Getting Over It [Paperback]

Had Maxted published this sharp, witty tale of a British woman's love life and real life before the Bridget Jones phenomenon, Fielding's novel might have been noted as a pale comparison. Written in a hip, readable, often poignant and always funny style, protagonist Helen Bradshaw's story is set in modern-day London, where the 20-something editorial assistant comes to terms with her father's death and her own life. The plot spans one year, beginning with the day Helen learns of her father's fatal heart attack. Helen struggles with faithless boyfriend, Jasper; her self-centered but sexy landlord, Marcus; and her solipsistic "best friend," Michelle. Meanwhile, her demanding and unsupportive boss at GirlTime magazine cracks the whip. A complex part of Helen's healing process is repairing her relationship with her overbearing mother, Cecilia, who, though she mourns her husband inconsolably, eventually finds new direction in her life. Helen discovers real love in the patient and humorous veterinarian, Tom, and she learns enough about real friendship to hold onto her loyal, true buddies Lizzy, Luke and Tina, saving the latter's life in the process. As she stumbles from one crisis to another, Helen is always likable, even if the decisions she makes often make the reader want to give her a good shake. Although the narrative tackles many issues, from the loss of a parent to the horrors of domestic violence, Maxted's bouncy, upbeat tone never falters. Revealing a touch for comic timing and versatility, she paints scenes of hilarious pratfalls, biting sarcasm and heart-wrenching pathos. While comparison between this work and Fielding's is unavoidable, Maxted's laugh-out-loud debut novel will come out ahead. (June)
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Maxted, contributing editor to Cosmopolitan UK, has a quick wit and creates amusing characters in her first novel. Helen, the thirtyish heroine, is a features writer for a trendy women's magazine. She's reeling with grief at the sudden death of her father, and her stress is compounded by the neediness of her mother and grandmother. Helen has plenty more on her plate--she is being evicted from her apartment, she is trying to save a friend who is being abused by her fianc?, and her neurotic cat suffers a series of psychosomatic ailments. Behind the hilarious one-liners, there's a serious theme: it's tough for a young person to "be in charge" when a parent dies. Unfortunately, the appeal of this likable, if nonessential, novel will be limited in the United States by its many British colloquialisms. In addition, the book is far too long and loaded with slapstick scenes; its episodic content would have worked better as linked short stories. For larger collections.
-Joyce W. Smothers, Monmouth Cty. Lib., Manalapan, NJ
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.

'Maxted writes beautifully' -- The Express

'Warm, poignant and very funny' -- Marian Keyes

'A brilliant debut' -- Cosmopolitan

'Maxted is a gifted comic writer' -- The Times

Helen Bradshaw is a 26-year-old with a lot to get over. Being a dogsbody on a woman’s magazine. The embarrassment of driving a Toyota. But her biggest problem is her addiction to the kind of man a shrink would call ‘emotionally distant’ and others would call ‘a wanker’. She lives with Luke, her friend, Marcus, her enormously vain landlord, whom she secretly lusts after, and Fatboy, her very spoiled cat. Then Helen’s life is turned on its head. Her father has a heart attack and dies. Her mother goes to pieces and she’s forced to spend far more time than she wants with her grandmother. Her boyfriend confesses his infidelity, she sleeps with Marcus, and gets to know Fatboy’s vet, the lovely Tom. But before the path of love can run smooth, Helen has to learn what really matters in life.

Anna Maxted is the most exciting new voice to arrive on the commercial fiction scene since Josie Lloyd and Emlyn Rees. In her ability to write with a light and sure touch about the serious side of life - the things that really matter - she is matched only by Marian Keyes. Warm, moving and a novel to touch all of us, this is popular fiction told from the heart.

'Maxted writes beautifully' -- The Express

'Warm, poignant and very funny' -- Marian Keyes

'A brilliant debut' -- Cosmopolitan

'Maxted is a gifted comic writer' -- The Times

Anna Maxted read English Literature at Girton College, Cambridge, before becoming a journalist. She is former Assistant Editor of Cosmopolitan, and has freelanced for most national newspapers and magazines, including the Independent on Sunday, Daily Telegraph, Daily Mirror, Sunday Mirror, Saturday Times, Express, FHM, Esquire and Living Etc. Getting Over It is Anna’s first novel; it was inspired by her own experience of coping with the sudden death of her father in 1998.

Chapter 1

When it happened, I wasn't ready for it. I expected it about as much as I expect to win Miss World and be flown around the planet and forced to work with screaming children. Which is to say, it was a preposterous notion and I never even considered it. And, being so awesomely unprepared I reacted like Scooby Doo chancing upon a ghost. I followed my instinct, which turned out to be hopelessly lost and rubbish at map-reading.

Maybe I was too confused to do the right thing. After all, the right thing rarely involves fun and mostly means making the least exciting choice, like waiting for the ready-cook pizza you've torn from the oven to cool to under 200 degrees before biting into it. Or deciding not to buy those sexy tower-heeled boots because they'll savage your shins, squeeze your toes white, lend you the posture of Early Man, and a vast chunk of your salary will moulder away at the back of your wardrobe. If we always made the smartest choice we'd never get laid.

That said, the day it all began, I came close to making a very smart choice. Here it is, bravely scrawled in black ink, in my blue Letts diary:

I am dumping Jasper, tomorrow.

Words that whisk me back to another time. Barely one year ago but it seems like an age. Yet July 16th remains as sharp in my mind as if it was today. Maybe it is today. And this is how today begins:

I am dumping Jasper, tomorrow.

He deserves it for being called Jasper, for a start. And for a finish, he falls several thousand feet below acceptable boyfriend standard.

Funny thing is, at the age of five I knew what that was. I was dating the boy across the road and I routinely ate his tea before embarking on mine. I also tantrumed until he surrendered his Fisher Price wheely dog. And I refused to play in his bedroom because it smelt of wee. Then I grow up and start taking crap.

Unfortunately, Jasper is beautiful. Tall, which I like. The only time I've had dealings with a short man is when my overbearing friend Michelle set me up on a blind date. He rang the bell, I wrenched open the door, and looked down. And I'm five foot one. Two Weebles wibble wobbling their way down the road. Michelle's excuse was that when she met him he was sitting down. So Jasper, at six foot, is a delight. I wear five-inch heels so he doesn't notice the discrepancy. He has floppy brown hair, eyes so paradise blue it's incredible he actually uses them to see and, my favourite, good bone structure. And despite being the most selfish man I've ever met - quite a feat - he's a tiger in the sack.

I'm on my way there now. Sackbound. For one last bout. Except I'm stuck in traffic on Park Road. There appear to be roadworks with no one doing any work. I'm trapped in my elderly grey Toyota Corolla (a cast-off from my mother who was thrilled to be rid of it, please don't think I'd go out and buy one even if I had the money) and trying to stay calm. In the last twenty minutes I've rolled forward a total of five inches. I might ring Jasper to say I'll be late. The road converges on approximately fifty sets of lights and everyone is barging -- as much as you can barge when you're stationary. It's 2.54. I'm due at Jasper's at 3.30. Great. My mobile is out of batteries. I pick the skin on my lip. Right. I'm phoning him.

I assess the gridlock - yes, it's gridlocked -- leap out of the car, dash across the road to the phonebox, and dial Jasper's number. Brrrt brrt. Brrrt brrt. Where is he? He can't have forgotten. Shit, the traffic's moving. I ring his mobile -- joy! he answers. 'Jasper Sanderson.' Never says hello like a normal person. He's so executive. I hate it but I love it. He sounds suspiciously out of breath.

'Why are you out of breath?' I say sharply.

'Who's this?' he says. Jesus!

'Your girlfriend. Helen, remember?' I say. 'Listen, I'm going to be late, I'm stuck in traffic. Why are you out of breath?'

'I'm playing tennis. Bugger, I forgot you were coming over. It'll take me a while to get home. Spare key's under the mat.'

He beeps off. 'You're such an original,' I say sourly, and look up to see the gridlock has cleared and swarms of furious drivers are hooting venomously at the Toyota as they swerve around it.

Forty minutes later I arrive at Jasper's Fulham flat. I ring the bell, in case he's already home, but silence. I kick the mat to scare off spiders, gingerly lift a corner with two fingers, and retrieve the key. Ingenious, Jasper! The place is a replica of his parents' house. There's even a silver framed picture of his mother as a young girl on the hall table -- and a right prissy miss she looks too. Happily, he's never introduced me. His most heinous interior crime, however, is a set of ugly nautical paintings that dominate the pale walls. Thing is with Jasper, just when I think I can't take any more he does something irresistible, such as iron the collar and cuffs of his shirt and go to work hiding the crumpled rest of it under his jacket. I poke the scatter of post to check for correspondence from other women and see the green light of his answer machine flashing for attention. Jasper calling to announce a further delay. I press play.

As the machine whirrs, the key turns in the lock. Jasper flings open the door and I turn, smiling, to face him. Oof he's gorgeous. I'll dump him next week. This week, he's mine to have and to hold and to feel and to feel bad about. He's like eating chocolate for breakfast -- makes you feel sluttish, you know you shouldn't, you ought to stick to what's wholesome but Weetabix is depressing even with raisins in it. Jasper is un-nutritious and delicious. He opens his eminently kissable mouth to say 'Hiya babe!' but is beaten to it by a high silvery voice that echoes chirpily over the tiled floor and bounces gaily from one eggshell wall to the other.

'Hiya Babe!' trills the voice. 'It's me! Call me! Kiss! kiss!'

The smile freezes on my face. Jasper and I both stare at the answer machine which, having imparted its treachery, is now primly silent. Knowing the answer, I croak, ˆ la Quentin Tarantino, 'Who the fucking fuck was that?'

Jasper is not amused. If this were Hollywood there would be a muscle twitching in his jaw and his chiselled face would turn pale under its caramel tan. As it is, he carefully places his sportsbag on the floor, and rests his tennis racquet neatly on top of it. I feel a rip of fury tear through my chest and I want to snatch up the Prince and wallop him. At least he was playing tennis, although he's so damn sneaky I wouldn't be surprised if it was an elaborate cover. He gazes at my red fear-ruffled face and says smoothly, 'My ex. She likes to keep in touch.'

I'll bet she does.

'When did you last see her?' I snarl.

'A week ago,' he replies. 'We just talked.' Ho really.

I'm like Fox Mulder. I want to believe. And Jasper wants me to believe too. He's tilted his face to a penitent angle. Cute, but from what I know of Jasper, plus the gut-crunching phrase 'it's me' induces scepticism. 'It's me' is as proprietorial as a Doberman guarding a chocolate biscuit. A woman does not ring an ex-boyfriend and say 'It's me' because for all she knows -- and she obviously doesn't -- there is now another me. Me.

'Did you have sex with her?' I roar.

Jasper looks hurt. 'Of course I didn't, Helen,' he purrs. 'Louisa calls everyone Babe.'

Names ending in ah. Argh! I narrow my eyes and give him my best shot at a cold stare. The big brave words 'You're sacked' are warm, ready to roll, but they stick, feeble and reluctant, in my throat. Now, I tell myself, is not the moment. Why, he'll think I'm in love with him! The only decent thing to do is to walk. 'I'm going home,' I say huffily. The rat steps gratefully aside. I intend to sweep out in a Gone With The Wind flourish and it's going to plan until I reach the doorstep and trip. I stumble, and I'm unsure if the snorty-gasp I hear is Jasper not quite trying to suppress mirth but I don't look back to find out. Face clenched, I stomp down his concrete garden path, plonk into the Toyota, lurch hurtle a three-point turn during which I dent the door of a parked MG, and rattle off into the fading afternoon.

You wanker. You wanker. I wrestle my mobile out of my bag in case he calls grovelling then remember it's dead. Piece of crap. I am driving as the crow flies. You wanker. I have no intention of gracefully erasing myself from the picture so Louis-ah can steal the scene. I can't decide if he rutted or refused her. Jasper likes to be in demand. But then he likes to lead a streamlined existence. When he first saw my bedroom he murmured, 'I think you've been burgled.' He also tells me with pride about the morning he sat next to a bearded guy on the tube and tried to read the Telegraph over his shoulder. The man rustled his property in pique and snapped, 'Papers! Forty-five pence from the newsagent!' Jasper replied narkily, 'Razors! Forty-five pence from the chemist!' Jasper -- unironed shirts aside -- likes his life and all that surrounds it to be just so. Shagging his moony old ex would be too messy, it would disrupt his timetable. Then again. You wanker.

She's reared her smugly head before. A month into our relationship, as I like to call it. Jasper called to say he couldn't meet as he was staying with his friend Daniel in Notting Hill. Beyond my surprise that Jasper had a friend in Notting Hill, I didn't question it. We were at that googly-eyed stage where you kiss in public and annoy everyone who is less in lust than you so I trusted him. The next afternoon, he suddenly said, 'I told you a pack of lies last night.' What. 'I . . . I stayed with my ex.' Turned out he'd missed the last tube home (he doesn't drive, his most unfanciable trait) and so he'd walked to Kensington and rung on the ex's doorbell. 'She was really good about it.' Good about it! I'm sure she was great about it! Further interrogation revealed that she'd fed him Cornflakes with brown sugar for breakfast. The sly witch -- she was trying to nurture him! Happily, she was too needy to appeal and s...

Chapter 1 When it happened, I wasn't ready for it. I expected it about as much as I expect to win Miss World and be flown around the planet and forced to work with screaming children. Which is to say, it was a preposterous notion and I never even considered it. And, being so awesomely unprepared I reacted like Scooby Doo chancing upon a ghost. I followed my instinct, which turned out to be hopelessly lost and rubbish at map-reading.

Maybe I was too confused to do the right thing. After all, the right thing rarely involves fun and mostly means making the least exciting choice, like waiting for the ready-cook pizza you've torn from the oven to cool to under 200 degrees before biting into it. Or deciding not to buy those sexy tower-heeled boots because they'll savage your shins, squeeze your toes white, lend you the posture of Early Man, and a vast chunk of your salary will moulder away at the back of your wardrobe. If we always made the smartest choice we'd never get laid. That said, the day it all began, I came close to making a very smart choice. Here it is, bravely scrawled in black ink, in my blue Letts diary:

I am dumping Jasper, tomorrow.

Words that whisk me back to another time. Barely one year ago but it seems like an age. Yet July 16th remains as sharp in my mind as if it was today. Maybe it is today. And this is how today begins:

I am dumping Jasper, tomorrow.

He deserves it for being called Jasper, for a start. And for a finish, he falls several thousand feet below acceptable boyfriend standard. Funny thing is, at the age of five I knew what that was. I was dating the boy across the road and I routinely ate his tea before embarking on mine. I also tantrumed until he surrendered his Fisher Price wheely dog.

And I refused to play in his bedroom because it smelt of wee. Then I grow up and start taking crap.

Unfortunately, Jasper is beautiful. Tall, which I like. The only time I've had dealings with a short man is when my overbearing friend Michelle set me up on a blind date. He rang the bell, I wrenched open the door, and looked down. And I'm five foot one. Two Weebles wibble wobbling their way down the road. Michelle's excuse was that when she met him he was sitting down. So Jasper, at six foot, is a delight. I wear five-inch heels so he doesn't notice the discrepancy. He has floppy brown hair, eyes so paradise blue it's incredible he actually uses them to see and, my favourite, good bone structure. And despite being the most selfish man I've ever met--quite a feat--he's a tiger in the sack. I'm on my way there now. Sackbound. For one last bout. Except I'm stuck in traffic on Park Road. There appear to be roadworks with no one doing any work. I'm trapped in my elderly grey Toyota Corolla (a cast-off from my mother who was thrilled to be rid of it, please don't think I'd go out and buy one even if I had the money) and trying to stay calm. In the last twenty minutes I've rolled forward a total of five inches. I might ring Jasper to say I'll be late. The road converges on approximately fifty sets of lights and everyone is barging--as much as you can barge when you're stationary. It's 2.54. I'm due at Jasper's at 3.30. Great. My mobile is out of batteries. I pick the skin on my lip. Right. I'm phoning him.

I assess the gridlock--yes, it's gridlocked--leap out of the car, dash across the road to the phonebox, and dial Jasper's number. Brrrt brrt. Brrrt brrt. Where is he? He can't have forgotten. Shit, the traffic's moving. I ring his mobile -joy! he answers. "Jasper Sanderson." Never says hello like a normal person. He's so executive. I hate it but I love it. He sounds suspiciously out of breath.

"Why are you out of breath?" I say sharply.

"Who's this?" he says. Jesus!

"Your girlfriend. Helen, remember?" I say. "Listen, I'm going to be late, I'm stuck in traffic. Why are you out of breath?"

"I'm playing tennis. Bugger, I forgot you were coming over. It'll take me a while to get home. Spare key's under the mat."

He beeps off. "You're such an original," I say sourly, and look up to see the gridlock has cleared and swarms of furious drivers are hooting venomously at the Toyota as they swerve around it.

Forty minutes later I arrive at Jasper's Fulham flat. I ring the bell, in case he's already home, but silence. I kick the mat to scare off spiders, gingerly lift a corner with two fingers, and retrieve the key. Ingenious, Jasper! The place is a replica of his parents' house. There's even a silver framed picture of his mother as a young girl on the hall table--and a right prissy miss she looks too. Happily, he's never introduced me. His most heinous interior crime, however, is a set of ugly nautical paintings that dominate the pale walls. Thing is with Jasper, just when I think I can't take any more he does something irresistible, such as iron the collar and cuffs of his shirt and go to work hiding the crumpled rest of it under his jacket. I poke the scatter of post to check for correspondence from other women and see the green light of his answer machine flashing for attention. Jasper calling to announce a further delay. I press play.

As the machine whirrs, the key turns in the lock. Jasper flings open the door and I turn, smiling, to face him. Oof he's gorgeous. I'll dump him next week. This week, he's mine to have and to hold and to feel and to feel bad about. He's like eating chocolate for breakfast--makes you feel sluttish, you know you shouldn't, you ought to stick to what's wholesome but Weetabix is depressing even with raisins in it. Jasper is un-nutritious and delicious. He opens his eminently kissable mouth to say "Hiya babe!' but is beaten to it by a high silvery voice that echoes chirpily over the tiled floor and bounces gaily from one eggshell wall to the other.

"Hiya Babe!" trills the voice. "It's me! Call me! Kiss! kiss!"

The smile freezes on my face. Jasper and I both stare at the answer machine which, having imparted its treachery, is now primly silent. Knowing the answer, I croak, à la Quentin Tarantino, "Who the fucking fuck was that?"