Sex. There's a lot of it about. And Stella is definitely not getting her fair share. She's got a few handicaps: she's the wrong side of thirty, she's a single mum (to the adorable Honey), and her French hot-bloodedness is liable to turn grown men pale. Mind you, the men she meets are either perma-tanned, tight-trousered smoothies with strangely white teeth or - easy, tiger - balding, poorly socialized podgers. One lot have black satin sheets; the other lot have, well, wives. What's a girl to do? Dividing her time between London's most PC playgroup (most popular children's names: Ichabod and Perdita) and lessons on the art of pulling from housemate Frank, Stella is seriously starting to wonder if she'll ever have sex again.
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It is well written and the characters are interesting and peculiar enough for us to overlook the one or two obvious developments. The only thing that seemed a bit off for me was Stella, all intellectual and judgmental and opinionated, living solely off alimony. But again, it was not non fiction - it is still chick lit, and within the genre, it wins more often than not.
