MR. MAYBE

Breathless, talky, class-conscious romance from the British author of Jemima J (2000).

Libby Mason is an up-and-coming London publicist who touts minor celebrities like comedian Tony Baloney and TV perky-person Amanda Baker. Her job is interesting but it doesn’t pay well, and Libby dreams of marrying a wealthy Mr. Right—especially since she just broke up with a Mr. Wrong. Enter Nick, a handsome but scruffy writer whose politics are decidedly Labour. Libby, a knee-jerk Tory, finds Nick’s leftish leanings faintly appalling, not to mention his penchant for hanging around in pubs, or the fact that he’s on the dole, or that his unpublished novel has been rejected more than once. More than twice. But Nick is very sexy, and if he’s not be Mr. Right, he’s certainly Mr. Maybe—and is ready for a fling, starting with a slippery bathtub seduction scene. Libby is thrilled to discover that Nick wrote the oral sex chapter in the book of love—and that his other amatory skills make her toes curl with erotic delight. But she can’t possibly marry a poor man, can she? Of course not. And Nick’s made it clear he’s not looking for a real relationship. Libby sheds a few obligatory tears and moves on to Ed, a filthy-rich investment banker who’s happy to buy her whatever ultraexpensive designer outfit she fancies and take her out to posh places in his fabulous Porsche. How unfortunate that so much food gets stuck in his rather unattractive mustache. And that he’s so disappointing in bed, panting and humping in a dogged sort of way. But he is so very rich . . . . Will shamelessly materialistic Libby marry dull but devoted Ed? Will her loyal girlfriends ever stop squealing over it all? Will Nick ever sell his novel for an advance big enough to make Libby happy?

A minute-by-minute account with no detail left out—but still less is here than meets the eye.