Bookends: A Novel - Hardcover

Green, Jane

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0767907809 ISBN 13: 9780767907804

Publisher: Broadway Books, 2002

Synopsis

On the heels of her national bestsellers Jemima J and Mr. Maybe, British sensation Jane Green delivers a sparkling tale of old friends reunited and old jealousies rekindled.

Catherine Warner and Simon Nelson are best friends: total opposites, always together, and both unlucky in love. Cath is scatterbrained, messy, and–since she had her heart broken a few years back–emotionally closed off. Si is impossibly tidy, bitchy, and desperate for a man of his own. They live in London’s West Hampstead along with their lifelong friends, Josh and Lucy, who are happily married with a devil-spawn child and a terrifying Swedish nanny, Ingrid.

All’s well (sort of) until the sudden arrival of a college friend–the stunningly beautiful Portia, who’s known for breaking hearts. Though they’ve grown up and grown apart from Portia, the four friends welcome her back into the fold. But does Portia have a hidden agenda or is she merely looking to reconnect with old friends? Her reappearance soon unleashes a rollicking series of events that tests the foursome’s friendships to the limit and leaves them wondering if a happy ending is in store.

Fortunately, Cath has plenty to take her mind off Portia’s schemes–like her gutsy decision to leave her job in advertising to fulfill her dream of opening a bookstore. And then there’s James, the sexy real-estate agent who keeps dropping by even after the bookstore deal is done. With his irresistible smile and boyish charm could he be the one to melt Cath’s heart?

Told with Jane Green’s captivating wit and flare, Bookends is above all a story about friendship–its twists, turns and complications–and how it weathers the challenges of love, ambition, marriage, and, most of all, growing up. Warmhearted, sophisticated, and full of delicious surprises, Bookends is Green’s most dazzling novel yet.

About this title

About the Author

Jane Green worked for many years as a journalist, with occasional forays into public relations for film, television, and the odd celebrity. The author of four other novels, including Straight Talking, Jemima J (Broadway Books, 2000), Mr. Maybe (Broadway Books, 2001), and Babyville (Broadway Books, 2003), she lives outside New York City with her husband and two children.

From the Back Cover

"Green gives readers a loably imperfect protagonist, a heart-to-heart narrative voice and a bumpy, error-strewn highway to romance. Bottom line: Pluck it off the shelf."
-People

"A near-perfect romantic wish-fulfillment fantasy...only the coldest hearts will not be warmed."
-Kirkus Reviews

"Single or spoken for, you'll find a character you can relate to in this page-turner about dating, marriage, parenthood, career goals, jealousy and of course love."
-iVillage

"You'll love this one...a bit of candy perfect for the bath, pool, or beach."
-Lexington Express

"Page-turningly irresistible...[Green] has perfect pitch."
-Connecticut Post

"Quick, witty, unputdownable and perfect beach reading. Don't miss it."
-Mirror (London)

"A hugely enjoyable novel about love and friendship."
-Express (London)

"The author of the successful Mr. Maybe does it again."
– She (London)

"Funny and poignant--you'll devour it in one sitting."
-Comopolitan (London)

Reviews

Popular British author Green (Jemima J and Mr. Maybe) follows up her two hits with a less sparkling effort that examines the intricacies of enduring friendships. In college 10 years ago, a small group of misfits ¢dowdy Catherine, gay Simon, cute naOf Josh and his object of affection, the regally beautiful Portia¢were best friends. After a messy split from Portia, the others have continued their friendship without her. While promiscuous Si and celibate Cath have lousy luck with men, Josh is happily married to earthy Lucy. The members of the tightly knit quartet commiserate about extra body weight, job dissatisfaction and the search for love, but are basically content¢until Portia reenters their lives and threatens their stability. Green touts her return as almost sinister, but the forecasted tornado ends up a mere zephyr. The novel opens with a promising bang, only to peter out before fulfilling its potential. Green has a knack for creating both atmosphere and characters that ring true, but the dialogue is sometimes strangely stilted and does little to propel the oft-meandering plot. There are some bright spots, like Cath's blossoming relationship with dreamboat James, but they are too few and far between to steady the pace.
Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information, Inc.

In her follow-up to Jemima J and Mr. Maybe, Green once again takes on the world from a youngish single woman's perspective, but this time with a slightly larger cast of characters. Though primarily Catherine's story, this novel also includes Josh, Cath's married friend; his wife and son; and Simon, Cath's (somewhat stereotypically) homosexual best friend. They all met at school, where the perfect, rich Portia was their idol. Though she eventually toppled off her pedestal, the others have maintained their broken circle. Fast-forward a few years, and Portia resurfaces. Thus, Cath must deal with the best friend whose loss she never really got over while also achieving her dream of opening a bookstore and finally availing herself of love. This novel is touted as Green's next, more mature step, but it's not that original or interesting. Cath is a frustrating character, and the dialog is uninspired and generic. The only inspired stroke is Portia; she's a much more intriguing character than any of the others. Recommended for libraries with large popular fiction collections. Amanda Glasbrenner, New York
Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information, Inc.

Green's third novel to be published in the U.S. concerns the plight of four friends in their thirties. Cath, Simon, and Josh have been friends since college. Josh married Lucy, and they have a son, Max; Simon is desperately looking for Mr. Right; and Cath is shirking relationships altogether and dreaming of owning her own bookstore. When Lucy proposes that she and Cath make that dream a reality, Cath decides to take a chance: she leaves her boring but stable job, and she and Lucy find a location for the bookstore and begin to renovate it. Meanwhile, Simon has met a man, Will, but Cath finds him pretentious and condescending. Cath herself is receiving attention from James, the gorgeous real estate agent who sold her and Lucy the space for the bookstore, but she's not sure she wants to get involved. Then they find out that Portia, a gorgeous former friend of theirs who broke Josh's heart in college, may be after him again. When Cath finally gives in and goes out to dinner with James, she spots Josh and Portia together at the restaurant and fears the worst. As always, Green's characters are winning and fun and her plot entrancing. For the many fans of her previous novels, Jemima J [BKL Ap 1 00] and Mr. Maybe [BKL Mr 15 01]. Kristine Huntley
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1

The first time I met Josh, I thought he was a nice guy but a transient friend. The first time I met Si I fell hopelessly in love and prayed I'd somehow be able to convert him.

But the first time I met Portia I thought I'd found my soul mate.

She was the sister I'd always longed for, the best friend I'd always wished I had, and I truly and honestly thought that, no matter what happened with our lives, we would stay friends forever.

Forever feels a long time when you're eighteen. When you're away from home for the first time in your life, when you forge instant friendships that are so strong they are destined, surely, to be with you until the bitter end.

I met Josh right at the beginning, just a few weeks after the Freshers' Ball. I'd seen him in the Students' Union, propping up the bar after a rugby game, looking for all the world like the archetypal upper-class rugger bugger twit, away from home with too much money and too much arrogance.

He--naturally--started chatting up Portia, alcohol giving him a confidence he lacked when sober (although I didn't know that at the time), and despite the rebuffs he kept going until his friends dragged him away to find easier prey.

I'm sure we would all have left it at that, but I bumped into him the next day, in the library, and he recognized me instantly and apologized for embarrassing us; and gradually we started to see him more and more, until he'd firmly established himself as one of the gang.

I'd already met Si by then, had already fallen in love with his cheeky smile and extravagant gestures. I was helping out one of the girls on my course who was auditioning for a production of Cabaret. It was my job to collect names and send them into the rehearsal hall for the audition.

Si was the only person who turned up in full costume. As Sally Bowles. In fishnet stockings, bowler hat, and full makeup, he didn't bat an eyelid as the others slouched down in their hard, wooden chairs, staring, jealous as hell of his initiative. And his legs.

He went in, bold as brass, and proceeded to give the worst possible rendition of "Cabaret" that I've ever heard, but with such brazen confidence you could almost forgive him for being entirely tone-deaf.

Everybody went crazy when he'd finished. They went crazy because he so obviously loved, loved, being center stage. None of us had ever seen such enthusiasm, but even though Si knew every song, word for word, he had to be content with camping it up as the narrator, as Helen, the director, said she never wanted to hear him sing again.

Eddie was a friend of Josh's. A sweet gentle boy from Leeds who should probably have been overwhelmed by our combined personalities, but somehow wasn't. He was easy company, and always willing to do anything for anybody he cared about, which was mostly us, at the time.

And then of course there was Portia. So close that our names became intertwined: CatherineandPortia. Two for the price of one.

I met Portia on my very first day at university. We were sitting in the halls of residence common room, waiting for a talk to begin, all sizing each other up, all wondering whom to befriend, who seemed like our type, when this stunningly elegant girl strode in on long, long legs, crunching an apple and looking like she didn't have a care in the world.

Portia, with her mane of dark auburn hair that reached down between her shoulder blades. Portia, with her cool green eyes and dirty laugh. Portia, who looked like she should have been a class-A bitch, but was, then, the greatest friend I'd ever had.

Her confidence took my breath away, and, when she flung her bag down on the floor and sank into the empty chair next to mine, I prayed she'd be my friend. She stretched out, showing off buttersoft suede thigh-high boots, exactly the boots I'd dreamt of wearing if I ever got thin enough, and, taking a last bite of the apple, tossed it with an expert flick of the wrist into the dustbin on the other side of the room.

"Yesss!" she hissed triumphantly, her cut-glass accent slicing through the room. "I knew all those years as goal shooter would pay off sometimes," and then she turned to me. "I'm Portia. When does this bloody thing start?"

Portia had more than enough confidence for both of us. We found, within minutes, that despite our different backgrounds we had the same vicious sense of humor, the same slightly ironic take on life, although it took a few years for the cynicism to set in.

We made each other laugh from the outset, and there never seemed to be a shortage of conversation with Portia. She had a prime room--one of the most coveted in the building. A large bay window overlooked the main residential street, and Portia repositioned the armchairs so that they were in the bay, draping them with jewel-colored crushed-velvet throws. She sat there for hours at a time, watching people go by.

Most of the time I'd be there too. The net curtains would be rolled around the string of elastic from which they hung, and in summer the window would be open and we'd sit drinking bottles of Beck's, Marlboro Lights dripping coolly from our fingers, waiting for the men of our dreams to walk past and fall head over heels in love with us.

They frequently did. With Portia, at any rate.

Even then she had more style than anyone I'd ever met. She would go to the hippie shops in town and pick up brightly colored beaded dresses for a fiver, tiny mirrors sprinkled all over them, and the next day I'd find her finishing off two stunning new cushions, the mirrors glinting with ethnic charm.

She did have money, that much was obvious, but there was never anything snobbish or snooty about Portia. She'd been brought up in the country, in Gloucestershire, in a Jacobean manor house that could probably have provided accommodation for most of our campus.

Her mother was terribly beautiful, she said, and an alcoholic, but, Portia sighed, who could blame her when her father was sleeping with half of London. They had a pied-a-terre in Belgravia, to which Portia eventually decamped when she refused to go back to boarding school, opting to do her A-levels in a trendy tutorial college in London instead.

It was a world away from my own background. I was intimidated, impressed, and in awe of her life, her lifestyle. My life had started in deepest, darkest suburbia, in an ordinary prewar semi on a main road in North London. My father, unlike Portia's landowning, gambling, semi-aristocratic parents, is an accountant in a local firm. My mother is a housewife who works occasionally as a dinner lady in the local primary school.

As far back as I can remember I would escape from my humdrum world by burying myself in books--the one true love of my life when growing up.

I love Mum and Dad. Of course. They are my parents. But the day I went to university I realized that they had nothing to do with me anymore, nothing to do with my life, with who I wanted to be, and never was I more aware of cutting the umbilical cord than when I met Portia.

I used to wonder whether style was something you were born with, or whether it was something you could buy. I'm sure that it's something you're born with, and Portia was just fortunate in being able to afford the very best as well. I still have no doubt, however, that she could have made a bin bag look sophisticated. The rest of us would shop at Next, but she always looked like she was wearing Yves Saint Laurent. She'd joke about it, about our sweaters covered in holes, and our faded old Levi's, the more rips and holes in them the better. She'd laugh about how she found it physically impossible to walk in anything with less than three-inch heels due to a birth defect. She'd sink to her knees and grab the bottom of my favorite sweater--a sludge-green crocheted number that, with hindsight, was pretty damn revolting--begging, pleading, offering me bribes to burn the sweater and have her N. Peal cashmere sweater instead.

There were a few people who were jealous of her. There always are. I remember one night when Portia was cornered by some big rugby bloke in a pub. She politely declined his offer of a shag, to which he responded by screaming obscenities at her and telling her she was a rich bitch and the most hated girl at university. He made some references to her being a daddy's girl, and then said she was the university joke. Eventually, when she recovered from the shock, she slapped him as hard as she could and ran out to the garden of the pub.

I found her there. I hadn't known what was going on. I'd been in the other room, chatting to people, and it was only when I noticed Portia hadn't come back that I went looking for her.

She was curled up in a heap at the bottom of the garden. It was raining and she was soaking wet, her hand covered in blood, her skin torn through to the bone. She was sobbing quietly, and I took her in my arms. After a while I insisted she go to hospital for stitches. Even there she refused to say what had happened, and the next day the rumors flew that he, the rugby oik, had hit her, had pushed her down the stairs. She never said anything about the incident, neither confirmed nor denied, thereby making the rugby bloke into something of a pariah with women.

Months later we were sitting in a café on the high street, when Portia suddenly said, "Do you remember that night? The night of the bloody hand?"

I nodded, curious as to what she was going to say, because she'd never spoken about it before.

"Did you think he'd hit me? Pushed me down the stairs?"

I shrugged. I didn't know.

"I did it myself," she said, lighting up a cigarette and examining the tiny scar on the knuckle of her right hand. "It's this thing I do," she said nonchalantly, dragging on the cigarette and looking around the room as if to say that what she was telling me wasn't important. "I have a tendency to hurt myself. Physically." She paused. "When I'm h...

Edition details

• Publisher: Broadway Books
• Publication date: 2002
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0767907809
• ISBN 13: 9780767907804
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 358