By Anna Maxted
Meet Holly, the sunny twenty-nine-year-old proprietor of lady Meets Boy, a courting carrier in the event you are "beautiful within and out." even though she's a successfulmatchmaker, she hasn't particularly fulfilled her personal courting goals (her ex-fiancé, Nick, turns out not going to growth from his activity as Mr. Elephant, kid's celebration entertainer). So whilst her acquaintances dare her to choose a guy off the head of the pile, she's game.
But in a single lousy night, the probably excellent Stuart seems to be a completecad, and Holly's trust within the goodness of humanity takes a success. What does it suggest for her enterprise and her romantic destiny if she will now not belief her skill to learn humans? Holly's neighbors and co-workers are drawn into the advanced drama of her existence, whereas Holly learns her most vital lesson: to belief herself.
Rueful and hilarious, Behaving Like Adults is a must-read novel of guys and ladies growing to be up -- despite themselves.
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Additional info for Behaving Like Adults: A Novel
When I’m on a plane waiting for it to crash, I dream of elsewhere. I imagine Emily, a warm little black dot, curled up in a ball on our bed. I imagine my mother pottering in the garden, her knees clicking as she bends down. I imagine my father whistling as he polishes his shoes on a newspaper in the kitchen. It keeps the plane in the air, because as long as they’re with me nothing bad can happen. And so I imagined my parents, asleep in their pajamas under their bobbly old eiderdown. I just went to them, slipped out of my body like a ghost; they were so real I could have been hovering over their heads.
All my plotting, for this? I felt like a city dweller who fantasizes for many years about giving it all up for a fairy-tale cottage near the coast and then does. And realizes she’s trapped alone in the middle of nowhere in a cold, damp, crumbling shack with a broken toilet far away from anyone she cares about. ” Nick’s parents owned a country cottage, but it wasn’t a shack. It was fantastic. I think I preferred it to the Italian villa. That villa had a haughty look about it, and I never quite forgave it for the olive/lemon incident, but this cottage was so darling you’d swear it was built by pixies.
Okay,” said Nige. ” I’d forgotten this bit. I chewed my pen to keep from snickering. Nige tucked his chair under his desk, bounced to center stage, rolled up and down his spine, shook out his ankles. He breathed deep to open up his resonators, ensuring his vocal passage was free so he could connect with his center—“That’s your truth,” he explained as Claw and I watched, rapt—tried to connect his diaphragm to the roots in his feet—“For more truth”— allowed the sound to travel up through his spine—“Mmm aaaaaaaaah aaaeeeoooo”—took command of all the vowel sounds, limbered up his tongue by attempting to write his name in the air with it— opened up his range by standing on all fours like a cat, meowed “up and down a wall,” touching the appropriate body part when he reached the bottom note “to focus the sound,” diligently completed his articulation exercises, “Pepperpot pepperpot pepperpot pepperpot!