Book Description
In a world where plastic surgery is as popular as a pair of sexy Manolo Blahniks, suburban single mom Jessica Taylor is trying to make it past forty with nothing more than moisturizer and a swipe of mascara. Her glamorous best friend, TV producer Lucy Baldor, has a different idea of aging gracefully. “My body is a temple,” Lucy explains. “I just don’t want it to crumble like St. John the Divine.”
Jess and Lucy’s friendship has weathered the trials of marriage, the births of children, and the transition from itty-bitty bikinis to “Kindest Cut” one-piece suits. Now the women are discovering that midlife crises aren’t just for men—they’re equal-opportunity dilemmas.
To Jess’s dismay, Lucy announces that she’s taken a lover. A very famous lover. Her husband, Dan, is bound to find out (especially after a picture of the amorous duo appears on Page Six of the New York Post), but Lucy’s too wrapped up in the joys of expensive lingerie and romantic retreats to care. Jess finds herself in the midst of her own romantic predicament when, after ten years of silence, her sexy French ex-husband, Jacques, ends up back in her life—and in her bed.
Whether navigating bake sales, bicoastal affairs, or bagels-and-Botox parties, these wise and witty women know that their friendship will remain the one true thing they can count on. Well, that and a good push-up bra, of course. And their bond withstands everything—from an orgy in Willie Nelson’s trailer to a reality TV-show bachelor named Boulder.
Funny, brazen, and often poignant, this irresistible novel offers an unexpected and entertaining look at two women’s midlife adventures. From Thai massage to tantric sex, who would have thought forty could be so much fun?
From the Hardcover edition.
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Chapter One
champagne corks are popping and it¿s only five a.m.
¿Darling,¿ Lucy trills as I groggily cradle the phone between my ear and my goose down pillow. ¿I didn¿t wake you, did I?¿
Of course not. Why would I be asleep at this hour when I could be up repotting the azaleas?
¿Where are you?¿ I ask, fumbling for the Brite-Lite clock on the night table to confirm that, yes, it¿s still two hours until my alarm goes off. ¿Traveling?¿
¿L.A., darling,¿ Lucy says. ¿Working.¿
I knew that. When she¿s in New York, Lucy lives around the corner in a big Tudor house, but she regularly packs off to Burbank to produce glamorous TV shows. Being on the opposite coast causes her to sink into saying ¿darling¿ too much.
¿Everything okay?¿ I ask, awake enough now for my worry genes to have kicked in.
¿Absolutely, yes,¿ Lucy says as I hear what I swear is another champagne cork popping in the background. She bursts into giggles, covers the phone, and calls out, ¿Watch it, darling!¿
¿What¿s going on there?¿ I ask.
¿It¿s not what you think. We¿re rehearsing for a show and there¿s a scene with Dom Perignon. We¿re using real French champagne, even for the sound check.¿
French champagne. I sit up abruptly realizing that when the phone rang, I had been dreaming about Jacques, my very own Frenchman. We were lying naked, with our arms wrapped around each other at the edge of a warm, sunny beach. He was kissing me passionately as the waves lapped over us. Wait a minute. Didn¿t I see that same scene in some old movie? I put the phone down and notice the TV across the room is still flickering. I must have fallen asleep watching From Here to Eternity. Again.
¿Yoo-hoo, ¿ Lucy calls impatiently. ¿Earth to Jess. You still with me?¿
I clear my throat. ¿Jacques,¿ I say. ¿We were making love.¿
¿Jacques? Jacques is there?
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