By Anna Maxted
A hopeless unromantic will get a crash path in love within the fourth hilarious novel from bestselling writer Anna Maxted
After her catastrophe of a wedding ends while she is simply twenty, Hannah is confident you need to be from your brain (or determined) to tie the knot. And existence with out a husband at thirty-one is simply high-quality, thanks greatly. She has a gentle task operating as a personal investigator (albeit a mediocre one); a faithful boyfriend of 5 years, Jason; and a superb courting along with her dad (it's a disgrace her mom is this kind of misplaced cause). Then, on a romantic weekend retreat to a faux-ancient fortress, Jason proposes marriage, leaving Hannah with out selection however the visible: to show him down cold.
Much to her horror, 4 weeks later, Jason turns into engaged to his next-door neighbor, an excellent baker and ''proficient seamstress.'' Has Hannah blown her final probability at a high-quality courting as her kinfolk claims? Jason concurs to provide her one other likelihood -- yet provided that she meets his phrases, between them a promise to dirt off the numerous skeletons in her closet.
Brimming along with her attribute mixture of humor and heartache, Anna Maxted's Being Committed is a perceptive examine intimacy (and its substitutes), dedication phobia, and the ability others have over us.
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Additional info for Being Committed: A Novel
She was a relatively new acquaintance. She’d had a slew of different jobs and did a few weeks of blagging before leaving for a stint in telesales. I told her a lot, for me. What I mean is, she knew about Guy. I don’t mean to sound Dolly Parton about it, but Evie, who wore her thick honey-blond hair in a great luscious rope of a ponytail, could have had Guy, if she’d chosen. But, sitting across the dingy room, she saw me make the conscious effort not to chew my Biro when our boss brought him over to my desk, and didn’t try anything.
They were half human, half glacier. On tearing the wrapping off my gift, I was enraged to find that he’d bought me a jigsaw puzzle. A thousand pieces, the bastard. There was no picture on the box, so I said, “This better be good. M. Boxing Day (I got distracted, also I’m not good at jigsaw puzzles), I pressed in the last piece, in a disbelieving daze. The whole damn thing was black, except for five words in white. ” I rubbed my eyes, blinked. My head felt as if it were full of helium and my hands shook.
We chose a first dance (they make you). ” Jack held on to me so tight I struggled for breath. Now I see it differently. A man doesn’t propose at age twenty-one unless he is in the grip of a very strong emotion. Nor does a woman accept. But I was such a baby, one year younger than Jack, and I think it was significant. I had no perception. I never considered that he might assume he had married me for life — I couldn’t envision that far — I thought thirty was death. I couldn’t see beyond the next day.