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Angels: A Novel
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About Angels: A Novel
Product Description After catching her husband having an affair and being fired from her job, Maggie Walsh suddenly finds her perfectly organized existence has become a perfect mess. She decides, for the first time in her life, to do something daring -- and flees to her best friend, Emily, in the faraway wonderland of Los Angeles. In this mecca of tanned, beautiful bodies, unsvelte, uncool Maggie is decidedly a fish out of water. Yet, overnight, she's mixing with film folk, pitching scripts, even experimenting with sex -- and discovering that the end of a marriage is not the end of the world. Review “A heavenly romp…Keyes entertains every inch of the way.” — Lisa Ko, author of The Leavers “Beguiling….A balmy, welcoming emotional climate.” — Washington Post “Warm-hearted and hilarious.” — Boston Herald “Warm–hearted and hilarious.” — Boston Herald “A laugh–out–loud tour through the land of the broken hearts and fun shoes.” — Kirkus Reviews “A funny, good–hearted comic novel.” — San Jose Mercury News “Genuinely funny, sharply observed and winning.” — Publishers Weekly, Featured Interview “Wacky and wonderful...She imbues her charming stories about flawed yet feisty women with incredible warmth and wit.” — Booklist About the Author Marian Keyes is the author of ten bestselling novels and two essay collections. She lives in Ireland with her husband and their two imaginary dogs. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Angels By Marian Keyes PerennialCopyright © 2004 Marian Keyes All right reserved. ISBN: 0060512148 Chapter One I'd always lived a fairly blameless life. Up until the day I left my husband and then ran away to Hollywood, I'd hardly ever put a foot wrong. Not one that many people knew about, anyway. So when, out of the blue, everything just disintegrated like wet paper, I couldn't shake a wormy suspicion that this was long overdue. All that clean living simply isn't natural. Of course, I didn't just wake up one morning and skip the country, leaving my poor sleepy fool of a husband wondering what that envelope on his pillow was. I'm making it sound much more dramatic than it actually was, which is strange because I never used to have a penchant for dramatics. Or a penchant for words like "penchant," for that matter. But ever since the business with the rabbits, and possibly even before that, things with Garv had been uncomfortable and weird. Then we'd suffered a couple of what we'd chosen to call "setbacks." But instead of making our marriage stronger -- as always seemed to happen to the other luckier setback souls who popped up in my mother's women's magazines -- our particular brand of setbacks performed exactly as advertised. They set us back. They wedged themselves between myself and Garv and alienated us from each other. Though he never said anything, I knew Garv blamed me. And that was okay, because I blamed me too. His name is actually Paul Garvan, but when I first got to know him we were both teenagers and nobody called anybody by their proper names. "Micko" and "Macker" and "Toolser" and "You big shithead" were some of the things our peers were known as. He was Garv, it's all I've ever known him as, and I only call him Paul when I'm extremely pissed off at him. Likewise, my name is Margaret but he calls me Maggie except when I borrow his car and scrape the side against the pillar in the multistory parking garage. (Something that occurs more regularly than you might think.) I was twenty-four and he was twenty-five when we got married. He'd been my first boyfriend, as my poor mother never tires of telling people. She reckons it demonstrates what a nice girl I was, who never did any of that nasty sleeping-around business. (The only one of her five daughters who didn't, who could blame her for parading my suspected virtue?) But what she conveniently omits to mention when she's making her proud boast is that Garv might have been my first boyfriend but he wasn't my only one. However. We'd bee
