A New York Times bestseller! “Wise and wonderful. . . Buchan celebrates the patience and wisdom that only age can bring.” —USA Today “Bottom line: Get Revenge .” — People Get ready to cheer for Rose Lloyd, a woman of young middle-age who proves that starting over doesn’t have an age limit. After twenty-five years spent juggling husband, career, and kids with admirable success, Rose suddenly finds both her marriage and her career in unexpected ruin. Forced to begin a new life, she is at first terrified, then energized, by her newfound freedom—it’s amazing what prolonged reflection, a little weight loss, a new slant on independence, and some Parisian lingerie will do for the psyche! Witty, insightful, and emotionally resonant, Buchan’s novel will strike a chord with anyone who has ever wondered what Middle Age would look like from the other side of the looking glass (answer: much better than you could ever expect). Praise for Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman: “This beautifully written novel about a discarded middle-aged wife brims with surprises. ” — USA Today, in naming the 10 Best Books of 2003 “ Wise and wonderful. . . Buchan celebrates the patience and wisdom that only age can bring.” —USA Today “Bottom line: Get Revenge .”  —People “Revenge may be sweet, but Revenge is not, thank goodness.” —The Wall Street Journal “A thoughtful, intelligent, funny, coming-of-middle-age story.” — The Boston Globe “This is a novel about a three-dimensional woman, not a stereotype, and she's a character that grows on the reader while she grows into a new stage of her life.” —The Denver Post “A wry and elegant tale about a woman of a certain age fighting back and winning unexpected victories. ” —Kirkus Elizabeth Buchan is the author of several highly acclaimed and bestselling books of fiction, including the Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman, The Good Wife Strikes Back, Everything She Thought She Wanted, and Consider the Lily , among others. 'Here,' said Minty, my deputy, with one of her breathy laughs, 'the review has just come in. It's hilariously vindictive.' She pushed towards me a book entitled A Thousand Olive Trees by Hal Thorne with the review tucked into it. For some reason, I picked up the book. Normally I avoided anything to do with Hal but I did not think it mattered this once. I was settled, busy, different, and I had made my choice a long time ago. When we first discussed my working on the books' pages, Nathan argued that, if I ever achieved my ambition to become the books editor, I would end up hating books. Familiarity bred contempt. But I said that Mark Twain had got it better when he said that familiarity breeds not so much contempt but children, and wasn't Nathan's comment a reflection on his own feelings about his own job? Nathan replied, 'Nonsense, have I ever been happier?' and 'You wait and see'. (The latter was said with one of his lovely, strong-man I know-better-than-you smiles, which I always enjoyed.) So far, he had been wrong. For me, books remained full of promise, and contained a sense of possibility, any possibility. In rocky times, they were saviours and lifebelts, and when I was younger they provided chapter and verse when I had to make decisions. Over the years of working with them, it had become second nature to categorize them by touch. Thick, rough, cheaper paper denoted a paperback novel. Poetry hovered on weightless and were decorated with wide white margins. Biographies were heavy with photographs and the secrets of this subjects' life. A Thousand Olive Trees was slim and compact, a typical travelogue whose cover photograph was of a hard, blue sky and a rocky, isolated shoreline beneath. It looked hot and dry, the kind of terrain where feet slithered over scree, and bruises sprouted between the toes. Minty was watching my reaction. She had a trick of fixing her dark, slightly slanting eyes on whoever, and of appearing not to blink. The effect was of rapt, sympathetic attention, which fascinated people and also, I think, comforted them. That dark, intent gaze had certainly comforted me many times during the three years we had worked together in the office. '"This man is a fraud,'" she cited from the review. '" And his book is worse . . ."' 'What do you suppose he's done to deserve the vitriol?' I murmured. 'Sold lots of copies,' Minty shot back. I handed her A Thousand Olive Trees . 'You deal. Ring up his agent, Dan Thomas, and see if he'll do a quickie.' 'Not up to it. Rose?' She spoke slowly and thoughtfully, but with an edge I did not quite recognize. 'Don't you think you should be by now?' I smiled at her. I liked to think that Minty had become a friend, and because she always spoke her mind I trusted her. 'No. It's not a test. I just don't wish to handle Hal Thorne's books.' 'Fine.' She picked her way round the boxes on the floor, which was packed with them, and sat down. 'Like you said, I know how to deal.' I am not