Review
Acclaim for" Getting Over It":
"Sidesplittingly comical and heart-wrenchingly tragic... A brilliant debut." - "Cosmopolitan"
"Sidesplittingly comical and heart-wrenchingly tragic... A brilliant debut." - "Cosmopolitan"
"From the Paperback edition."
Book Description
ANNA MAXTED'S TRADEMARK MIX OF LAUGH-OUT-LOUD FUNNY AND POIGNANCY WORKS ITS MAGIC ONCE AGAIN IN HER MOVING, WARM AND TRUTHFUL SECOND NOVEL
Product Description
'To say that Babs is my closest friend is rather like saying that Einstein was good at sums. And if you've ever had a best friend, you'll know what I mean. Babs and I had such a beautiful relationship, no man could better it. And then she met Simon.'
Now Babs, noisy, funny Babs, is getting married. And Natalie, 27, is panicking. What happens when your best friend pledges everlasting love to someone else? As the confetti flutters, Nat feels her good-girl veneer crack. She teeters into an alluringly unsuitable affair that spins her crazily out of control and into trouble - with her boss, Matt, and with Babs.
Caught up in the thrill of bad behaviour, Nat blithely ignores the truth - about her new boyfriend, her best friend's marriage, her mother's cooking and the wisdom of inviting Bab's brother Andy - slippers and all - to be her lodger. But perhaps what Nat really needs to face is the mirror - and herself...
(20030923)From the Publisher
ANNA MAXTED'S TRADEMARK MIX OF LAUGH-OUT-LOUD FUNNY AND POIGNANCY WORKS ITS MAGIC ONCE AGAIN IN HER MOVING, WARM AND TRUTHFUL SECOND NOVEL
About the Author
Anna Maxted lives in London with her husband Phil and their three sons Oscar, Conrad and Casper. Anna read English at Cambridge and works as a freelance journalist. She is also the author of the international bestsellers, Getting Over It, Running in Heels, Behaving Like Adults, Being Committed and A Tale of Two Sisters. (20000913)
Excerpted from Running in Heels by Anna Maxted. Copyright © 2001. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The bride is climbing a tree.
'Babs, that branch looks unsafe. Are you sure-?'
Crash. Splash.
'Oh well,' she says, squelching from the pond, a happy green and brown mud monster. 'At least I got the ball down.'
A tut! of wonder drags me from my thoughts and I realise that the bride is no longer twelve years old and soggy. She is all grown up and gorgeous, a Botticelli come to life. There is a swish of silk and a rustle of taffeta as my best friend halts and turns to face her groom. Her gaze is so intimate that I look away. A goose honks, or, possibly, my mother blows her nose. The vicar smiles crossly until there is quiet, then compares marriage to building a house.
I'm craning over the rows of prettily feathered hats, when my brother digs a sharp elbow into my ribs and says, 'There's nothing like a big bride. Always reminds me to lay off the cake.'
I blush. 'Please, Tony!' I whisper, 'Babs is Amazonian.'
My brother needs attention like other people need to breathe, but despite his ungracious presence this day is a perfect day for Babs. It is her own personal fairytale made real in a haze of confetti and lace. She looks radiant. And I know as I sit here, sighing and cooing with the rest of the crowd, that I'll never forget her wedding as long as I live. It is the beginning, and the end. The start of a marriage and the end of a beautiful relationship. Ours.
*
To say that Babs is my closest friend is like saying that Einstein was good at sums. Babs and I know each other like we know ourselves. We were blood sisters from the age of twelve (before my mother prised the razor out of Babs's hand). And if you've ever had a best friend, you'll know what I mean. If you've ever had a best friend, I don't need to tell you about making blackberry wine in the garden and being rushed to hospital, puking majestic purple all the way. Or about our secret language (which is lucky, because I'd have to kill you). Or when we touched tongues to freak ourselves out. Or about our Spanish holiday aged sixteen. Or when Babs dated the coolest, tallest, blondest guy in school and set me up with his wetter, shorter, prematurely balding friend. (He wasn't keen on me either.) Or when Babs thought she was pregnant and we bunked biology to beg the morning-after pill from her GP.
I don't need to tell you of the endless talk about details - the use of toothpaste to zap spots, the way some dads suddenly bolt to LA with their secretaries (adultery is rarely original), being fitted for a first bra in a shop where rude old ladies roar out your chest size, the odds on marrying Matt Dillon, wearing an orthodontic brace that Hannibal Lecter would reject as unflattering, mothers who collect you from parties with their nightie showing under their coat - so much talk, we talked ourselves into our twenties.
Even when our ambitions defined us, we couldn't bear to be apart. I chose a London college to be near Babs. We shared a flat, we shared lives. No man could hurt us like we could hurt each other. Blokes came and went - and feel free to take that literally. There were a few serious boyfriends, and a lot of jokers. We weren't too bothered. There was always next Saturday night and anyhow, we were in love with our careers. Babs and I had such a beautiful relationship, no man could better it.
And then she met Simon.
*
I watch him slip the ring on her finger and see his hand tremble. What do I know? Is this love, or a hangover? Dubious thoughts to be having in church, so I file them under 'envy', kiss and hug the happy couple, and when Tony mutters, 'I've counted seventeen strings of pearls,' I ignore him.
I squeeze through the perfumed crush of guests, to where the table plan is mounted on a large easel. I'm hoping to be sat next to at least one of Babs's Italian male relatives (her mother Jackie is from Palladio, a small town near Vicenza, and its entire population - seemingly composed of film stars - appears to be present). I scan the Ms until I see Miss Miller, Natalie. Table 3. There is a disappointing dearth of Cirellis and Barbieris on this table, but it's a nice distance from Mrs Miller, Sheila (Table 14).
That's the trouble with close friendships formed in early adolescence. Your families see it as their divine right to muscle in and before you can say 'inter-parental surveillance,' the lot of them are as enmeshed as the jaws of a zip. Having been shadowed by my mother throughout the service, I'm pleased that we're dining apart. She'd have tried to cut up my poached salmon for me.
I jump as someone smacks me on the bottom.
'Fluff,' trills my mother. She gazes at me, licks her finger and rubs it around my cheek.
'Mum!' I feel like an extra in Gorillas in the Mist. 'What are you doing?'
'You've got red lipstick all over your face, dear,' she explains.
'Oh. Thanks.' (It would be cheeky to suggest that lipstick is preferable to spit.)
'Babs, that branch looks unsafe. Are you sure-?'
Crash. Splash.
'Oh well,' she says, squelching from the pond, a happy green and brown mud monster. 'At least I got the ball down.'
A tut! of wonder drags me from my thoughts and I realise that the bride is no longer twelve years old and soggy. She is all grown up and gorgeous, a Botticelli come to life. There is a swish of silk and a rustle of taffeta as my best friend halts and turns to face her groom. Her gaze is so intimate that I look away. A goose honks, or, possibly, my mother blows her nose. The vicar smiles crossly until there is quiet, then compares marriage to building a house.
I'm craning over the rows of prettily feathered hats, when my brother digs a sharp elbow into my ribs and says, 'There's nothing like a big bride. Always reminds me to lay off the cake.'
I blush. 'Please, Tony!' I whisper, 'Babs is Amazonian.'
My brother needs attention like other people need to breathe, but despite his ungracious presence this day is a perfect day for Babs. It is her own personal fairytale made real in a haze of confetti and lace. She looks radiant. And I know as I sit here, sighing and cooing with the rest of the crowd, that I'll never forget her wedding as long as I live. It is the beginning, and the end. The start of a marriage and the end of a beautiful relationship. Ours.
*
To say that Babs is my closest friend is like saying that Einstein was good at sums. Babs and I know each other like we know ourselves. We were blood sisters from the age of twelve (before my mother prised the razor out of Babs's hand). And if you've ever had a best friend, you'll know what I mean. If you've ever had a best friend, I don't need to tell you about making blackberry wine in the garden and being rushed to hospital, puking majestic purple all the way. Or about our secret language (which is lucky, because I'd have to kill you). Or when we touched tongues to freak ourselves out. Or about our Spanish holiday aged sixteen. Or when Babs dated the coolest, tallest, blondest guy in school and set me up with his wetter, shorter, prematurely balding friend. (He wasn't keen on me either.) Or when Babs thought she was pregnant and we bunked biology to beg the morning-after pill from her GP.
I don't need to tell you of the endless talk about details - the use of toothpaste to zap spots, the way some dads suddenly bolt to LA with their secretaries (adultery is rarely original), being fitted for a first bra in a shop where rude old ladies roar out your chest size, the odds on marrying Matt Dillon, wearing an orthodontic brace that Hannibal Lecter would reject as unflattering, mothers who collect you from parties with their nightie showing under their coat - so much talk, we talked ourselves into our twenties.
Even when our ambitions defined us, we couldn't bear to be apart. I chose a London college to be near Babs. We shared a flat, we shared lives. No man could hurt us like we could hurt each other. Blokes came and went - and feel free to take that literally. There were a few serious boyfriends, and a lot of jokers. We weren't too bothered. There was always next Saturday night and anyhow, we were in love with our careers. Babs and I had such a beautiful relationship, no man could better it.
And then she met Simon.
*
I watch him slip the ring on her finger and see his hand tremble. What do I know? Is this love, or a hangover? Dubious thoughts to be having in church, so I file them under 'envy', kiss and hug the happy couple, and when Tony mutters, 'I've counted seventeen strings of pearls,' I ignore him.
I squeeze through the perfumed crush of guests, to where the table plan is mounted on a large easel. I'm hoping to be sat next to at least one of Babs's Italian male relatives (her mother Jackie is from Palladio, a small town near Vicenza, and its entire population - seemingly composed of film stars - appears to be present). I scan the Ms until I see Miss Miller, Natalie. Table 3. There is a disappointing dearth of Cirellis and Barbieris on this table, but it's a nice distance from Mrs Miller, Sheila (Table 14).
That's the trouble with close friendships formed in early adolescence. Your families see it as their divine right to muscle in and before you can say 'inter-parental surveillance,' the lot of them are as enmeshed as the jaws of a zip. Having been shadowed by my mother throughout the service, I'm pleased that we're dining apart. She'd have tried to cut up my poached salmon for me.
I jump as someone smacks me on the bottom.
'Fluff,' trills my mother. She gazes at me, licks her finger and rubs it around my cheek.
'Mum!' I feel like an extra in Gorillas in the Mist. 'What are you doing?'
'You've got red lipstick all over your face, dear,' she explains.
'Oh. Thanks.' (It would be cheeky to suggest that lipstick is preferable to spit.)
