With Friends Like These: A Novel (Random House Reader's Circle)
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Quincy, Talia, Chloe, and Jules met after answering a roommate ad for an apartment. Despite having little in common, the women became fast friends. A decade later, Quincy, a Midwestern introvert, is trying to overcome a set of tragedies by hunting for the perfect home; Talia, a high-energy California wife and mom, is growing resentful of her friends’ greater financial stability; timid Chloe, from New England and also a mother, is trying to deflect pressure from her husband, a hedge fund manager, to play the role of trophy wife; and Jules, a fiercely independent New York City native and entrepreneur, is confronting her forties alone.
As the women wrestle with the challenges of love and motherhood, will their relationships survive? Witty and wise, Sally Koslow’s With Friends Like These hits an emotional bull’s-eye for anyone who has had—or even been—a less than perfect pal. This high-five to sisterhood will leave you certain that close friends can never be replaced.
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everyone all back-slappin’ happy, until an exposé appeared in the Journal. Internal problems at this company, rumors of the CEO resigning, then a market correction. Not a major dip, but noticeable. Around this time, it got back to me that the … person … I’d been dealing with had started shooting off his mouth on the golf course, saying he had me on his payroll. That’s when Edgar heard.” Xander rubbed his wrist. He wasn’t wearing a watch. Had the Patek Philippe, with its eighteen-karat white-gold
for the results?” “Tomorrow or the next day, depending on how asleep at the wheel the lab techs are. Now, you’ll have to excuse me—I need to break the word to the couple in the next room that it’s triplets. They’ve had two miscarriages.” Discretion is not Sheila’s finest attribute. “Don’t be surprised if you hear screaming.” Triplets should have put things in perspective. But they didn’t. One baby was still like one atom bomb or one sex-change operation. It would mutate everything in my life to
away from the tables and stood over Henry, trying to cajole him into joining the group. He ignored her. I glanced at Talia, who looked smugly amused. “That big kid over there is ruining it for everyone,” the mother next to me said, none too quietly. “Henry,” the teacher said. “This isn’t how Jackson Collegiate boys and girls behave.” Mother Hen gave Henry a stern look, and then—point, Henry Fisher-Wells—the arrogant little rooster said “Fuck” repeatedly as he came at his own building like an
aggressively patient, aware that every parent in the room was curious about how she’d persuade this recalcitrant participant to play by her rules. My son narrowed his eyes and sized up the woman with a look of deep disdain I hoped he’d never show me. “No, thanks,” he said, and returned to his blocks. Could he, I hoped, at least get points for manners? “Henry.” The woman sucked in her breath and peered down through heavy glasses as if her reputation was at stake, which it was. “This isn’t how
of us. But Tom was right. The day before, I hadn’t been, as I’d claimed, at a free introductory belly dance class. I’d been getting the best job offer of my life. He threw the dish towel onto the counter and walked out of the kitchen. Before he picked up his gym bag, he announced, “You’ve changed, but I am exactly who you signed up to marry.” With that, he was out the door. One day you have a well-muscled marriage and the next it’s as flabby as your abs after childbirth. So sayeth Mean Maxine.