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Sweary
Ally has it all; the job at Grazia magazine where she writes about shoes and all that, the sexy and powerful boyfriend with blue eyes who wears suits every day, the chic apartment with underfloor heating and black granite worktops in the kitchen she’s too damn slim and full of Frappucinos to use. But when stubbly artist who wears untucked t-shirts Alejandro walks into her life, she finds herself thinking that maybe her pristine existence was missing something: adventure. Within a month she’s shooting heroin while discussing death and Gasper Noe movies…
Ahem.
Sally works hard at being the perfect wife and mother. Sexy advertising exec husband Adrian is still as hot as a Stanley oven for her, and she’s already had him feck three adorable and high-achieving buns in… er, said oven. But with her daughter’s new teacher Marco giving her ears as well as eyes, and an impending visit by the mother-in-law from hell, can Sally keep it all together in time for the Calor Gas Housewife Of The Year? Gin helps, but with Sally slowly sinking into sticking of her own piss, spread eagled on the kitchen floor while her teenage son’s best mate…
Shite.
Callie, Jilly and Polly made a vow at seventeen that whoever was the most successful at thirty, according to criteria they determined while under the influence of teenage stupidity and soggy romantic ideals no one with a functioning fucking brain can stick to, would earn the incandescent jealousy of the other two, which after all is all wimmin want. Now Callie is a successful entrepreneur with the glamorous kind of anorexia, Jilly is PA to Seb Scott the edgy director, and Polly is married with kids and has run to fat and boredom. Polly is dreading the one-upmanship at their reunion holiday at Spa Chic in NYC, but sometimes, she finds, what you want is what you had all along. Incensed by her lack-of-shit-giving about their size zero frames and superstar lifestyles, Callie and Jilly create the ultimate nightmare to put Polly back in her box, the smug bitch. Poisoned, gangraped, disoriented, can Polly pull her life back together in time for her flight home…
Wow. Maybe my mam is right. There are some things I’m just not as good as Cecilia Ahern at.
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