Why “Sundays At Tiffany’s” Is Like Porn For Overweight Women

Is this cover REALLY that similar to the cover of "Suite française"?

A commenter suggested I should write a post about James Patterson. I know Patterson is primarily known for writing mysteries. Well, unfortunately I never got that far. Why? The first Patterson book  I read was Sundays At Tiffany’s, a romance novel he co-wrote with Gabrielle Charbonnet. Thing is, I never even meant to buy the wretched thing! I was going to *quickly* pick up a book before my plane ride: Suite française - which was stacked behind the counter. The cashier put it in a bag for me. It wasn’t before I was safely in the seat of my TEN-HOUR-ride to fucking Europe that I realized I was stranded with what might just be the worst book in the history of modern literature. You know a book is bad when you’d rather watch “Gigli” than finish it.

If there is one strand of literature I shy away from as if it were drenched in human papillomavirus, it’s romance novels. If there’s one strand of literature I really shy away from as if it were drenched in human papillomavirus, it’s romance novels about chubby-but-kindhearted heroines who get the guy in the end in spite of the hurdles thrown in by the skinny, gorgeous (but much less funny, interesting or intelligent!) temptress. So, basically all romance novels. Does anyone know of a book where the skinny, beautiful girl lives happily ever after with the badass alpha male while the fat librarian commits suicide-by-Twinkies? I didn’t think so (but that would be a hilarious read).

Sundays at Tiffany’s fits into the former category. The tagline on the cover reads “What if your imaginary friend from childhood was your one true love?

…

…

… Do you see how bad this is going to get?

Gah. Much like every member of the novel’s target audience, the protagonist, Jane Margaux, “is a lonely little girl.” (Yeah. The summary on the back actually says that). In spite of the fact that Jane is a chubster with a capital C living in the shadows of her skinny and beautiful (i. e. EVIL) mother, she is best friends with hot, smart and funny Michael. Michael thinks Jane is the best thing since Toaster Strudel. He is purrrrfection. Except for one little detail: he’s imaginary! The book is basically A Day In The Life Of Twilight Fangirls.

I have a theory that a woman’s weight will rise exponentially with the number of romance novels she reads per annum. Sundays At Tiffany’s contains these long, detailed descriptions of desserts. I remember reading them and going “what the hell IS this?” It pretty much reads like endless Ben & Jerry’s product placement. Jane always gets double servings (one’s for Michael, of course!). “Aw, man”, the reader sighs. “If only that were a valid excuse in real life.”

Anyway. The book is basically about Jane eating ice cream and being lonely and ostensibly having a horrible life in spite of the fact that she’s a rich, successful playwright with not one, but two gorgeous guys who desperately want to be her boyfriend and totally agree her mom’s a real bitch for always being like, “you’re fat and brunette, Jane.” In the end, we find out the mom was only being mean so that Jane could become compassionate.  Because that’s a perfectly rational way to teach your child about empathy.

Ever notice how that happens all the time in romance novels? If a character is mean to the protagonist, it’s never because they genuinely just don’t like her. You know, like in real life. It’s always because they

a) are jealous of her

or

b) love her SO much they simply can’t handle their emotions around her. Think Edward Cullen. Or, from now on: the creepy mom in Sundays At Tiffany’s.

The plot is kind of hazy to me now.  The imaginary hottie becomes human. For unexplained reasons. And anyone blonde or skinny has horrible things happen to them. Really. One of them dies.

In the end, Jane and Michael live happily ever after and consummate their relationship. The sex scene goes something like this:

Jane: “I don’t want you to see me naked. I’m so morbidly obese I’m practically deformed.”

Michael: “I actually think you’re quite sexy. Besides, I love you for your inner beautyblahblahblahMyWordsAreFemalePorn.”

Jane: “LIES! I’m a fat, ugly whore! But please continue.”

I don’t think the editor was smoking anything at all. I think she was crying tears of joy and wish-fulfillment over a tub of Godiva. Was that mean? Apologies to Danielle Steel fans everywhere.