The notion of a receptionist writing a novel as she sits around waiting for the phone to ring and packages to arrive isn't a bad premise for a smart romantic comedy. Unfortunately, Forrester fails to deliver any kind of interesting plot, nor does she offer up any startling insights into the role of a receptionist. The book starts out peppered with little icons indicating telephone, package and visitor interruptions-a cute conceit that even the author realizes wears thin as the book goes on. The people she works for/with, start as mysteries, and more or less end that way, aside from one highly predictable character. The main subject of the receptionist's typing is her confusion about an affair she's having with a weird courier who doesn't seem to like her that much, and her indecision over what to do with her agreeable, if unsexy, boyfriend. There is a modicum of pleasure to be scraped from this, but all in all, the writing is rather ordinary, not particularly witty, and the chronology of the events in the book is somewhat confusing. The whole effort struck me as a weak attempt to follow in the wake of the success of Bridget Jones Diary.