Leni Warwick is full of high hopes when her new year kicks off with a bang â literally. She doesnât anticipate her first love getting engaged, the horrors of New York City dating, and the small matter of a pandemic.
Captive in her apartment, Leni meets Oliver online and is swept off her feet in a tornado of pandemic-appropriate gifts and socially distanced love bombing. Profoundly grateful to be having a âgood pandemicâ, Leni believes she has finally found her fairytale. Of course, the Universe has other plans.
When Leni hits rock bottom, she is forced to face some harsh truths. More importantly, she is forced to face herself. Armed with a lot of champagne, a sex-crazed uncle, and a narcissistic toy poodle, Leni sets out to become her own heroine. Can she manifest the life and love she wants on her terms?
Follow Leniâs modern (self) love story in Rock Bottoms Up, book one of The Rocks series.
Leni Warwick is full of high hopes when her new year kicks off with a bang â literally. She doesnât anticipate her first love getting engaged, the horrors of New York City dating, and the small matter of a pandemic.
Captive in her apartment, Leni meets Oliver online and is swept off her feet in a tornado of pandemic-appropriate gifts and socially distanced love bombing. Profoundly grateful to be having a âgood pandemicâ, Leni believes she has finally found her fairytale. Of course, the Universe has other plans.
When Leni hits rock bottom, she is forced to face some harsh truths. More importantly, she is forced to face herself. Armed with a lot of champagne, a sex-crazed uncle, and a narcissistic toy poodle, Leni sets out to become her own heroine. Can she manifest the life and love she wants on her terms?
Follow Leniâs modern (self) love story in Rock Bottoms Up, book one of The Rocks series.
âExpectation is the root of all heartache.â
(William Shakespeare)
For the love of God, just touch me already! A hand, a knee, anything. It feels like we have been driving around in this matchbox of a car for at least twenty minutes and I canât keep feigning excitement for Roman architectureâas magnificent as it is. Even my British politeness has its limits. Being three martinis in is not helping my patience either, nor is the fact that my knees keep smacking the Smart Carâs dashboard every time he makes a sharp turn. I have never been a fan of delayed gratification, and my willingness to entertain it is significantly worse since moving to Manhattan and discovering the New York minute.
âLook,â he says, grinning at me maniacally while pointing at some ancient edifice as the car veers to the right, narrowly missing a red moped.
âSi, belissima,â I reply, casually placing my hands on the dashboard to brace myself in case of impact. In addition to running out of patience, I am running out of things to say. How many times can one repeat âbelissimaâ until it sounds insincere? I should have realized sooner that his English is pretty much limited to âI show you Rome?â To be fair, my Italian is limited to âsi, por favor.â Oh wait, that is Spanish. Never mindâhe understood.
I wonder whether I should just put my hand on this thigh and hint that I have had enough sightseeing for one evening. It is not the most ladylike move and potentially rather perilous, but we could end up in Naples at this rate. I check for mopeds and pedestrians as I gingerly lift my hands from the dashboard, deciding to risk it. Fortunately, I am spared having to initiate any groping as he starts to pull up at a softly lit spot under some stone pines overlooking Vatican City. I clap my hands, pretending to be excited by the view, but really I am just thrilled we have parked. Also, my hands were mid-air, so I had to do something with them. I have to admit though, the view is breathtaking, and in different circumstances, this could be incredibly romantic.
His name is Habibi, which he told me means âmy loveâ in Arabic. Apparently, he was child number eleven, and his parents ran out of names they liked. Part Jordanian, part Sicilian, and entirely true to form, Habibi is a bartender at our hotel. I know, I knowâI promised Mum after last year I wouldnât, but he was just so attentive and sexy and very, very generous with my drinks. Did I mention sexy? Plus, I feel that I deserve some excitement and frivolity, having suffered another New Yearâs Eve single with Mum and Dad.
âLook, Vatican,â Habibi says proudly, pointing to St. Peterâs Basilica, as if I could miss its looming majesty.
âSi, bellissima,â I reply with emphasis, a smile plastered on my face as I wrack my brain for more situation-appropriate Italian phrases. Note to selfânext year choose a French-speaking country.
There is an awkward silence and I begin thinking that I will need to grope him after all. Or maybe he has changed his mind and finds me less attractive squished unflatteringly into this small space. I look down to see whether my belly is protruding as Habibi seizes my head with his big hands, nearly knocking out my new Dior earrings. He kisses me with a passion bordering on aggression. I find myself rather liking it. He tastes like coffee and absintheâyummy. Heat bounces through my body in beat with the Italian rap playing on the car stereo, which actually isnât as bad as I would have expected. As he palms my right breast, I make a mental note to download some to my âSmileâ playlist for those days when I need a boost. Every song on the playlist evokes a happy memory of a person, place, time, or experience, and I prefer it to photos because I get to selectively edit and use my imagination.
Speaking of imagination, one would think that given space constraints, vigorous sexual activity would be out of the question. Fueled by vodka, lust, and Italian rap, however, we manage rather well. Sweaty, breathless, and bruised (either from Habibi or the multitude of knobs and levers), I say a silent prayer of gratitude that the tiny car wasnât a reflection on anything else. That would have been a huge anticlimax (pun intended) after so long driving around in anticipation. Or rather, frustration.
I pull my lacy black bra back on and turn to Habibi, wondering if it is appropriate to say âbelissimaâ again, but he is busy looking at St. Peterâs Basilica, crossing himself with great urgency. It must be the Sicilian half. Is it guilt and he is seeking absolution? Or did he just enjoy himself that much and also wanted to offer a prayer of gratitude? Iâd like to think the latter. I turn away from this very private moment and continue putting my clothes back on while silently repeating the mantra âdonât laugh, donât laugh, donât laugh.â Iâm big into mantras these days.
Done with whatever he was doing, Habibi puts the car in drive and mercilessly skips the scenic route, getting us back to the Hassler Hotel within minutes. The rap is turned up louder now we no longer need to attempt polite conversation, and I am more relaxed so I can appreciate the view.
Outside, Habibi gives me a final delicious kiss, sending me off with a smile and a âCiao Bella.â This phrase I understand.
âGrazie, ciao,â I reply. Did I just thank him for sex? My inner feminist cringes.
The hotel doorman, who I notice is also rather cute despite missing a leg, raises a knowing eyebrow and stifles a smirk as I try to glide gracefully towards the elevators, channeling Monica Bellucci but probably achieving Bellatrix Lestrange. I find him a tad rude, but it all makes sense when I get to my suite and catch sight of myself in the gilded mirrorâthe split lip, panda eyes, and generally disheveled appearance probably did it. I contemplate just crawling into bed but decide this is not how I want to spend the beginning of the year, so I drag myself to the shower and let the scalding water wash away what it needs to, while I take inventory of my aches and pains. I then wrap myself in the fluffy hotel bathrobe, take a bottle of water from the mini bar, some Advil from my purse, and slip between the 1000 thread count sheets.
Too wired to sleep, I Google âWhy would someone cross themselves after sex?â Unbelievably, despite the crazy shit people search for on the internet, there are literally no hits. I am not sure how I feel about this. Still, an auspicious start to the new year indeed. I mean, I had sex overlooking the place where the Pope lives.
#
My infernal body clock wakes me up five minutes before my alarm, which today is probably a good thing as it gives me a whole twenty minutes to make myself presentable for breakfast with Mum and Dad. I am so stiff and slow that I will definitely need the extra time. I put a pod in the Nespresso machine and jump in the shower again, so I will at least smell fresh even if I donât look it. By the time I am done and have finished my coffee (and gulped more Advil), I have ten minutes to throw on clothes and deal with my face and hair. My long brown locks look like a birdâs nest, so they go in a messy bun. Easy. My face is more of a challenge, and since I donât wear much makeup (no patience, remember?), I have limited options. I slick on some tinted SPF, a little under eye concealer, mascara, and a tad too much blush so I donât look so phantom-like. Instead, I fear I narrowly avoid looking like a member of Marie Antoinetteâs court. Iâm reminded of that summer I spent in southern Italy after college when the local boys endearingly referred to me as âmozzarella.â Mortified, I burnt myself to a crisp trying to emulate their olive skin and ended up more âpomodoro.â They still called me âmozzarella.â Right, one last look in the mirrorâI will have to do. I certainly look better than I did last night.
#
My parents are waiting for me in the elegant Salone Eva and already appear to be bickering. Delightful. The last thing I need this morning is to listen to them argue about when to leave for the airport. I am so grateful I ignored their pleas to fly back to London with them for a few days. Instead, I am flying straight back to New York in the peace and quiet of business classâassuming, of course, no screaming babies. While I miss my London friends, I miss my toy poodle Lola more, and I will visit London in spring or summer when the weather is more hospitable and less damp and gray. Although of course there are never any guarantees with British weather.
Mum replaces her dainty teacup a little too forcefully on the saucer. âYou do this to me every time, and every time we end up spending three hours sitting in dirty airports with nothing to do. Well, not this time. Iâm leaving at 1:00. You do what you want.â The sound of Mumâs exasperation reverberates in my very delicate head as I nibble on a cornetto con crema. I should have ordered something fried and salty.
âHoney, the traffic was terrible getting in and security is stricter these days. Itâs just not worth the risk of missing our flight,â Dad replies.
âWe have never come close to missing our flight. You need to stop being so anxious and learn to manage your stress instead of forcing it on everyone else. You make me so stressed! Tell your father please,â Mum says, turning to me. Oh no. This is exactly why I drink too much on family vacations and escape to have sex with hot bartenders. Well, partly why.
Ever the peacemaker and mediator, I suggest that they compromise and leave at 12:30, urging them not to fight on their last morning. Please. For my sake. They eventually agree with my plan, neither one satisfied, but I doubt I would be either if I had been having this same argument for the past forty years.
Travel logistics settled, Mum then unfortunately turns her attention back to me. âSo. Leni, how did you hurt your lip again?â she asks, raising a knowing eyebrow. I would tell her if Dad wasnât sitting hereâsheâs definitely heard worse. But Dad would be traumatized.
âI bit it.â It was almost trueâsomeone else did.
âYou need to be more careful, darling.â There goes that eyebrow again. Then in the same breath, âHave you heard from Daniel lately?â You have got to be kidding me.
âNo, Mum, I havenât heard from Daniel in ten years, not since we broke up. Trust me, if I ever hear from Daniel again, youâll be the first to know.â And that occurrence is as likely as Mum and Dad missing a flight.
âOkay, no need to get snippy. I just find it bizarre that Jessica and Malcolm are still such close friends with him, and you speak to them all the time, so how can you never talk about him? The four of you were inseparable at Oxford. Itâs unnatural.â She is right, of course; it is unnatural, but it is the unspoken agreement we have between us. They do not want to upset me, and I do not want to ask about him and show I care. Classic British combination of avoiding difficult conversations and stiff upper lip. I would rather tell Dad about Habibi.
âWell, I think itâs just easier all around. The breakup was quite traumatic, and itâs not like Jess and Mal can invite us to a dinner party together. Besides, I live in a different country now.â Mum doesnât look convincedâI think Jess throwing us together is exactly what she hopes will happen. Dad chooses not to get involved and is pretending to be engrossed with something on his phone.
âItâs just odd. You should never have broken up with him in the first place, you know?â Thanks Mum, helpful. âAnd maybe now you are older and wiser, you two could reconnect.â It irritates me so much when she says stuff like thisâprobably because I wonder it myself sometimes (when not otherwise occupied) but am too proud to admit it. What could it achieve anyway? Also, itâs not like I havenât had other serious relationships in the past ten years, but Mum always conveniently forgets those. None of them could possibly match up to sainted Daniel in her eyes and are therefore not worth remembering. To be fair to her, I would like to forget the last one, but sadly the memory of him screaming in pain from gout on our first romantic break, blaming me for allowing him that second glass of port, and making me push him around New Orleans in an ancient wheelchair, will forever be seared on my brain. I am convinced the pitying looks along Bourbon St. were directed at me and not him.
âWe didnât work then, and we wouldnât work now. It was first love, thatâs all, and those usually arenât meant to last.â I almost sound convincing. Of course, Mum and Dad are each otherâs first loves, and as much as they argue, they clearly still adore each other. But I hadnât adored Daniel, as incredible as he was. I had felt claustrophobic and wanted more. Unfortunately, my search of âmoreâ has dredged up increasingly âlessâ over the years, which is why I find myself sometimes questioning my decision.
âWell, I think you would work now. Now you know what else is out there.â Again, thanks Mum, helpful.
âWell, weâre not in contact,â I reply, trying to keep my voice calm but failing to stop my right eye twitching. âAnyway, this is the beginning of a new and fabulous year, and we need to look forwards not backwards. I can feel big change is in the air.â
#
Big change can wait. I have been back in New York nearly a week and am still jet lagged, sore, and no longer riding my post-sex high. Thank God it is now Saturday, and I can have a lie inâLola can use the bloody pee pad. I make my coffee and take it back to bed with some chocolate.
I decide to FaceTime Jessâit was either that or Barryâs Bootcamp. I love my best friend and I miss her terribly, and I donât mean physically because of the distance. It is so hard to get quality time with her without her toddler twins commandeering our conversation or her attention. I understand that this is a moment in time, but our lives are moving in such different directions that I sometimes feel disconnected. Maybe that is also why I didnât want to go back to London with Mum and Dad. I mean, really, what do I know (or want to know) about potty training, nurseries, and teething?
Jess answers the call from the couch with a twin on each knee. This is an improvement from when they were babies and there was often one on each breast. I know far too much about nipple thrush for a sophisticated single woman. Emma and Rose blow me sloppy kisses and wish Auntie Leni âHappy New Year,â before Mal thankfully sweeps them away so Jess and I can chat for a bit in peace. She looks very well. Exhausted, but content. Mal does too.
Jess throws back her head and roars with laughter when I tell her about Habibi. âBelissima? Come on, you know more Italian than that.â
âNot after three martinis,â I reply.
âMy favorite is still your encounter with the Mormon swingers in Paris though. Only you could pick up a pair of Mormons in a bar on a business trip. But I must say, this is a close second.â I had forgotten about that crazy night. Although I still canât listen to Pony by Ginuwine without cringing. âDidnât the wife ask you if you wanted to âfuck her husbandâ, and then give you a voucher for a religious gift shop afterwards as a thank you?â
âOh my God, no! It wasnât as a thank you. Please, that makes it sound so transactional. It was to congratulate me for closing my deal. Thatâs what I had been celebrating in the bar the night I met them.â So sweet of the wifeâI think I still have the voucher somewhere.
âSpeaking of transactional, what about that time you were away with your Mum in Spain and that madam tried to recruit you to be a high-class escort? Actually, maybe that one is my second favorite. Sorry Habibi.â Jess giggles. âHow does this stuff always happen to you? You should really write a book. Susan Spencer from college just landed a big publishing contract with Crofton Hall.â
âSlutty Susan who was always sniffing around Daniel? Didnât she study biochemistry?â How the hell did she write a book? She should be in a lab or a grotto somewhere. Zero personality.
âYes, sheâs written a thriller set at Oxford. You should do it; you always wanted to. You can write about the Mormon swingers, Habibi, the madam in Spain, eyeliner guy, gout guy, Vlad the ImpalerâŚâ
I am glad I amuse Jess so much. âOkay, okay. Enough. My parents would kill me! Besides, I wouldnât even know where to start and I donât have timeâwork is so busy.â
âExcuses, excuses. I think itâs your social life thatâs keeping you busy. I can never keep up!â Thatâs because you have babies on the brain.
âIt has been a little hectic, I suppose. Itâs just how things are in New York. Our apartments are tiny so weâre always out.â
âCome home!â
I have to laugh. Jess finds a reason every time we speak to try and convince me to go home, but I know it wouldnât be the same if I did. Since moving overseas two years ago, all my friends have gotten married and had children and their lives have drastically changedâthere is no longer a place for me. Well, not one I want. At least in New York I am surrounded by fun, accomplished, single women to hang out with. I also have Uncle Harry, who makes my escapades look tame. âI love New York. It was my dream to live here,â I reply somewhat unconvincingly, as the reality is not quite living up to the dream. âBut anyway, how are you?â I ask, changing the subject.
âUgh, you know, same old. Christmas was fun but exhausting with the twins and the dreaded in-laws. Thank you for all the gifts by the way. The dresses were gorgeous. Ruined by Ribena within five minutes, but gorgeous.â That is the last time I buy the twins clothes from Bonpoint.
âNo! I hope you at least got some photos?â
âYes, with the Ribena stains. But actually, I do have something I have been meaning to tell you.â Oh dear, I can hear from her change in tone that I am not going to like that something. I feel my body involuntarily tense as Jess looks down, unable to meet my eyes. âWell, itâs about Daniel.â Oh God, oh God. âYou see, heâs been dating this very sweet woman for a while nowâalso a doctorâand, anyway, I donât know how to tell you this, but they got engaged over the holidays.â I feel like the air has been sucked out of my lungs and Iâve been punched in the solar plexus. Not sure where my solar plexus is, but something in my mid-region hurts. âIâm sorry, Leni. Are you okay?â
âFine. Iâm fine,â I manage with a remarkably steady voice. âThatâs wonderful news. Really Jess, it was all such a long time ago. Why wouldnât I be fine?â Jess clearly doesnât believe me but looks relieved that she isnât going to have to deal with me melting down over the Internet.
For once, I am relieved to have Emma and Rose interrupt us as two giggling little bodies launch themselves at Jess. âSorry, I couldnât contain them any longer,â I hear Mal yell in the background. I am skeptical about his timing but very grateful.
âItâs fine. I love to see their little faces,â I reply, forcing laughter. I can only see bottoms. âBut it looks like you have your hands full, guys, and I need to mobilize myself for my mani-pedi. Chat soon?â
âYes, definitely. I want to hear more about your exploits! And listen, you know I am always here if you need to talk.â
I know she means it, but she couldnât possibly understand. She never had doubts that she was meant to be with Mal, whereas I could never shake the feeling of restlessness and made very different choices.
âSeriously, I am fine, but I appreciate it and I love you.â
âLove you too. Say goodbye girls.â
We end the call to a chorus of, âBye Auntie Leni. Wuv you.â
I should have gone to Barryâs Bootcamp.
#
Uncle Harry insists on making me brunch to kick me out of my funk and obviously we canât eat avocado toast without Bloody Marys. That would be breakfast.
âDarling, listen, if all of your old friends werenât married with kids, you wouldnât be upset at all. Youâre just not quite in your groove yet in New York and itâs distorting your perspective. But donât frown so much, youâll get wrinkles.â
I ignore that last comment. He once told me I should get breast implants to balance my hips and have the bump on my nose fixed. I ignored him then too.
âLogically, I know you are right, but I canât help feeling sad. I just want to be chosen. To be in love,â I reply.
âHere, have another Bloody Mary.â
âBut I still have three quarters of my glass left.â
âHave another shot of vodka then.â He free pours Belvedere into my glass. I should stop him, but I donât want to. âAnyway, this will cheer you up.â Will it? Will it really? âI met such a dishy Spanish man at Chelsea Market yesterday. I can just tell he has a beautiful cock. Didnât you date a Spanish man?â I wondered how long it would take to change the subject to his sex life. Or say the word âcock.â I think he forgets heâs my uncle sometimes.
âI did. Antonio.â
âWhat happened with him again? I thought you were really into him, and it was incredible sex.â
âI was, and it was, but I found out after three months that he was married.â
âOh. I hate it when that happens. How did you find out?â
âHe actually told me. Said he was going to leave his wife and his mother was yelling at him because he had a son. I was being called some very choice names in their village. It was terribly dramatic.â
âWow, were there any warning signs?â
âYou mean other than the âbaby on boardâ sticker on the back of his car? No, none at all.â
âOh dear. So, what did you do?â
âEnded it, of course. It wasnât an emotional connection, if Iâm honest. We couldnât communicate very well.â This is clearly a theme with me.
âHaha, was he a bartender?â Very reasonable assumption.
âHe was. Anyway, it was probably for the best. It was just after Daniel and I broke up and I was re-bounding, ready to ditch law and move to the hills of Malaga.â
âThe sex really must have been incredible.â
I down the rest of my drink, the vodka burning the back of my throat. Maybe I should have stuck it out with Antonio and let him dump the wife. Iâd be speaking Spanish by now, probably know how to milk a cow, and most importantly, Iâd have a bevy of olive-skinned children distracting me from Danielâs engagement.
Uncle Harry seemingly reads my mind and pours me more vodka. I welcome the burn.
#
Despite the rest of the weekend (and the following) disappearing in somewhat of a hungover haze, I eventually manage to pull myself together after I see a report on my billable hours. I am determined to make February better than January. When everyone else is giving up on New Yearâs resolutions and is full of self-loathing, I will be smug and guilt-freeâbecause I didnât make any. I never have seen the point in setting myself up for failure, and I fundamentally disagree with self-imposed suffering and discomfort. Itâs why I donât fast on Yom Kippur.
In celebration of this positive mindset, I take a proper lunch break with Zara, my new mentee. Blessed with the advantages of youth and a trust fund, she still inexplicably wants to be an attorney, and selected moi as her mentor. I asked her why, and she said it was the irreverent humor, my shoe collection, and the fact I always seemed to be having fun. She clearly doesnât know me very well, but I am glad thatâs what I project.
Zara gleefully informs me over tuna niçoise salads that she is dating a hot musician she met online, who is romantic and treats her like a queen. She doesnât even care that he is broke and thinks it may be love because she took the bus with him and didnât mind at all. As her mentor, I thoroughly approve (of the boy, not the bus). She seems deliriously happy. The trust fund also probably helps.
Zara disagrees that the trust fund has anything to do with itâyes, I said it out loudâand tries persuading me for the hundredth time to get online.
âLeni, you are missing out!! I canât believe you havenât signed up before. Whatâs wrong with you? What planet have you been living on?â
âIt just seems so unromantic. I order food delivery; I donât want to order man delivery, even on my darkest days.â
âItâs not like that. Well, it can be, but you can specify what you are looking for and deal breakers in your profile. Just say no hookups. Itâs such an efficient way to meet guys you wouldnât ordinarily cross paths with.â
âAre those the kinds of guys I really want to meet?â Letâs be honest, Iâd probably never cross paths with a cowboy from Kentucky but could live with that.
âAre you meeting the kinds of guys you want to now?â My mind goes to Habibi and Antonio, but she has a point.
âThatâs fair. Okay, Iâll give it a go. Iâve always said Iâll try most things onceâas long as they donât involve pain, poop, or insects.â
âYay! But perhaps letâs not specify that in your profile.â
âWell, obviously. And to be clear, that list is non-exhaustive.â
So, instead of working on a plan for Zaraâs professional development, we agree to spend the rest of the afternoon setting up my profile over more martinis. (I am truly the best mentor.) Despite some negotiation over which photos to use and whether to filter them, I am relatively content with the end product and excited for what February might bring!
Rock Bottoms Up is the story of Leni, a New York City attorney in her mid-thirties who decides that she is finally ready to find a guy she can settle down with after a history of sleeping around. When she meets Oliver through an online dating app, she thinks she has found the man of her dreams. Of course, things donât always turn out according to plan, and Leni finds herself facing some harsh truths about herself, her life, and the men she is attracted to. And all of this during a global pandemic.
There is a lot to like about this book. It has an irreverent and funny tone that reminds me of Sophie Kinsella and early Jennifer Weiner books. Even though Leni starts off the new year with meaningless sex in a Smart Car (ouch!), she shortly thereafter joins a dating app with the hopes of meeting someone for a serious relationship. When an online dating experience goes awry, I really felt for her, even as the author foreshadowed that very nicely. Leniâs romantic escapades throughout the book are mostly relatable, definitely entertaining, and occasionally unbelievable. And I really loved the ending!
That being said, I had some issues with certain aspects of this novel. The pacing was slow at times, especially the chapters dealing with Oliver. I feel like that couldâve been cut in half, and the reader wouldâve gotten what they needed from him. In fact, it wasnât until about three-fourths of the way through the book (October) that it really started taking off for me. Another issue was Leni. I didnât really like her very much. She seemed very shallow: all about sex, champagne, and the status of living in New York City. I wouldâve liked the protagonist to have a little more depth.Â
A few things were off-putting as I read the book. The use of a certain word referring to male genitalia was used a bit too much for my taste. And there were several instances when an American character said something in British vernacular (Leni and, Iâm guessing, the author are British). This can be tricky when a novel is trying to appeal to readers on both sides of the pond, but authenticity should not be overlooked.
This novel has all the ingredients of a wonderful Chick Lit novel. I just feel like it needs a bit more tightening up. If you are willing to ignore some flaws, it is a terrific story.