Nathan. He considered that the job of fatherhood was to keep his children so amused that they did not notice the unpleasant side of life until they were old enough to cope, but he also loved to make them laugh for the pleasure of it. Sometimes, at mealtimes, I had been driven to put my foot down: at best, Sam and Poppy's appetites were as slight as their bodies and I worried about them. "Mrs. Worry, do you not know that people who eat less are healthier and live longer?" demanded Nathan who, typically, had gone to some pains to find out this fact to soothe my fears.

Back to the problem. As always with the paper, there were political factors, none significant in isolation but taken together, they could add up. I said to Minty, "I think I'd better go and fight. Otherwise Timon might get into the habit of paring down Books. Don't you think?" The "don't you think" was cosmetic for I had made up my mind, but I had fallen into the habit of treating Minty (just a little) in the way I had treated the children. I thought it was important to involve them on all levels.

Timon was the editor of the weekend Digest in the Vistemax Group for which we worked and his word was law. Minty had her back to me and was searching for Dan Thomas's telephone number in her contacts book. "If you say so."

"Do I hear cheers of support?"

Minty still did not look round. "Perhaps better to leave it, Rose. We might need our ammunition."

When it was a question of territorial battles, Minty was as defensive as I was. This made me suspicious. "Do you know something that I don't, Minty?" Not a silly question. People and events in the group changed all the time, which made it a rather dangerous place to work, and one had to become rather protean, undercover and dangerous to survive.

"No. No, of course not."

"But . . . ?"

Minty's phone rang and she snatched it up. "Books."

I waited a moment or two longer. Minty scribbled on a piece of paper, "An ego here bigger than your bottom," and slid it toward me.

This implied that she would be on the phone for several minutes, so I left her to it and walked out into the open-plan space that was called the office. The management reminded its employees, frequently and cheerily, that it had been designed with humans in mind, but the humans repaid this thoughtfulness with ingratitude and dislike: if it was light and airy, it was also unprivate and, funnily enough, despite the hum of conversation and the underlying whine of the computers, it gave an impression of glaucous silence.

Maeve Otley from the subs' desk maintained, with a deep sense of grievance, that it was a voyeur's paradise. It was true: there was nowhere for staff to shake themselves back into their skins, or to hide their griefs and despairs, only the fishbowl where the owners had not bothered to put in a rock or two. I grumbled with Maeve, who was another friend, against the imposition, the terrorism of our employers, but mostly, like everyone else, I had adapted and grown used to it.

On the floor below, Steven was surrounded by piles of computer printout and flat plans, and looked frantic. A half-eaten chicken sandwich was resting in its container beside him with several small plastic bottles of mineral water. When he saw me bearing down on him, he raised a hand to ward me off. "Don't, Rose. It's not kind."

"It's not kind to Books."

He looked longingly at his sandwich. "Who cares, as long as I can get it done and dusted and into bed? You, Rose, are expendable."

"If I make a fuss with Timon?"

"You won't get diddly . . ."

No headway there. "What is so important that it thieves my space? A shepherd's pie?"

"A nasty demolition job on a cabinet minister. I can't tell you who." Steven looked important. "The usual story. A mistress with exotic tastes, cronyism, undeclared interests. Apparently, his family don't know what's coming, and it's top secret."

I felt a shudder brush through me, of distaste and worry. In the early days, I used to feel plain, unadorned guilt for the suffering that these exposés caused. Lately, my reaction had dulled. Familiarity had made it commonplace, and it had lost its capacity to disturb me. Yet I hated to think of what exposure did to the families. How would I cope if I woke up one morning to discover that my everyday life had been built on a falsehood? Would I break into pieces? The effect on the children of these stories of deceit and betrayal did not bear too much thought either. But I accepted there was little I could do, except resign my job in protest. "And are you going to do that?" asked Nathan, quite properly. "No." So my private doubts and occasional flashes of guilt remained private.

"I feel sorry for them," I said to Steven. All the same, I ran through a list of possible candidates in my head. I was human.

"Don't. He probably deserves it."

Steven took a bite of his sandwich. "Are you going to let me get on?"

By chance, Nathan stepped out of the lift with Peter Shaker, his managing editor, as I was going in. "Hallo, darling," I murmured. Nathan was preoccupied, and the two men conferred in an undertone. It always gave me a shock, a pleasurable one, to see Nathan operating. It was the chance to witness a different, disengaged aspect of the man I knew at home, and it held an erotic charge. It reminded me that he had a separate, distinct existence.

And that I did, too.

"Nathan," I touched his arm. "I was going to ring. We're due at the restaurant at eight."

He started. "Rose. I was thinking of something else. Sorry. I'll-I'll see you later."

"Sure." I waved at him and Peter as the doors closed. He did not wave back.

I thought nothing of it. As deputy editor of a daily paper published by the Vistemax Group, Nathan was a busy man. Friday was a day packed with meetings and, more often than not, he stumbled back to Lakey Street wrung out and exhausted. Then it was my business to soothe him and to listen. If the look on his face was anything to go by, and after twenty-five years of marriage I knew Nathan, this was a bad Friday.

The lift bore me upward. Jobs and spouses held things in common. With luck, you found the right one at the right time. You fell in love with a person, or a job, tied the knot and settled down to the muddle and routine that suited you. I admit it was not entirely an accident that Nathan and I worked for the same company-an electronics giant which also published several newspapers and magazines under its corporate umbrella-but I liked to think that I had won my job on my own merits. Or, if that was not precisely true, that I kept on my own merits.

Poppy hated what Nathan and I did. Now twenty-two, she had stopped laughing and believed that lives should be useful and lived for the greater good, or she did at the last time of asking. "Why contribute to a vast, wasteful process like a newspaper?" she wanted to know. "An excuse to cut down trees and print hurtful rubbish." Poppy had always fought hard, harder than Sam, and her growing up had been like a glove being turned inside out, finger by finger. If you were lucky, it happened gently, the growing-up part, and Poppy had not fared too badly, but I worried that she had her wounds.

When I returned to the office, Minty was talking on the phone but when she saw me she ended the conversation. "I'll talk to you later. Bye." She resumed typing with a heightened color.

I sat down at my desk and dialed Nathan's private line. "I know you're about to go into the meeting, but are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I am."

"It's just . . . well, you looked worried."

"No more or less than usual. Anyway, why the touching concern all of a sudden?"

"I just wanted to make sure nothing had happened."

"You mean you wanted to be first with the gossip."

"Nathan!" But he had put down the phone. "Sometimes," I addressed the photograph, "he is impossible."

Normally Minty would have said something like: "Men? who needs them?" Or: "I am your unpaid therapist, talk to me about it." And the dark, slanted eyes would have glinted at the comic spectacle of men and women and their battlegrounds. Instead, she took me by surprise and said sharply, "Nathan is a very nice man."

Knocked off guard, I took a second or two to answer. "Nice people can be impossible."

"They can also be taken for granted."

There was a short, uncomfortable silence, not because I had taken offence but because what she said held an element of truth. Nathan and I were busy people, Nathan increasingly so. Like damp in a basement, too much busyness can erode foundations. After a moment, I tried to smooth it over. "We're losing a page because there's a demolition job going in."

"Bad luck to them." Minty stared out of the window with a sauve qui peut expression. "So, it goes on."

Again, it was unlike Minty not to demand, "Who-who?" and I tried again. "Are you going shopping this evening?" I smiled. "Bond Street?"

She made a visible effort. "I may be getting too fat."

Private joke. Bond Street catered for size eight. Since Minty possessed fawnlike slender limbs, a tiny waist and no bosom, this was fine. No assistant fainted at the size of her arms. But I was forced to shop in Oxford Street where the stores grudgingly accepted that size fourteen did exist. Ergo, together we formulated the Law of Retail Therapy: the larger your size, the further from the city center a woman is forced to forage. (Anyone requiring the largest sizes presumably had to head for the M25 and beyond.) Apart from that, Minty and I suffered-and, in our narrow retail culture, I mean suffered-from big feet, and the question of where to find shoes for women who had not taken a life's vow to ignore fashion was a source of happy, fruitful speculation.

The conversation limped on. "Are you doing anything else this weekend?"

"Look, Rose," Minty shut her desk drawer with a snap, "I don't know."

"Right."

I said no more. After all, even in an office, privacy was a basic right.

I had to make a decision between two reviews because one had to be sacrificed. The latest, and brilliant, book on brain activity? In it, the author argued that every seven years our brain cells were renewed and replenished, and we became different people. This seemed a quietly revolutionary idea, which would have clerics and psychotherapists shuddering as they contemplated being put out of business. Yet it also offered hope and a chance to cut chains that bound someone to a difficult life or personality. However, if I published the piece, I would have to drop the review of the latest novel by Anna West, who was going to sell in cartloads anyway. Either the book that readers should know about, or the one that they wanted to know about.

I rang Features. Carol answered and I asked her if they were running a feature on Anna West.

Carol was happy to give out the information. "Actually, we are. This issue. Big piece. Have you got a problem?"

"I might have to spike our review so I wanted to make sure there was coverage in publication week."

"Leave it to us," said Carol, delighted that Features would have the advantage over Books. I smiled, for I had learned, the hard way, that a sense of proportion was required on a newspaper, and if one had a habit of bearing grudges, it was wise to lose it.

I worked quickly to rearrange the two remaining pages, allocating top placing to the seven-year brain-cycle theory. Ianthe, my mother, would not see its point: she preferred things uncomplicated and settled.

As the afternoon wore on, the telephone rang less and less, which was perfectly normal. Minty dealt with her pile of books and transferred them to the post basket. At five o'clock, she made us both a mug of tea and we drank it in a silence that I considered companionable.

*

On my way home, I slipped into St. Benedicta's. I felt in need of peace, a moment of stillness.

It was a modern, unremarkable church, with no pretensions to elegance or architectural excitement. The original St. Benedicta's had been blown up in an IRA terrorist campaign thirty years ago. Its replacement was as downbeat and inexpensive as a place of worship should be in an age that was uneasy about where the Church fitted.

As usual, on the table by the glass entrance doors, there was a muddle of hymnbooks and pamphlets, the majority advertising services that had taken place the previous week. A lingering trace of incense mixed with the smell of orange squash, which came from an industrial-sized bottle stored in the corner-presumably kept for Sunday school. The pews were sensible but someone, or several people, had embroidered kneelers that were a riot of color and pattern. I often wondered who they were, the anonymous needle-women, and what had driven them to harness the reds, blues, circles and swirls. Relief from a drab existence? A sense of order in transferring the symbols of an old and powerful legend onto canvas? St. Benedicta's was not my church, and I was not even religious, but I was drawn to it, not only when I was troubled but when I was happy, too. Here it was possible to slip out from under the skin of oneself, breathe in and relish a second or two of being no one in particular.

I walked down the central aisle and turned left into the tiny Lady Chapel where a statue of the Madonna with an unusually deep blue cloak had been placed beside the altar. She was a rough, crude creation, but oddly touching. Her too-pink plaster hands were raised in blessing over a circular candle stand in which a solitary candle burned. A Madonna with a special dedication to the victims of violence, those plaster hands embraced the maimed and wounded in Ireland and Rwanda, the lost souls of South America and those we know nothing about, and reminded us that she was the mother of all mothers, whose duty was to protect and tend.

Sometimes I sat in front of her and experienced the content and peace of a settled woman. But at other times I wondered if being settled and peaceful had been bought at the price of smugness.

Fresh candles were stacked on a tray nearby. I dropped a couple of pounds into the box and extracted three from the pile. One for the children and Nathan, one for Ianthe, one to keep the house-our house-warm, filled and our place of our refuge.

I picked up my book bag, had a second thought, put it down again and hunted in my purse for another pound. The fourth candle was for the erring minister's wife, and my dulled conscience.

On the way out, I stopped and tidied the pamphlets on the table. Even though it was dark, I continued home by the park, prudently choosing the path that ran alongside the river.

Nobody could argue that it was anything but a city park, ringed as it was by traffic, pockmarked with patches of mud and dispirited trees, but I liked its determination to provide a breathing space. Anyway, if you took the trouble to look, it contained all sorts of unobtrusive delights. A tiny corona of snowdrops under a tree, offering cheer in the depths of winter. A flying spark of a robin redbreast spotted by the dank holly bushes. Rows of tulips in spring, with tufts of primula and primrose garnishing their bases.

So far, winter had been a mild, dampish interlude. Earlier in the day, there had been halfhearted spatters of rain but now it was almost warm. It was too early to be sure, only February, but there was a definite promise of spring shaping up, things growing. I stopped to shift my book bag from one shoulder to the other, feeling the stretch and exhilaration of my life pulse through me.

I was late. I must hurry. I must always hurry.

Five minutes later, I walked up the tiled front path of number seven Lakey Street. Twenty years ago, Nathan and I had talked of restoring a silk weaver's house in Spitalfields, or discovering the perfect-priced Georgian family house on four floors, which-unaccountably-no one else had spotted. Lakey Street fitted between our small flat in Hackney and any wilder speculations. One day, we promised ourselves, we would upgrade, but we settled promptly into the Victorian terrace that comfortably encompassed our family and forgot about doing any such thing.

The streetlights were lit, and the fresh white paint on the window frames was washed with a neon tint. The bay tree dripped onto me as I passed and, for the thousandth time, I told myself it was far too big, planted in the wrong place, and would have to go. For the thousandth time, I reprieved it.

—from Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman by Elizabeth Buchan, Copyright © February 2003, Viking Press, a member of the Penguin Group, Inc., used by permission.

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Reading Group Guide

Our Reading Group Recommendation
Hell, it is said, hath no fury like a woman scorned. But while Elizabeth Buchan's novel Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman is a story of a woman wronged, her memorably told tale goes much further than this cliché. Indeed, the triumph of Rose Lloyd, a 40-something books editor at a large newspaper, is not that she gets back at those who have hurt her but that when her life turns a sudden corner into disaster, the experience brings her something she (and we) might never have anticipated.

Rose's story of a marriage that collapses overnight will fascinate readers and groups who are interested in questions of how relationships evolve and how infidelity affects us. Her struggle to understand how we can remain blind to changes going on inside a close partner makes for intriguing, and perhaps even challenging, conversations.

But beyond these themes, Revenge of a Middle-Aged Woman spins a broader fable of personal change, as the heroine realizes how much she has taken for granted. Many will find Rose's journey -- from outrage and grief through reflection to a new understanding of her life -- a touchstone for thinking about the surprising transformations that come through unexpected events.

The novel also offers readers the pleasures of Buchan's considerable wit and descriptive flair. The sometimes savage office politics of a London newspaper are expertly conveyed; Rose's retelling of a youthful -- and disastrous -- expedition to the Amazon basin, with her first lover, is a surprising but rich diversion and gives this novel a scope well beyond the urban world in which it begins.

Finally, this is a book as much about family as it is about love and marriage. Groups will find that Buchan creates a memorable set of secondary characters as she delves into the lives of Rose's adult children, her big-hearted but strong-willed mother, and her close friends. Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman is a shrewd and often comic take on family relationships in the modern world that is bound to inspire reflections on how much -- or how little -- these have changed over the past half century. (Bill Tipper)

An Introduction from the Publisher
Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman is a modern Everywoman's tale. It is the funny, heartfelt, and sad-but definitely not tragic -- story about love and how it touched forty-seven-year-old Rose Lloyd. As a college student, Rose fell in love with a man. His name was Hal and he loved her but also wanted to roam the world. Then she met Nathan, who wanted to marry her and raise a family. Rose loved Nathan, too, although for different reasons. She made a decision.

One wedding, two children, and twenty-five years later, Rose is a book editor for a weekly London paper where husband Nathan also works as the deputy editor. Rose is at peace in her life, happy and secure in the knowledge that she has successfully balanced the often conflicting demands of home and career. But when Nathan announces that he is leaving her for another woman, the stability she has always relied upon is unexpectedly gone.

Nathan laments, "I feel imprisoned by the walls I've built around me," just before he tells Rose that he's leaving her for Rose's own trusted twenty-nine-year-old assistant, Minty. Young, attractive, and incredibly ambitious, Minty has designs on more than Rose's husband. The same day that she loses her husband, Rose discovers that she is going to be replaced on the job by none other than Minty, who promises to bring a younger look and tone to the book section.

Out of a job, a marriage, and soon to be ousted from the cozy home and garden she's lavished with care, Rose is suddenly alone with too much time on her hands. While her friends and children rally around her, Rose is dealt a blow by her mother, who implies that it was Rose's selfish decision to work outside of the home that destroyed her marriage. Rose sinks into despondency, begins to drink a little too much, and wonders if her mother is right. But when in the midst of her mourning, her beloved cat, Parsley, dies, Rose realizes, "I had had enough. I wanted my grief dead." She decides to live -- and that's when the fun really begins.

With the complacency and safety of her married life and career gone, Rose remembers how a long-ago trip to Rome showed her that most people lived, not in the radiant semitransparent envelope that writers described but in a plain brown one with which they had to make do but it was better than nothing: "I was sixteen . . . and in love for the first time -- with being there, out of England. Rome was noisy, filled with smells -- coffee, exhaust, sweat, hot buildings -- and its flux of life, noise and sensation flowed through me, intensely, luxuriously felt." As Elizabeth Buchan weaves the narrative back and forth between Rose's youth and middle age, we see Rose once again reach out for the meaning in life and to courageously explore the life-altering decision she made long ago. What she discovers is sweet revenge, indeed: the promise of better days ahead, no matter what age we are.

Discussion Questions
1. Do you think the young Rose should have stayed with Hal or did she make the right decision to marry Nathan?

2. How would you describe Minty's relationship with Rose? Were there definite indicators something was amiss that Rose might have noticed sooner?

3. Do you think that Rose was complacent in her marriage and career? What have you learned from her journey toward self-exploration?

4. What do you think of Minty? Did she really want Rose's life all along and just pretended to be independent or do you think something changed her?

5. Rose sought friendship and solace with friends to help her through the depression. Are there other ways she might have helped herself? What would you have done?

6. The novel was written from a wife's point of view. At any time in the novel, did you find yourself sympathizing more with Nathan than with Rose?

7. Which character, if any, in the novel disappointed you most and why? Which character surprised you most and why?

8. How do you think Rose's life choices have influenced her daughter Poppy's life? Do you think Poppy's marriage will last?

9. The novel ends on an ambiguous note. What do you think happens next?

An Interview with Elizabeth Buchan
You weave the narrative beautifully between the joys and sorrows of her time with Hal and her marriage to Nathan. Why did you choose to frame the story this way?
One of the points I wanted to explore was about timing. When we make our choices -- to marry, to have children, to change jobs, etc. . . . has a direct bearing on how successful or not our lives will be. Rose knew she wanted children and, however intense and addictive her feelings for Hal, it was not likely to happen with Hal, who wanted different things. Reflecting on her history helps Rose to clarify the muddle and anguish left by the breakdown of her marriage, and also to suggest these ideas to the reader. Amplifying the same point, Nathan chooses to step back out of one cycle that is coming to an end, only to find he is back in the same place, and is now faced at fifty-something with a reduced income, a wife, and twins. More important, perhaps, he has deprived himself of a peace and freedom that he might have expected after the hurly-burly of raising one family.

Ianthe has always been completely unsupportive of Rose. To what degree do you think this influenced Rose in the choices she made?
Again, one of the points I thought would be interesting to write about was the connections and the differences among three generations of women: Ianthe, Rose, and Poppy. Ianthe is very much a woman from an older generation. She does support her daughter, but she also holds different views about forgiveness and about the traditional role of women and how they should conduct their lives. She would consider it part of her support, and duty, to speak her mind. To a certain extent, we all shrug off the nostrums and mind-set of the older generation. If Rose does just that with Ianthe, what is Poppy doing with Rose?

When Rose is told about the affair, she questions Nathan: ". . . is it because as we grow older, we grow less confident . . . and we need to reestablish ourselves all over again?" Do you feel this is the reason why most marriages fall apart?
Of course, becoming middle aged is not all plain sailing -- there are disappointments and bitter griefs. Women mourn their changing looks and some feel that they have become invisible. Life is more complicated, less straightforward, and less easy to pin down than it appeared to be in the twenties and thirties. As a result, both sexes may, at times, feel a little daunted, which is what Rose is questioning. Here is where the courage and resilience of middle age can be so well deployed. It is probably true to say that in any long-term relationship a fault line will appear at some point as the individuals are bound to change, develop, and reorientate themselves. If the partnership is functioning, this will add richness and exhilaration. But if it is not, and the fracture is not dealt with and discussed, undoubtedly it must contribute to the breakdown of a relationship.

Mazarine, upon hearing the news that Nathan has left Rose, blithely comments to Rose, referring to the affair as a phase that will ultimately end, "Be practical and wise, it's our role in a crazy world." Could you elaborate on that statement?
As a Frenchwoman, Mazarine is reflecting a culture where affairs are seen in a slightly different light. But she is also expressing a view on sexuality and sexual behaviour that she is considering within a larger context -- a philosophy that comes from her worldly experience. She is urging Rose to view Nathan's straying as a blip and not as a finality. What she in effect is saying: marriages are tougher than affairs. These things happen. Ride through it.

Some critics have said that Mazarine is so vivid that she deserves her own book. Who is your favorite "minor" character?
I have to confess to having a great fondness for Mazarine. I love her practicality and her elegant theories of life. But I also find Alice very intriguing -- a young woman determined on her career who is thrown hard against a brick wall of inconvenient emotion. In her way, Alice is quite brave.

Did you write this story to help liberate middle-aged women from those husbands who wish to start new lives with younger women? What inspired the book's amazing title?
I wrote the book because I was interested in the stage of life where it is possible to look both back and forward, and it is a very interesting place to be. Sooner or later, we all get there and the rewards are that patience, observation, and experience yield more subtle and textured pleasures than the ardency and impatience of our younger years. That is the theme. The plot is about the "happily ever after": i.e., what can happen to us after we have settled down with our Prince Charming and it goes wrong -- a situation which offers plenty of drama for the novelist. The title just arrived in my head. Bang. It stems from the Spanish proverb. "Living well is the best revenge."

The setting and character of your novels are very British yet the book has become a New York Times bestseller. Has it surprised you how much American audiences have embraced Revenge?
The response in the US has been fantastic and generous and I confess to being just a little surprised, but hugely delighted. Then again, the breakdown of a marriage is something that happens in many western cultures -- thus, in that sense, it is a universal predicament. I also feel that the slightly older woman had been ignored lately in fiction. Her voice should be heard, too!

Are you working on anything now?
The Good Wife (UK title), which takes a look at marriage. What is it? How does it work? Why does it last? Fanny has been married for twenty years to a politician, a position that requires her to look good but remain silent in public. But she is no fool and, after her daughter leaves home, she begins to question her choices . . . and her future.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
( 22 )
Rating Distribution

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(10)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 22 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 10, 2013

    A good read

    A patient recommended this book to me at work (healthcare) and I had to read it, seeing how I'm in the middle of a bad divorce myself. This book hit home and I found myself unable to put this book down. Hooray for the main character in this book. I was glad to see her "prevail" in the end! :)

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  • Posted August 14, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    THE ULTIMATE REVENGE

    A previous reviewer questioned Rose's "doormat" behavior upon learning that her husband was leaving her for her young assistant. To me, the ultimate "Revenge" was in letting them have each other. Once past the "infatuation stage" Nathan and Minty see each other clearly and realize their mistake. I believe Nathan regrets his choice and Minty later refers to him as a "prize bore". Nathan's was a self-fulfilling prophecy. For years he couldn't get out from under the shadow of Rose's first love Hal and feared losing her to him. This eventually happens and ironically, Nathan was the catalyst who brought it about. An intteresting take on love, betrayal and quiet revenge.

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  • Posted March 11, 2010

    Great title

    I will have to say that this is one of the few books I actually picked up because of the title and wanted to read just because of the cover. I found the writing style a little hard to "get into" at first, I actually skipped over several unnecessary paragraphs in the beginning. But once I was able to buy into the book, I was thoughly involved in the characters and cared about what happened to them. I was in turns crushed, hopeful, despondant and hopeful again. I had gone through something similiar so it was somewhat painful to read at times, yet gave me some affirmation of all the wild feelings one feels at a time like this. A defininate recommend.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 24, 2007

    Great Book...

    My husband and I could not put this one down!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 18, 2006

    Etiquette book for divorce

    Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman is like an etiquette book for how to behave when your husband leaves for another woman. Rose¿s husband leaves her for a younger woman and instead of letting him have it she is overly polite to him and lets him have whatever he wants. Very unrealistic! I found her doormat personality hard to believe and I pitied her. Maybe I missed something but I didn¿t notice her revenge.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 25, 2006

    Thought it would be silly turned out to be thought provoking

    Being one to usually read quite serious material, I picked this up needing a light and amusing story. While it did fit the bill, it was also very interesting with terrific character development. As life can be, somewhat predictable, but some twists and turns. While the sotry is focused on the lead character and truly terrible and overly dramatic events that unfurl her life, I felt like I got to see her in many roles and get to know well enough the family and friends that are part of her life. Made me think about myself and whether I could overcome such a situation. Also made me consider my relationships as a friend, mother, daughter and wife as I am fast approaching middle age.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 10, 2005

    Horrible Book

    This book was horrible, I couldn't even finish it. I lead a monthly book club with some girlfriends of mine, and we chose this book to read. Less than a week after we chose this book everyone called me and said the book was really bad and they couldn't stand to keep reading it. So we ended up picking another book for that month. The worst thing about it was that the storyline was all over the place and it was to hard to follow. It's one thing for a story to toggle back and forth between present and past, but this author has no talent for making it flow the way it should. I read a lot of books, and even with ones I don't like I will still finsih them. So it's very rare for me not to finsih a book, it has to be really really badly written. So I just want to warn any one who is thinking about buying and reading this book to not bother. It's just a waste of time and money.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 12, 2004

    Totally Inappropriate Book Title

    If being a doormat, allowing a fellow worker to take not only your husband, your job AND your house, then this was a great book. For those of us who live in the real world, this book was an insult to hard working mothers, wives and businesswomen everywhere. I'll never pick up another book by this woman again.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 27, 2004

    Enjoyable

    With so many books for twentysomethings, I enjoyed a book for the middle aged woman! I felt like I really got to know and care about Rose. The English twist was interesting.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 19, 2004

    Disappointed

    This book is written with a quite 'English' voice; that's nice (try to think of something positive). The cover, hype, and reviews indicate that there will be SOME element of the 'avenger' in the novel -- - but most of the novel is devoted to her grieving and memories from the twenty plus years of marriage and kids. Somewhat interesting background, but mostly it's the misery of the recently dumped. When protagonist finally decides to start living again (which consists of, [gasp!], visiting an old friend) she starts the usual routines of life: looking for a job, etc. Major disappointment.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 8, 2004

    Loved this book

    One of the best books I've read in years. I didn't want it to end.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 1, 2004

    Good Book

    Enjoyed this very much. Rooted for Rose when she held up even when Nathan expressed regrets in the end. If Rose had given in he would have loved to come back & continue their marriage. Would love a sequel to this story...does Rose resume her relationship with former love? Does Nathan's new life choice work out?

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 27, 2003

    Success IS the best revenge.

    This is a very well thought out novel about a woman whose husband has a mid-life crises, leaves her, and makes her life miserable. She doesn't take revenge in the standard sense of the word, but rather find her revenge through finding happiness again. Unfortunately the scenario is all too common. Well written book. Well thought out.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 21, 2003

    Very enjoyable read.

    I enjoyed getting to know Rose. She showed a tremdous amount of grace towards not only her husband, but to Minty. I would have wanted to give her more than a piece of my mind. But that was the beauty of Rose. This is not the typical revenge. No stooping to any trickery or silly pranks. Rose was better than all that. With her revenge came happiness and success, without losing the best part of herself. I do look forward to many more books from this author. I would look forward to reading what is in store next for Rose.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 12, 2003

    Waiting (hoping) for the sequel

    Rose became my friend and taught me how to find grace in a very difficult time. I looked forward to coming home from work to read more. When I completed the book I missed Rose. I hope there will be a series of books about Rose, for women who are just beginning to learn how to enter into the world again as independent individuals.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 4, 2003

    Good Story

    Very well written and hard to put down, Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman will make you cringe at the heartless and cruel manner in which Nathan treats Rose when he decides he wants change in his life after 25 years of marriage. He completely annihilates and trivializes their marriage, her heart, her self-esteem. It seemed almost surreal HOW Nathan left her for a younger woman -- so thoroughly and with such cold resolve. I was stunned at the extent of his selfishness. I can't even talk about Minty's disgusting role in all this -- unbelievable. And when Rose's life continues to unravel, Nathan just keeps coming at her with more bombs: the insurance, the house, Minty wanting kids. When all is said and done, I like that Rose wasn't "out" for revenge, but rather "out" for herself and a new, full, happy life without Nathan. However, I needed to see Nathan seeing more of THIS Rose. While the scene in the kitchen between Rose and Nathan after Easter dinner was very satisfying, I needed to see Nathan see Rose in a committed, intimate relationship with another man; to see a jealous Nathan hurting deeply and regretting immensly his choice to leave Rose and the life they had created together. Had there been more of this, I would have felt that the middle-aged woman had indeed achieved a thorough and complete revenge.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 3, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 4, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 27, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted September 7, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

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