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It's Ex-Wives versus Next Wives
Alison and her groom, Luca, have just exchanged vows and are preparing to cap off their perfect day at the reception. But before the champagne even hits the crystal stemware, Luca's first wife storms in and makes it clear that she intends to remain very much a part of his life. When the fuss has died down, Alison finds an ally in Fiona, who confides that a few women she knows have recently started something called the Second Wives Club — a group of female friends who get together to bitch and gossip about the drama that inevitably unfolds when you marry someone else's husband.
The Club gives founding members Julia, Susan, Fiona and their friends a place to vent, and together they contend with malicious rumors, scheming divorce lawyers, and ex-wives intent on revenge—until they decide that it's time to stop settling for second best ... and then the fun really begins. Praise for Jane Moore:
"Every bit as satisfying as a gloriously gossipy night out with the girls."
-Daily Mail (London)
"Fun and fresh, with an underlying sophistication."
-People
"Hilarious cynicism about relationships that will appeal to anyone who has ever lost in love. As therapeutic for heartbreak as a voodoo doll."
-Glamour Jane Moore is the author of the international bestselling novels Fourplay, The Ex Files, and Love @ First Site and a columnist for Britain's bestselling newspaper The Sun. A multimedia personality with extensive radio and television experience, she writes regularly for the Sunday Times (London) and formerly cohosted the acclaimed British version of The View (Loose Women). She lives in London. A First Wife Is for Life, Not Just for Christmas
Letting out an ever-so-pretty little sigh that wouldn't swell her bosom beyond the confines of her perfectly corseted dress, Alison cast her eyes up and down the table tops, letting her gaze linger on the eye-catching arrangements of lilies from one of London's top florists. The fact that hundreds, if not thousands, of identical lilies had been available from far cheaper outlets was neither here nor there. As she had told Luca on the numerous occasions he had questioned the validity, not to mention expense of it all, she wanted the best on her wedding day.
If she'd had her way, they'd have been married in St. Paul's Cathedral with a hundred-strong choir and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa warbling the bridal march. But the small matter of Luca's previous wedding had limited them to City Hall, and his refusal to shell out "London prices" meant the reception was being held at a nearby conference hotel of the kind usually associated with pull-out ironing boards and a Mr. Coffee percolator in every room.
But looking at it now, she thought, you could never tell that the day before it had been a drab old room frequented by the sales team of a window manufacturing company. The maroon draylon chairs were disguised with white cotton covers, gathered in by a red velvet bow tied round the back, and the four Seventies-style pillars propping the ceiling up were now unrecognisable, peppered with red rosebuds and fronds of trailing ivy. Around her, their hundred and fifty guests sipped champagne, dined on delicacies, and laughed as they snapped photos with the miniature Polaroid cameras they'd placed at every table.
Alison had employed the services of an event organiser, but being the product of a mother who was such a fanatical perfectionist that she put newspaper under the cuckoo clock, she was also a control freak. So she'd overseen every last detail herself, adamant that her wedding was going to be the fairytale perfect day she'd always imagined as a little girl. So far, she hadn't been disappointed.
Turning to her left, her expression of relief and satisfaction skewered into one of dismay as she clocked Luca's six-year-old son Paolo, smearing his foie gras terrine from one side of his plate to the other. Resisting the tempta
Alison and her groom, Luca, have just exchanged vows and are preparing to cap off their perfect day at the reception. But before the champagne even hits the crystal stemware, Luca's first wife storms in and makes it clear that she intends to remain very much a part of his life. When the fuss has died down, Alison finds an ally in Fiona, who confides that a few women she knows have recently started something called the Second Wives Club — a group of female friends who get together to bitch and gossip about the drama that inevitably unfolds when you marry someone else's husband.
The Club gives founding members Julia, Susan, Fiona and their friends a place to vent, and together they contend with malicious rumors, scheming divorce lawyers, and ex-wives intent on revenge—until they decide that it's time to stop settling for second best ... and then the fun really begins. Praise for Jane Moore:
"Every bit as satisfying as a gloriously gossipy night out with the girls."
-Daily Mail (London)
"Fun and fresh, with an underlying sophistication."
-People
"Hilarious cynicism about relationships that will appeal to anyone who has ever lost in love. As therapeutic for heartbreak as a voodoo doll."
-Glamour Jane Moore is the author of the international bestselling novels Fourplay, The Ex Files, and Love @ First Site and a columnist for Britain's bestselling newspaper The Sun. A multimedia personality with extensive radio and television experience, she writes regularly for the Sunday Times (London) and formerly cohosted the acclaimed British version of The View (Loose Women). She lives in London. A First Wife Is for Life, Not Just for Christmas
Letting out an ever-so-pretty little sigh that wouldn't swell her bosom beyond the confines of her perfectly corseted dress, Alison cast her eyes up and down the table tops, letting her gaze linger on the eye-catching arrangements of lilies from one of London's top florists. The fact that hundreds, if not thousands, of identical lilies had been available from far cheaper outlets was neither here nor there. As she had told Luca on the numerous occasions he had questioned the validity, not to mention expense of it all, she wanted the best on her wedding day.
If she'd had her way, they'd have been married in St. Paul's Cathedral with a hundred-strong choir and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa warbling the bridal march. But the small matter of Luca's previous wedding had limited them to City Hall, and his refusal to shell out "London prices" meant the reception was being held at a nearby conference hotel of the kind usually associated with pull-out ironing boards and a Mr. Coffee percolator in every room.
But looking at it now, she thought, you could never tell that the day before it had been a drab old room frequented by the sales team of a window manufacturing company. The maroon draylon chairs were disguised with white cotton covers, gathered in by a red velvet bow tied round the back, and the four Seventies-style pillars propping the ceiling up were now unrecognisable, peppered with red rosebuds and fronds of trailing ivy. Around her, their hundred and fifty guests sipped champagne, dined on delicacies, and laughed as they snapped photos with the miniature Polaroid cameras they'd placed at every table.
Alison had employed the services of an event organiser, but being the product of a mother who was such a fanatical perfectionist that she put newspaper under the cuckoo clock, she was also a control freak. So she'd overseen every last detail herself, adamant that her wedding was going to be the fairytale perfect day she'd always imagined as a little girl. So far, she hadn't been disappointed.
Turning to her left, her expression of relief and satisfaction skewered into one of dismay as she clocked Luca's six-year-old son Paolo, smearing his foie gras terrine from one side of his plate to the other. Resisting the tempta