Love @ First Site

Good-bye thirty-three. Hello thirty-four. I can say this quite calmly, so clearly the midlife madness isn't going to strike me down just yet. Maybe next year.

After all, it was thirty-five that did for Julia, my trusty drinking partner from college days. She literally went to bed one night, full of anticipation for our forthcoming eighteen-to-thirty holiday (OK, so we lied on the application form, but doesn't everyone?), then woke up the next morning sobbing that she was on life's giant shelf and was sick of just being taken down and dusted occasionally.

"I want some permanency in my life," she wailed, before canceling our holiday and marrying the first man who crossed her path. Literally. I went to her wedding to the pizza deliveryman, but haven't seen her since.

So here I am, on my way to my "surprise" birthday party, organized by my dear friend and fellow TV producer Tabitha. Except that I know all about it, because my sister Olivia rang to warn me. She knows that I loathe and detest surprises and would be highly likely to walk straight back out again if one is sprung on me.

Instead, I shall arrive at the pub where I'm supposed to be meeting Tab for "a quiet drink," then put on an Oscar-winning performance of shock and delight at seeing the others there too.

As I walk in the door, I crane my neck above the crowds to seek her out. She leaps to her feet as soon as she sees me.

"Hi! Happy birthday!" She envelops me in a hug, then stands back and gives me the once-over. "You look great. Come on, I've booked a quiet table for the two of us through here."

Leading me by the hand, she guides me through to a small, oblong-shaped room with a circular table plonked in the middle of it, rather tellingly laid out for several people and decorated with lots of birthday kitsch from the 99¢ store.

At one end of the room, there's a dark plum velvet curtain, from which a jeweled mule is protruding quite obviously.

"Ta da!" Mule-owner Madeleine emerges from behind the curtain, tugging it back to reveal my other "mystery" guests, all grinning like jackanapes and chorusing "Surprise!"

"Oh my gosh!" Pulling my best Macaulay Culkin expression, I shriek loudly, then start running up and down on the spot for good measure. Seeing Olivia glaring at my pitiful overacting, I stop immediately. "Wow, you guys really fooled me! I had absolutely no idea."

There follows an excruciating few seconds where they all burst into a halfhearted chorus of "Happy Birthday," an imbroglio of flat notes, high-pitched wailing, and even a moment's hesitation when they clearly forget who they're singing it for.

"Thanks." I beam insincerely. "Shall we sit down?"

Now the attention has thankfully shifted from me and everyone is jostling for position and opening their napkins, I should take the opportunity to introduce you to a few of the usual suspects.

First of all, there's Madeleine, my social salvation. That's her sitting directly opposite me, fussing over who wants still and who wants sparkling. She's single too and, consequently, we see an inordinate amount of each other in our quest to find the "perfect" man we can then try to change beyond recognition. In the meantime, Madeleine happily indulges in lots of meaningless flings, not least because she's stunning and slim and a lot more successful at attracting men than I am. She thinks it's every man for herself and, as a dancer, her ability to lift her leg onto their shoulders in wine bars helps enormously. Tonight, as usual, she's wearing what I always describe as one of her "nuclear" outfits, with 50 percent fallout. But as she once told me, she never shows her underwear unintentionally.

At the table, she's flanked on either side by Richard and Lars, or Dick and Arse as I affectionately call them. Richard and I met when we were both TV researchers on Good Morning Britain. He worked in the showbiz department, whilst I was in "human interest." You know, those "I had one black twin and one white twin" kind of stories which are really just car crash viewing, but we have to pretend we're doing a public service by highlighting this problem and run a phone number saying "If you've had twins that are different colors and would like help, then call this number . . ." blah blah blah.

Richard has stayed in light entertainment, though he's risen to the lofty heights of a senior producer on the Saturday night game show Till Divorce Do Us Part -- catchphrase "The bounty after the mutiny" -- where warring couples win the glittering prize of an all-expenses-paid decree absolute.

His French boyfriend, Lars, a striking six-foot-three black man, is one of the dancers who high kick their way across the studio floor when the contestants win the chance to live happily ever apart. I met Madeleine through him.

Oh, hang on. Something's happening. My sister Olivia is banging the table.

"Here's to Jess. Happy thirty-fourth birthday. Cheers!" She raises her champagne glass and takes a swig, and everyone follows suit.

"Cheers," I parrot, knocking back a mouthful myself. "This really is terribly nice of you all."

"Love @ First Site" continues here

Excerpted from "Love @ First Site" by Jane Moore Copyright (c) 2005 by Jane Moore. Excerpted by permission of Broadway, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Jane Moore photo (c) Brian Aris. Jacket design by Lia Chee.

Jane Moore, author of "Love @ First Site" and the international best-selling novels "Fourplay" and "The Ex Files," is a columnist for Britain's best-selling newspaper, The Sun. She writes regularly for The Sunday Times (London) and formerly co-hosted the British version of The View (Loose Women). She lives in London. See www.janemoorebooks.com for information about books by Jane Moore.

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