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.
10 comments:
Ahem.....all depends on how much the mortgage repayments are! I used to be a 'serious' singer, 'til I realised how much groceries I could buy from a wedding gig!
Yep, yer man above has hit the nail on the noggin. But what is the difference between chick-lit and M&B.
Shoes, essentially.
How shoes. Guidance needed. Don't get the shoe code beyond oxford, brogue and the DrM in black or brown, the bullsblood is a bit racy. But black in reality. Carl Scarpa or the ilk are something that enters the mind only in their absence. Bras for the feet in reality.
spread eagled on the kitchen floor while her teenage son's best mate...
Finish the sentence at least!
hmmm, I do not see any mention of tears, hugs and ice-cream. Clearly this is where you are going wrong.
http://writeon-irishgirls
And pink, clearly not enough pink.
And they say you should never judge a book by its cover.
I don't care what you say Sweary, Cecilia Ahern is top dog, big cheese, leader of the pack, big Cahoona, the MD, numero uno etc. There is much to be learned from her scribblings.
For example, I've learned that my dying wife will probably leave a list of 10 things for me to do when she's gone, or something. Probably ironing, washing, painting, fix backyard fence etc etc
I believe you have the makings of a collection of short stories at least. Sincerly Ahurl - the backlash years.
You forgot the genre - she hates him, despises him. Then what? she loves him now but he does not love her because of all the mean things she said to him, or is he secretly in love with her all along.....How will she win him back, swoon!
Oh keep up everyone!
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