New York Post columnist Harrison works over her love life in a predictable memoir.
Moving from London to New York to take a newspaper job, the British singleton had trouble getting the hang of hardcore reporting. Asking people to spill their guts about, say, the recent murder of their uncle felt uncouth and invasive. Luckily, Harrison fell into writing a column about her desperate attempts to meet a man in Manhattan, where women between 20 and 49 outnumber their male contemporaries by about half a million. She went on blind dates and speed dates. She wrestled with the question of how often to call a guy she liked, whether or not to snog in the first five minutes of a date and whether Banana Republic’s stretchy couture was “subtle-yet-sexy” or “way too tacky for a first date.” Meanwhile, she was carrying a torch for her boss, Jack. Lo and behold, it turned out he was pining for her too, and the lovebirds finally got together. A serious relationship has just as much drama as a bunch of bad blind dates, Harrison demonstrates; after all, she was ensnared in an office romance, and her job was to chronicle her romantic adventures in the newspaper edited by her new honey. Things with Jack eventually fizzled, of course. Next came a wealthy banker, but he thought she took him for granted and ultimately gave her the boot. Harrison throws in the requisite, if uninspired, chapter on 9/11, and the familiar props of chick-lit are here in spades: endless hand-wringing about being too old to snag a guy or conceive a child, references to Manolo Blahniks and Sarah Jessica Parker, plus enough alcohol to float a small yacht.
Sure to be a hit with romantically challenged readers, though neither as clever nor comical as, the fictional Bridget saga that doubtless inspired it.