Romantic Times BOOKclub: 4 ½ Stars Top Pick!

Turning 30 doesn't really bother flat-chested Emma Taylor because she's up for a promotion and suspects that Adam, her marvelous live-in boyfriend who also happens to be her boss, is going to propose. But when she's passed over for the promotion and dumped for an older woman, Emma is suddenly single—and questioning whether she's destined to be a spinster.

She's also homeless and trapped working for Adam and that loser named Lou who got her promotion. More self-conscious than ever about her small bra size, she manages to soldier on with the help of her many good friends, exacts all sorts of revenge on her ex and finds love with the most unexpected person.

This is chick lit at its finest, with a lovable protagonist, engaging plot, great supporting characters (including the requisite annoying family) and lots of romance and humor.

It's been some time since I sat down and read a book in a single evening because it was so enjoyable, but that's what happened here. 32AA kept me laughing as I watched Emma deal with her annoyances of her life. A lot of the humor comes from Emma's quiet determination to get revenge on Adam. What works so well is that her revenge is sly, mature, and completely believable. Everyone tells her to spray paint his car and ruin his designer suits, and though she does give in to the urge to dump his expensive dinner into his lap when he officially breaks up with her, most of her revenge takes the form of subtle professional sabotage. Anyone who has ever wished for revenge on a jerk-ex is likely to enjoy it...

While this book is certainly romantic (and has a happy ending) Emma is very much the focus. Jack is more of a peripheral figure, lurking in the background as Emma's drama plays out. Still, the reader knows he's the right guy when he sees her topless after a bathing suit disaster - and says exactly the right thing. Those hungry for more of Jack can look forward to this summer's sequel, Call Waiting.

—Blythe Barnhill for All About Romance. Read the whole review here.

"Charming and quirky, Michelle Cunnah’s characters warm the heart—not to mention tickle the funny bone!"

—Meg Cabot, New York Times Bestselling author
of Boy Meets Girl and the Princess Diaries series.

"Witty and effervescent, 32AA sparkles like the Tiffany diamond its heroine hopes to receive."

—Nancy Herkness, author of A Bridge to Love

Best Chick Lit of 2003 Reviewer’s Choice Award

—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

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LIFE GOALS
Emmeline Beaufort Taylor
Age 13
(after attending first George Michael concert)

1. Develop breasts, like other girls. Mum says I’m a slow starter. Plus, bigger boobs are not important compared to Human Rights and World Peace.

2. Marry George Michael.

3. Have George Michael’s babies.

4. Whilst being perfect, glamorous, pop star wife (with adequate boobs) and wonderful mother, will also effortlessly juggle career as top businesswoman and ambassador for Human Rights and World Peace.

5. Have wonderful house in Kensington, Chelsea or similar, providing perfect setting for pop star parties (Elton John and David Bowie will drop in daily for coffee).

6. Have wonderful weekend retreat near Windsor or Balmoral, or similar, so that Her Majesty (or other appropriate royal family member) and international diplomats can visit to discuss progress on Human Rights and World Peace.

7. Change name. To be named for Emmeline Pankhurst, famous British suffragette of Victorian era, is depressing, as am not a stone throwing, letter-box-burning radical. Think my name encourages Mum to have false hope. Madonna would be a good name for me. Or maybe Cher...

LIFE GOALS
Madonna Beaufort Taylor
Age 16
(during really boring class on Atomic Chemistry)

1. Not marry Chris Stevenson, gorgeous, blue-eyed, blond-haired jock, as have just discovered that he is taking Susan Grayson to senior prom instead of me. Apparently, Chris and me are "just good pals." Just good pals? I don’t need any more friends. I want a boyfriend!

2. Stop obsessing over the fact that Susan Grayson is perfect goddesslike Senior with breasts, hips, and always gets the boys that I want to date. Best friend Rachel says I should stop obsessing over lack of breasts, too—I  must not feel pressured to conform to society’s stereotypical ideals of the female form.

3. Change name. Madonna is not a good choice. Class peers love to joke about this and fall frequently to floor in hysterical laughter fits, after checking out my lack of boobs and un-Madonna-like physique.

4. Meet Jon Bon Jovi (kind father has bought me birthday gift of tickets for concert at Madison Square Garden).

5. Marry Jon Bon Jovi. Much better looking. Much kinder person than Chris. Plus, am sure my George Michael phase was just puppy love, not like true love I feel for Jon.

6. Have Jon Bon Jovi’s babies.

7. Live happily ever after with Jon in New Jersey (in nice part of New Jersey, obviously, as will be married to rich pop star), whilst (also obviously) working for Human Rights and World Peace!

LIFE GOALS
Emma Beaufort Taylor
Age 29

1. Get promotion and become woman of independent means with great career prospects. This will please hard-to-please, strongly feminist, but ultimately loving mother, who considers men good for only one thing (but only after you explain to them exact location of female erogenous zones). Plus, will be able to afford multiple pairs of Manolo Blahnik shoes.

2. Meet successful, perfect, handsome boyfriend, thereby pleasing capitalistic, but ultimately loving plastic-surgeon father. Because boyfriend is already perfect, father and his partners will not constantly offer plastic surgery procedures as birthday/Christmas gifts for him.

3. Get engaged to above-mentioned successful boyfriend, thereby pleasing self. Plus, it will prove that not only am I multifaceted, slut-in-bedroom-Martha-Stewart-in-kitchen type, but also nurturing, caring mother-of-future-children type.

4. Have great apartment in SoHo, Greenwich Village or similar, plus weekend home in the Hamptons.

5. Maybe I should take up Dad’s offer to have Uncle Derek do my breast implants. Maybe not. Not only am I scared witless of elective surgery and dangers of implants, but also best friends Rachel and Tish have a good point. Surely a mature relationship is based on mutual attraction, respect, etc., and not the size of one’s mammary glands? Besides, the thought of "Uncle Derek" (Dad’s best friend and partner) finally getting his hands on my boobs is not attractive. Suspect he’s been after them for years.

6. Do not give up best friends just because am happily ensconced in perfect relationship, thereby having no time for best friends.

7. Make monthly donations (obviously need to concentrate on career to earn more money) to assist World Peace and Human Rights.

1. Birthday Girl?
TO DO
(before birthday next year)

1. Stick notes on refrigerator, coffee machine and all mirrors (because that way he’s bound to get message) to remind Adam about my forthcoming birthday.

2. Send Adam many e-mails to remind him about my forthcoming birthday.

3. Talk incessantly and at length about my forthcoming birthday.

4. Forgive darling Adam. (Tiffany’s ring is, after all, Tiffany’s ring! Y-e-s!)

6 a.m.

I open my eyes and blearily check the radio alarm as Robert Plant (a god among men) sings to me that he’s got a whole lotta love. Yes! It’s Friday. It’s June 28th. It’s my birthday.

My thirtieth birthday!

Wonder what gifts I’ll get from darling Adam, lovely friends and odd-but-caring family...Of course, gifts are not important, not at all when compared with greater issues such as World Peace and Human Rights. But still would be nice to get gifts...Tiffany’s ring, maybe...

Anyway. Am I depressed at the onslaught of middle age? No! Am I obsessing that the best years of my carefree youth are over? Not me! Am I unhappy to see the end of my twentysomething years? Not a chance! Am I carefully scanning the mirror each day for signs of lines? You bet.

It’s crazy, you know? But I yearn for a few mature lines around my eyes. Now that I’m thirty, people will have to take me more seriously.

I can’t wait to start the day! Because today is a day filled with exciting possibilities. Three, actually.

1. The Promotion. Should find out today. The interview, last week, went very well. I think that William Cougan (CEO) and Jacintha Bridges (Head of Human Resources) were impressed that the Kitty Krunch and Perfect Pantyhose campaigns were my ideas. Although they did seem to think that Adam was responsible. Strange...

2. The Party. With Adam and wonderful friends. I’m sure they like him more, now that they know him a bit better...

3. The Proposal. At least, I think Adam’s going to propose. I’m sure he’s going to propose. Yes, definitely...

As Bob (as I familiarly refer to Mr. Plant) croons that he’s going to give me all of his love, I want to give Adam all of mine, so I snuggle back toward him. If I wiggle just a little, he’ll know I’m ready for some early morning, birthday romance. Can’t be too obvious about it, because Adam thinks there’s nothing more of a turn-off than a woman who initiates sex. That’s men for you.

Oh, I know that’s a bit old-fashioned, but he’s an old-fashioned sort of guy about some things. Although his firm belief that women should always wear modest skirts is a bit unfortunate for me. Being four feet, eleven inches tall means that my legs are not very long and modest skirts turn them into six-inch matchsticks. This is not a good look for me. Although Adam does have a penchant for stockings and garter belts...

As I wriggle further to his side of the bed, all I meet are empty spaces and no Adam. The crumpled pillow holds the dent of his head, but not his, you know, actual head. And the covers are cold. Where is he?

Of course. He must be making me breakfast in bed! I’m a bit disappointed about the fading possibility of some early-morning sex, because he’s been very distracted and tired over the last few weeks. I wonder if he needs to go see his doctor? I hear that Viagra does wonders for the male sex drive...Anyway, after a leisurely breakfast in bed, maybe he won’t be so tired. Maybe he’ll reach over and kiss me, then...

I sigh and dive back under the comforter for an extra few luxurious minutes before Adam returns with my imagined birthday feast. Hmmm...I’ll eat strawberries straight from his hand, and take bites of croissant in between kisses...One thing will lead to another and we’ll have lovely, romantic sex. Adam, bathed in the afterglow of love, will magically produce a small jeweler’s box from Tiffany’s and beg me to marry him...

Oh. Perfect! The radio station’s playing doubles. More Led Zeppelin. Bob is now telling me that I will be his!

Hope Adam doesn’t mind that I switched the radio to classic rock, instead of the classic classical he prefers...

7 a.m.

Radio has clicked off and I’ve just realized that I don’t hear any noise coming from the kitchen of our small (but tastefully lovely) apartment so I’m getting up.

My hand lingers briefly on my ratty old bathrobe, then I spurn it in favor of the new cream silk robe Adam gave to me. Although the old robe is comfortable and familiar, it is not a particularly good look for me. No, the cream silk is definitely the right choice. I slip quickly into the bathroom to rinse my mouth with mouthwash—morning breath is so unromantic.

Oh, God, my hair. Albert Einstein on a bad hair day! Must do something about it before Adam sees me...

I pad over the beautifully refinished wood floor and into the living room. God, you can say what you like about Adam (all good, of course, because he’s completely wonderful), the man has great taste! Tish says his taste is flawless, and she’s an interior designer so she knows what she’s talking about.

As I glance around at all the creams and whites in the sun-filled apartment, I shiver slightly at the coldness of the décor. But still, I’m happy to leave it to him. I really am. I mean, my idea of interior design is to buy things that catch my eye. I could be, oh, anywhere—at a flea market, walking in a street market—and something will leap out at me and I’ll immediately know that I want to buy it.

But, as Adam has pointed out to me on several occasions, I don’t give any thought to where it would go, or whether it will fit in with the rest of the scheme. Take that beautiful lacquered Indian bureau I bought. I thought it would be the perfect addition to our bedroom—you know—give it a splash of color as a relief from all the creams and whites. But Adam was right. I mean, he did actually like it. Just not in his apartment. So I gave it to Tish for her birthday and she loves it. So that’s good, isn’t it?

I’m hugely disappointed because the cream and white kitchen, with stainless steel appliances (the latest in good taste) is completely Adamless. The coffeepot is gleaming with clean emptiness. The whole kitchen gleams with clean emptiness, not a crumb or a stray strawberry to be seen.

Where is he?

He can’t have forgotten...Can he?

As my brain refuses to deal with this possibility, I suddenly know were he is. He’s just gone to get my favorite breakfast in the world—an egg and sausage biscuit! Of course! That’s it. Yes it is. My stomach grumbles at the thought of food as I reject the alternative option. That he really has forgotten.

No. Not possible. I’ve been talking about it for weeks.

Tonight, we’re having dinner at Adam’s favorite restaurant, La Trattoria. And after he proposes (and I am almost sure he’s going to propose—why else would he be so distant? Gotta be nerves), and after we toast each other with champagne, we’re off to Chez Nous. My friends Sylvester and David are closing the restaurant for the whole evening, just so they can host my party. How nice is that?

But where the hell is Adam? Not that I’m worried or anything...

As I see the white envelope propped against the toaster, the telephone rings and I grab it. Adam! Darling Adam. See? He hasn’t forgotten my birthday after all.

"Hello," I say.

"Good morning, my name is John. Am I speaking with Miss Emmeline Taylor?"

Oh fuck. I really hate these people.

I am convinced that telemarketers exist just to torture me. Whenever I move address, it takes them less than two weeks to track me down. They are the bane of my existence. I wish I’d checked the Caller ID.

However, in recent months I have developed several cunning ways to thwart their attempts to extract money from me. Adam thinks it’s childish, but I find it hard to just say no and hang up.

I quickly decide on my strategy for today.

"Non," I say, with probably the worst attempt ever at a French accent.

Why do these bloody people never ask for Adam?

"Je viens vous parler au suject de mon fils," I say, with complete conviction. "J’ai vu faire cela à plusieurs ouvriers."

"Do you speak English, ma’am?"

"Ja hoor. Ik neem dit." (No, I am not calling John a whore.)

"Is there anyone in the house who speaks English?"

"Kde jsou toalety?"

"Er, thank you for your time, ma’am."

"Obuv!"

No, I do not speak multiple European languages, but I picked up some handy phrases from summer vacations in France, the Netherlands and the Czech Republic. This is the translation of our conversation.

Me: "I’m coming to speak to you about my son. I have seen several workmen do that."

John: "Do you speak English, ma’am?"

Me: "Yes, of course. I’ll take this."

John: "Is there anyone in the house who speaks English?"

Me: "Where are the toilets?"

John: "Er, thank you for your time, ma’am."

Me: "Shoe shop!"

After all, it is totally necessary to be able to ask directions to rest rooms and shoe shops when visiting a foreign country.

And the phone rings again, immediately. John and his buddies will not catch me out twice in one morning, I think, checking the Caller ID.

Not John. Not Adam, either.

"Happy birthday, darling Emma," Peri, my stepmom, burbles down the telephone.

"Thanks Peri," I say, trying not to sound disappointed.

"Did you get our cards? There’s one from me and Daddy—"

Yes, I’m thirty years old and Peri still insists I call my father "Daddy."

"—and one each from Jack Junior and Joe Junior—they made the cards in Art Class last week. Miss Zolowski says they have real talent for their age—she’s very excited about the abstract paintings they did for her yesterday, although she was a little upset when Joe Junior painted Charlene Gordon’s hair with rhododendron red..."

I phase out Peri as she burbles on about the terrible twosome-twinsome. Call me hardhearted if you like, but the criminal antics of my three-year-old half brothers do not amuse me. On account of having been their victim on more occasions that I care to recall. I’m totally with poor Charlene Gordon on this one.

Unfortunately, Peri believes that the path to child genius involves allowing the twins to do whatever they like. Apparently, disciplining children in any shape or form curtails their development. I don’t know if they have child prodigy qualities, but I do know that they are the most badly behaved kids I’ve ever encountered. Of course, I do love them. They are my half brothers, after all. I just prefer to love them from a distance.

Last time I visited them Joe Junior peed in my purse and Jack Junior fed my car keys to the waste disposal unit. The purse was ruined (was DKNY—a bargain from the outlets—okay, so last year’s fashion, but that’s entirely beside the point because it was a very nice purse). I mean, could you imagine using a purse again after it had been peed in? Fortunately, best friend Tish drove over to bring me my spare set of car keys.

"So we’ll see you and Adam on the Fourth of July?"

I really hope the twins behave. You see, Adam’s meeting my family for the first time.

"And don’t worry about a bathing suit—I’ve bought you a darling little bikini from the new boutique in town. Oops, that was meant to be a surprise—don’t worry, Daddy and I have some other gifts for you—I can’t wait until you open them."

Oh God, I really don’t want to spend Independence Day in a chosen-by-Peri bikini. I’m practically flat-chested, you see. And skinny. And you might think that this sounds perfect. You might think I’d be happy with my Gwyneth Paltrow physique (except she’s taller and has larger breasts), but I’m not. When dressed in nothing more than underwear, I am self-consciously aware of my feminine attributes. Or rather, my lack of them.

"We’re so looking forward to meeting Adam," Peri says. "It’ll be great, all the family together for the Holiday."

I wonder if I can come up with an excuse not to go? I want Adam to meet them, of course, but maybe it would be better if he met Peri and Dad without the twins first.

"Now, Emma, I have another lovely surprise for you. I wasn’t going to tell you, but I’m just so happy!" Peri shrieks with excitement and I have to hold the telephone slightly away from my ear.

"I’m just so delighted! You’ll never guess who’s coming. Go on, see if you can guess."

Guilty for trying to avoid Peri and her demon brood, I realize that if I try to get out of this, she will be hurt. And I really don’t want to hurt her. She’s only ten years older than me and has always made such an effort to be friendly and include me in Dad’s life (older sister syndrome—thank God not mother syndrome). Especially since the twins were born.

I wonder, again, how Dad could have married two such different women, from two different continents. One (my mother) a top, radical, feminist barrister in London. The other (Peri) a receptionist from New Jersey. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a receptionist, because it’s a very worthwhile job. Not that there’s anything wrong with New Jersey, either (after all, John Bon Jovi lives there, so that’s good, isn’t it?). I’m very glad I got the chance to live in New Jersey with Dad. My mother (ever one for equal rights) made sure I spent equal time living with Dad. Although it has to be said that he was barely married to my mother long enough for the ink to dry on the marriage certificate (she was back in London before she even realized that she’d brought rather more back from the States with her than she’d bargained for—me).

I realize that Peri’s side of the phone line has gone unusually quiet as she waits for me to guess the identity of the mystery guest. Oh, God, I hope it’s not Uncle Derek. Or Norbert.

"Er, Uncle Derek? Norbert?" I pray I’m wrong. Uncle Derek, Dad’s partner, apparently a complete whiz with a scalpel and a pair of implants, has a disconcerting habit of talking to my breasts instead of to me. And although I’m sure his interest is purely professional, I can’t quite rid myself of the idea that Uncle Derek enjoys his work more than is usual. How would he feel if I spoke to his penis?

And Norbert, a junior partner (also a breast man), is a complete bore. He’s convinced he’s irresistible to the entire female population. But why does he feel the need to point out the smallness of my breasts whenever I meet him? I don’t ask men how long their penises are, then recommend penis extensions if they’re anything under eight inches.

"Guess again," Peri grunts with her gusty laughter. And then, "Emma, just give me a moment will you? The boys are smashing eggs on the kitchen floor...Joe Junior, raw egg is not good for you..."

As Peri rescues my half brother from near death by salmonella, I suddenly remember the envelope I’m holding. It says E. on the envelope. It’s for me! From Adam! Everything’s fine, just like I thought. It’s got to be part of my birthday surprise. Maybe it’s a magical mystery tour, you know, "meet me at the café on the corner and all will be revealed."

I rip it open and pull out the neatly folded sheet of paper, scrabbling at it with excitement. And then my heart sinks into my feet as I read it.

Breakfast meeting with important client. See you later, A.

What meeting? Which client? As Adam’s assistant, I keep his office diary and I would have remembered Breakfast meeting with important client. See you later, A. Especially today of all days. And it doesn’t even say Love A., with kisses. You’d think he’d remember to add a few X’s to the bottom of the note, wouldn’t you?

I can’t help the very bad feeling that’s congealing in the pit of my stomach. Am I obsessing? I think I am obsessing. I take a deep breath and try not to assume the worst, but it’s hard. I always assume the worst, because that’s usually the real deal so I’m just preparing myself in advance for disappointment.

Rachel says it’s my English half coming out and she is one smart cookie. She has a doctorate in biochemistry, or genetic engineering, or something scientifically brilliant. Anyway, she’s scarily clever, and if she says that my English half is insecure and that it worries compulsively, then I figure it must be right.

"Darling, I have to go," Peri splutters down the phone. "Oh God, Joe Junior just puked on the kitchen floor. Does salmonella show that quickly? I don’t think it does, but you can’t be too careful. I’d better call the pediatrician, just to make sure. See you on Thursday. Oh, and happy birthday again."

I hang up the receiver as the panic attack starts to build, moving up from my stomach to my throat. What if Adam’s getting tired of me? Breathe, breathe, in-out, in-out.

Oh, God. What’s if he’s having an affair?

I wonder if it’s too early to call Tish or Rachel? Think I’ll call Tish. Rachel will only tell me to stop being pathetic and needy. Okay, it’s now seven thirty. Tish will be having breakfast in Rufus’s Organic Deli on Washington, in a bid to finally make Rufus notice her and fall madly in love with her after three years of breakfasts in his deli. So I speed-dial her cell phone.

Friend Tish (shared an apartment with her for four years until I moved in with Adam three months ago) sings "Happy Birthday to You" to me.

"Tish, Ithinkadamforgotmybirthday," I gasp into the receiver. "He was gone before I woke up. He left me a note. Do you think he’s trying to subliminally send me messages that he wants to finish with me, or do you think he’s just nervous about proposing?" I can’t quite bring myself to utter my suspicions about an Adam-another woman affair.

"Honey, slow down. Tell me exactly what happened."

I spend the next ten minutes going through my angst, and Tish spends the following ten minutes telling me that I’m overreacting and that everything will be fine, there must be a logical explanation for his apparent amnesia. I feel a bit better. I really do. At least I think I do...

"Wear the Donna Karan pant suit," Tish tells me. "It will give you confidence. It absolutely screams ‘I am a capable, intelligent woman who is totally going to be a great account manager’. Stylish, discreet, yet not boring. Wear the four-inch Manolo Blahniks and take the Prada briefcase Rachel bought you last Christmas. And don’t overdo the makeup. Keep it simple."

"This is great," I tell her. And it is. Tish always knows what to wear for whatever occasion—it’s that designer eye of hers again—totally infallible.

"So, how’s it going with Rufus?"

"Oh, same as usual," she tells me cheerfully, and I know that means she barely said hello, just gave him her order and sank into tongue-tied embarrassment.

Tish, at thirty-five, is a young Sophia Loren (and will look gorgeous as an older Sophia Loren when she’s seventy). Men line up in droves at the door of her Interior Design store in Hoboken, but does she ever date them?

No. For the last three years she has pined over Rufus O’Leary, a big, brooding Irishman. Rufus is a nice guy, but he’s not exactly the type to spout poetry at you and sweep you off your feet (more the type to spout organic bean sprouts and offer you today’s special menu). Alas, the poetry and feet sweeping are exactly what Tish is waiting for.

"Well, I’ve got to go," she says, and what she really means is, "Oh, here comes Rufus I must get out before he speaks to me and I make an idiot of myself."

I haven’t told her yet that Sylvester and David have invited Rufus to the party (Rufus does, after all, provide the restaurant with the most wonderful organic produce). I feel guilty about this, but Sylvester made me promise not to tell Tish. He says that if we tell her, she’ll only obsess and be nervous for longer and there’s no point needlessly torturing her. Besides which, by the time we’ve managed to pour a couple of glasses of Chardonnay into her, she’ll be more relaxed and confident enough to finally speak to him.

I wonder why Adam’s so off sex...

Oh shit. 8 a.m. already. But I don’t care. You see, I accidentally found Adam’s latest Visa statement. When I say "accidentally," I mean that I found it whilst sneakily rummaging the contents of his bedside table in my quest to find evidence of an affair. And there it is—on his statement! A twenty-five thousand-dollar purchase at Tiffany’s. Twenty-five thousand dollars.

From Tiffany’s!

My engagement ring! Y-e-s!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

4:30 p.m.

I am hiding in the ladies’ bathroom.

It is a very nice bathroom, with art deco mirrors, lots of silk ivy plants and beautiful terra-cotta tiles everywhere, but the aesthetics fail to impress me.

I am gripping the cold marble counter and concentrating furiously on the artfully arranged faux flora, because if I don’t, I will cry, and the after-cry look is not a good one for me. Squinty eyes and blotchy red skin are what crying does for me.

I wonder if I can hide in here until everyone else has gone home?

END OF EXCERPT. LIKE IT? ORDER IT.

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