No One Could Have Guessed the Weather
When Lucy’s husband tells her they’ve lost everything in the financial crisis, she thinks he is joking. He is, after all, a very good practical joker. Unfortunately he’s serious. He has managed to secure a lowly job in New York City, and they can move from London to a tiny apartment in the East Village that he bought years ago as a hotel room. Lucy soon finds herself living in the epicenter of cool and hip. Across from their apartment is a bar called PDT—whenever Lucy passes it, she thinks it stands for “Please don’t tell anyone I’m a middle-aged woman.”
Homesick and resentful at first, Lucy soon embarks on the love affair of her life—no, not with her husband (though they’re both immensely relieved to discover they do love each other for richer or poorer), but with New York City and the three women who befriend her.
There’s Julia, who is basically branded with a Scarlet A when she leaves her husband and kids for a mini nervous breakdown and a room of her own; Christy, a much older successful man’s trophy wife, who is a bit adrift as only those who live high up in penthouses can be; and disheveled and harried Robyn, who is constantly compensating for her husband who can’t seem to make the transition from wunderkind to adult.
Sometimes what you want in your twenties isn’t what you want or need in your forties. Spot-on observant, laugh-out-loud funny, yet laced with kindness through and through, ‘No One Could Have Guessed the Weather’ is for anyone who’s asked, “Is that all there is?” and hoped for a surprising answer.