Girlfriend 44 [Paperback]

Girlfriend 44 supplies a sharp, sardonic study of one man's slant on relations between the sexes. Laddish, thirtysomething Harry is still looking for the woman of his dreams, after 43 failed attempts. When his mate Farley apparently commits suicide over a girl called Alice, Harry sets his sights on the bereaved, convinced that she's the woman of his dreams. There's just one small catch--his best mate Gerrard is equally convinced that she's the only one for him and so the contest commences. A battle not so much of wits as of puerile one-upmanship ensues as the pair project their own needs and desires onto the object of their fantasies. Sporting metaphors are served up fast and furious in this rogues' rally:

"So by cutting the levity ... he brought the fight onto his own territory. Even if he failed ... he would still be there, like a tennis player hanging on in a demanding rally, biding his time to regain the cent re of the court."

With its sharp one-liners, witty observations and vivid characterisations, Mark Barrowcliffe's first novel Girlfriend 44 presents a provocative insight into the male psyche. --Nicola Perry

'There are shades of Withnail and I, as well as Notting Hill, in this laugh-out-loud look at a couple of gropers on the prowl' Belfast Telegraph 'Sharp and funny' -- Loaded 'Dazzlingly funny and oh so true...' -- Jill Mansell 'Funny, sharp and so realistic you think you know all the characters... We loved GIRLFRIEND 44 so much' -- New Woman 'Hilarious... [Barrowcliffe is] an assured stylist with a lively, wordy wit' -- Independent on Sunday 'I howled with laughter... Lively, witty and upbeat... If you've got any sense of humour at all you'll be hard pushed to get through GIRLFRIEND 44 without laughing out loud' -- Mirror 'A natural chronicler of the love-lorn male' -- The Times 'Smart and funny' -- Cosmopolitan 'A hilarious read' -- Company 'Fresh, funny' -- PS Magazine 'So funny... Zany, alive and always true to itself' Wall Street Journal -- Wall Street Journal 20010902

'Fresh, funny'

'A hilarious read'

'Smart and funny'

'A natural chronicler of the love-lorn male'

'Dazzlingly funny and oh so true...'

'Funny, sharp and so realistic you think you know all the characters... We loved GIRLFRIEND 44 so much'

'Hilarious... [Barrowcliffe is] an assured stylist with a lively, wordy wit'

'So funny... Zany, alive and always true to itself' Wall Street Journal

Harry's one ambition is to find the perfect girl for him. He doesn't ask for much; just a beautiful intellectual who doesn't mind his constant infidelity. Harry's best friend Gerrard did once find true love - but he didn't realise it until the day she left him. Even if he does find a woman who meets his exacting criteria, he's not sure he can trust her not to grow old eventually. Then, they meet Alice. She's the only woman in the world Harry and Gerrard can agree on. Unfortunately, she seems to like both of them. Gerrard wants Alice for himself, but Harry will stop at nothing to win her. Friendship is forgotten and even a little light poisoning is on the cards. But can a man who thinks size ten is a bit on the chubby side grow up fast enough to win the girl of his dreams?

Press acclaim for a brilliant debut novel
Mark Barrowcliffe's witty, accomplished first novel has been warmly acclaimed in the Press:

'I howled with laughter... A real eye-opener for any ladies who've ever wanted to know how the male brain really works... Lively, witty and upbeat... If you've got any sense of fun at all you'll be hard pushed to get through GIRLFRIEND 44 without laughing out loud' Mirror

'A natural chronicler of the love-lorn male' The Times

'A hilarious read' Company

'Smart and funny' Cosmopolitan

'A hilarious debut novel in the tradition of MEN BEHAVING BADLY' Publishing News --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Mark Barrowcliffe grew up in Coventry. He worked as a journalist and also as a stand-up comedian before giving up work to write his first novel, GIRLFRIEND 44.

Dear Emily

I do not expect to emerge with any credit from what you are about to read.

This is goodbye. You always suspected that I couldn't love you and you were right. I respect you very much, and I care for you very much so, although you will find it painful, I have decided to tell you why we must part. You are not perfect.

I do not want to be unkind so let me reassure you that your shortcomings are largely physical.

If you were perfect, for me, you would have to be between 5'6" and 5'7" with hair that looks as if blonde and brunette had put their heads together and come up with a better colour. Your coif would be natural, about 12" long, neither curly nor straight but with an amazing wave to it that would come to life as you flicked it over your shoulder.

Your body should look like Bardot's but be capable of suggesting Hepburn's. Obviously your tits would be capable of looking either huge or tiny, as the dress demands.

Your skin should be blemish-free, apart from perhaps a charming beauty spot. It should have a texture to make alabaster look like a quattro formaggio, although you wouldn't give a damn for cosmetics - apart from when you wanted to dress like a tart, which would be often.

Your beauty should be idiosyncratic, within the above parameters.

Most of all you need kind, intelligent eyes. When I say most of all, I mean it's no good without the rest of the package too. Plenty of dogs (the sort that bark) have kind, intelligent eyes, but you take my meaning.

On this last point, I feel your eyes are intelligent but you naturally screw in your face when you talk, which holds them a bit close together. It means you always look as though you are calculating the price of something. This is unfortunate, because I know you are generous and free with the little money you have.

All the sugary sick things - the idiosyncratic way of flicking the hair, the lop-sided smile, the slightly theatrical way of smoking a cigarette - I'm afraid you'd be needing to do those too, if we were to have a chance.

There is a load of personality requirements which you score very well on. I very much admire your originality in thought and dress, for instance. I know that when I say things like that you always ask difficult questions such as: 'In what way?' It's hard to put into words, just take it from me that I do.

I am aware that this is a sorry way to end our relationship, and I didn't want the whole perfection thing to get in the way. I thought for years that I could get round it, that I could love women in all their diversity, that closeness was what it was all about.

I was wrong. You can't love someone if you think they've got a big nose, not properly. As a man, you might have kids with them, dogs, a cottage, etc. You might get caught in rain storms and drink wine in the sun, do all the romance bit, but when you look deep into her eyes it will be because you want to avoid looking at her nose. Don't worry, you haven't got a big nose - it was just an example.

Rest assured, there isn't just one model of perfection, this is just the one that appeals to my demographic, which, unfortunately, is also yours. There are probably five or six others, maybe more, across the range of men, but I can't see you as Miss Sexy Wellies, the ideal stockbroker shag, or the mini-skirt-at-minus-five-inner-city-dream-babe, really, can you?

Don't think me cruel, you just need to know where you stand so you can work your life around this, like living with diabetes. Most women are in the same boat, but they are with men who lack the self-confidence, or looks, or money to trade up from them. There are plenty of these about, men who grit their teeth as they look at their sagging wives and say, 'I'm no oil painting, she's the best I can get, I'll try to love her.' That's what the kind ones say anyway, and they go to their graves missing the girl with the smaller nose, the girl with the bigger tits, the girl who understands.

I used to think it was OK to be size ten, a great laugh, with a good figure and nice-ish face. It isn't. Size eight is the very fattest allowable, unless you're Marilyn Monroe, and we can't allow you an 'ish' or even a 'nice'. It's horrible, but it's true.

I know you will do well without me. You are a pretty girl, a wonderful girl, but just not pretty enough for me. All I want from a woman is perfection in body and mind. The rest - career, job, kids, money, success - she can look after while I go down the pub.

I am sorry for my sentiments. I had always tried to believe in the opposite - in love being blind, in working at relationships to overcome the little things. If you're wondering if it was another woman, it was. Is, I hope. I don't know. Whatever, she meets the criteria stipulated above, so I have to go for it. I know you'll understand.

I suppose it was Farley who made me realise all this, indirectly. Which brings me on to a bit of bad news - he's dead and I've inherited his flat. (The dead bit, clearly, is the bad news, although I know you didn't like him.) It's a bit complicated to go into by letter so I'll tell you all about it when you come back. Look forward to seeing you, and say hello to the penguins for me.

Cheers.

Your ex-boyfriend, Harry (Chesshyre) --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.