Running in Heels: A Novel [Paperback] Maxted, Anna

About the Author Anna Maxted is a freelance writer and the author of the smash international bestsellers Getting Over It, Running in Heels, and Behaving Like Adults. She lives in London with her husband, author Phil Robinson, and their son. Product Description "To say that Babs has been my closest friend for sixteen years is rather like saying that Einstein was good at sums. We were blood sisters from the age of eleven (before my mother prized the razor out of Babs's hand)." But now Babs, noisy and as fun as a day at the beach, is getting married. And Natalie Miller, twenty-seven, senior press officer for the London Ballet, panics. What happens when your best friend pledges everlasting love to someone else? It doesn't help that Nat is dating a guy named Saul Bowcock. As the confetti flutters, her good-girl veneer cracks, and she falls into an alluringly unsuitable affair that spins her crazily out of control. Nat is on the rebound and allergic to the truth—about Babs's relationship, her boyfriend's ambition, her parents' divorce, and her golden-boy brother's little Australian secret. Her mother's lasagna and her roommate Andy's fuzzy slippers are also monstrous affronts. But what Nat really needs to face is the mirror—and herself . . . . Wickedly witty and refreshingly honest, Running in Heels is a hilarious look at the lies we tell ourselves—and the unwanted truths that only our best friends can tell us. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Running in Heels By Maxted, Anna ReganBooksCopyright ©2004 Anna Maxted All right reserved. ISBN: 0060988258 Chapter One The bride is climbing a tree. Babs, that branch looks unsafe, are you sure...Crash. Splash. Oh well, she says, squelching from the pond, a happy green and brown mud monster. At least I got the ball down. A tut! of wonder drags me from my thoughts and I realize that the bride is no longer twelve years old and soggy. She is all grown up and gorgeous, a Botticelli come to life. There is a swish of silk and a rustle of taffeta as my best friend halts and turns to face her groom. Her gaze is so intimate that I look away. A goose honks or, possibly, my mother blows her nose. The vicar smiles crossly until there is quiet, then compares marriage to building a house. I'm craning over the rows of prettily feathered hats, when my brother digs a sharp elbow into my ribs and says, There's nothing like a big bride. Always reminds me to lay off the cake. I blush. Please, Tony! I whisper, Babs is Amazonian. My brother needs attention like other people need to breathe, but despite his ungracious presence, this day is a perfect day for Babs. It is her own personal fairy tale made real in a haze of confetti and lace. She looks radiant. And I know as I sit here, sighing and cooing with the rest of the crowd, that I'll never forget her wedding as long as I live. It is the beginning, and the end. The start of a marriage and the end of a beautiful relationship. Ours. To say that Babs is my closest friend is like saying that Einstein was good at sums. Babs and I know each other like we know ourselves. We were blood sisters from the age of twelve (before my mother prized the razor out of Babs's hand). And if you've ever had a best friend, you'll know what I mean. If you've ever had a best friend, I don't need to tell you about making blackberry wine in the garden and being rushed to the hospital, puking majestic purple all the way. Or about our secret language (which is lucky, because I'd have to kill you). Or when we touched tongues to freak ourselves out. Or about our Spanish holiday, age sixteen. Or when Babs dated the coolest, tallest, blondest guy in school and set me up with his wetter, shorter, prematurely balding friend. (He wasn't keen on me either.) Or when Babs thought she was pregnant and we bunked biology to beg the morning-after pill from her GP. I don't need to tell you of the endless talk about details'the use of toothpaste to zap spots, the way some da