LITMIR.BIZ

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kick the habit, can you, darling?’

      ‘You don’t understand, Will.’ I turned to face Simon. ‘No matter how many times I’ve explained it to him, he refuses to understand.’

      ‘Understand what, exactly? How my lovely and highly intelligent English-major niece not only reads but obsesses over romance novels? You’re right, darling, I can’t understand.’

      I stared at my feet, feigning unfathomable shame. ‘The Very Bad Boy is brand new … and highly anticipated. I’m hardly alone – it’s one of the most preordered books on Amazon and had a mailing delay of three weeks after publication!’

      Will looked at Simon, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Darling, I just don’t understand why. Why?’

      Why? Why? How could I ever answer that question? It was something I’d asked myself a million times. It had started innocently enough, with the discovery of an abandoned copy of Hot and Heavy in the back pocket of a plane seat during a flight from Poughkeepsie to Washington, D.C. I was thirteen and old enough to sense that I should hide it from my parents, which I did. The damn thing was so good that I claimed a sore throat when we got to the hotel and begged out of the NARAL march they were both attending so I could finish reading it. I learned to recognize romance novels instantly, ferreting out the right library shelves in seconds, slipping them off the wire turn-carts at the bookstore and quickly handing over my meager allowance in the pharmacy section of the drugstore while my mother paid for her purchases up front. I went through two or three a week, vaguely aware that they were contraband and therefore keeping them hidden in the little crawl space of my closet. I read them only after lights-out and always remembered to restash them before falling asleep.

      When I first discovered romances, I was embarrassed by the obvious suggestions of sex on the cover, and of course by the graphic depictions inside. Like any teenager, I didn’t want my parents to know that I knew anything about the subject, and sneaked my reads only when they surely wouldn’t see. But by the time I was about seventeen, maybe a junior or senior in high school, I’d come out of the closet. I’d accompanied my dad to a local bookstore to pick up a special order he’d placed, and when it came time for him to pay, I slid a copy of Her Royal Bodyguard onto the counter, casually murmuring, ‘I didn’t bring my wallet. Can you buy this now and I’ll pay you back when we get home?’

      He’d picked it up and held it between two fingers as though it were roadkill. The expression on his face indicated he found it about as appetizing. A moment later, he laughed. ‘Bettina, come now. Put this awful thing back wherever you found it and select something worthwhile. I promised your mother we’d be home in twenty minutes – we don’t have time to play around anymore.’

      I persisted and he bought the book, if only to leave the store as soon as possible. When he mentioned my purchase at the dinner table that night, he sounded confused. ‘You don’t actually read those things, do you?’ he asked, his face scrunched up as though he was trying to understand.

      ‘Yes,’ I said simply, my voice not revealing the embarrassment I felt.

      My mother dropped her fork and it clattered on the plate. ‘You do not.’ It sounded like she hoped it would be true if she stated it forcefully enough. ‘You can’t possibly.’

      ‘Oh, but I do,’ I sang in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood. ‘And so do fifty million other people, Mom. They’re relaxing and interesting. I mean, there’s agony, ecstasy, and a happy ending – who could ask for more?’ I knew all the facts and figures, and there was no denying they were impressive. The two thousand romances published each year create a $1.5 billion industry. Two-fifths of American women buy at least one romance a year. More than one-third of all popular fiction sold each year are romances. A Shakespearean scholar (and Columbia professor) had recently admitted she’d authored dozens of romances. Why should I be ashamed?

      What I didn’t tell my parents then – or explain to Will or Simon now – was how much I loved romances. Escape was part of it, of course, but life wasn’t so miserable that I had to revert to a fantasy world. It was inspirational to read about two gorgeous people who overcame all obstacles to be together, who loved each other so much that they always found a way to make it work. The sex scenes were a bonus, but more than that, the books always ended happily, offering such optimism that I couldn’t keep myself from starting another immediately. They were predictable, dependable, entertaining, and most of all, they depicted love affairs that I could not deny – no matter how much feminism or political correctness or women’s empowerment my parents could throw at me – I desperately wanted more than anything in the world. I was conditioned to compare every single date in my life to The Ideal. I couldn’t help it. I wanted the fairy tale. Which, needless to say, does not describe Cameron, or most New York liaisons between men and women. But I wouldn’t stop hoping – not yet.

      Was I about to explain this to Simon? Clearly not. Which is why I laughed and made some self-deprecating remark like ‘I just can’t handle the real stuff’ whenever someone asked why I read the books.

      ‘Oh, whatever.’ I laughed lightly, not making eye contact with Will or Simon. ‘It’s a silly little thing I got into as a kid and haven’t quite given up yet.’

      Will found this understatement particularly hysterical. ‘Silly little thing? Bette, darling, you belong to a book club whose sole mission is to examine and more deeply appreciate your selected genre?’ he howled.

      This much was true. Until the book group, no one in my life had understood. Not my parents, my uncle, my friends in high school or college. Penelope merely shook her head every time she spotted one in my apartment (which, by the way, wasn’t hard, considering I had over four hundred of them stashed in boxes, closets, under-bed bins, and occasionally – when the cover wasn’t too embarrassing – on shelves). I knew the facts said that whole armies of women read them, but it was only two years ago that I’d met Courtney at a midtown Barnes & Noble. I’d just left work and was reaching for a romance from the circular wire rack when I heard a girl’s voice behind me.

      ‘You’re not alone, you know,’ it said.

      I’d turned around to see a pretty girl about my age with a heart-shaped face and naturally pink lips. She looked like a china doll with ringlets reminiscent of Nelly’s from Little House on the Prairie, and her other features were so delicate they looked like they might crack at any moment.

      ‘Excuse me? Are you talking to me?’ I asked, quickly covering my copy of Every Woman’s Fantasy with an oversized English-Greek dictionary that resided nearby.

      She nodded and moved in closer to whisper, ‘I’m just saying, you don’t have to be embarrassed any longer. There are others.’

      ‘Who said I’m embarrassed?’ I asked.

      She peered down at my now-shielded book and raised an eyebrow. ‘Look, my name’s Courtney and I’m hooked on them, too. I’ve got a college degree and a real job and I’m not afraid to admit that I love these goddamn books. There’s a whole group of us, you know. We meet once or twice a month to talk about them, have a few drinks, convince each other that it’s okay to do what we do. It’s part book club and part therapy session.’ She rooted through her Tod’s shoulder bag and found a crumpled receipt. She uncapped a Montblanc pen with her teeth and scrawled an address in SoHo and an email address.

      ‘Our next meeting is this Monday night. Come. I’ve included my email address if you have any questions, but there’s not much to know. We’re reading this’ – she discreetly flashed a copy of Who Wants to Marry a Heartthrob? – ‘and we’d love to have you.’

      Perhaps it’s a sign of true addiction that I actually showed up at a stranger’s apartment a week later. I soon learned that Courtney had been right. Each of the other girls was smart and cool and interesting in her own way, and each loved romances. Except for one set of twin sisters, none of the women were friends or colleagues from the outside; all had stumbled upon the group in much the same way I had. I was surprised and somewhat delighted to see that I was the only one who was out

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