Over the years I’ve come to accept the fact that sometimes I’m in the mood to read unapologetic fluff. For me, that usually means a British rom/com filled with women who wear Jigsaw suits to their jobs as television presenters, who eat takeaway curries in their garden flats and take mini cab’s to meet their girlfriends at smart pubs at the weekend. I’ve always enjoyed these books with their pleasant and predictable plots where funny, slightly shallow, girls make messes of their love-lives, fight with their trilling mums, count on their friends, and end up with a grumpy by ardent Mr. Right. They kiss and my girlie brain flashes back to Darcy and Elizabeth (and Darcy and Bridget for that matter…) and the book ends on happily ever after.
Jane Green’s Mr. Maybe is precisely that sort of book, only I hated it. There was one major missing element: A likeable protagonist. The “heroine” is Libby, a young woman so shallow and so money grubbing that she is ready to walk down the aisle with a man who she finds not only physically repulsive but irritating and unlikeable. He is, of course, in Libby’s parlance “massively wealthy.” Libby’s better advisors- her best friend, her brother, and her father- tell Libby gently, and then not so gently, that this man is NOT for her. Only her heartless, dim mother thinks that Libby is making a wise decision. Of course, Green provides some explanation of Libby’s delusion- her heart was recently broken, she’s never had someone “treat her well….” But still. She feels nauseas when this man kisses her, and smothered by his attention. Of course, there is another man in the picture: Funny, sexy, kind, but, of course, tragically poor Nick. I don’t think I need to connect the dots for you plot-wise- it’s not exactly a nail biter.
This book left me irritated at its pathetic protagonist and at the writer who created her. Looking back though, I wonder is this book was really any worse than Green’s other books that I read and liked about 9 years ago? Is Libby was really any shallower than say Becky Bloomwood, or even Miss Jones herself? It may be that now that I’m in my early 30’s (ugh) rather than my early 20’s, these fairy tale romances between naïve women and stolid men don’t work for my anymore. I may have…finally… outgrown them. It seems impossible, but here we are. So it looks like I’m in the market for a new kind of fluff. Maybe cat themed mysteries? Or novels about quilting societies? Or what’s that one about quirky, church-going townspeople? Hmmm…. Let me know. I’m open to suggestions.