THE STARTER WIFE
by Gigi Levangie
Bantam, £10.99; 399pp

FOR THE PAST DECADE chick-lit — that much derided, much parodied form of Austen-lite — has been a reliable cash cow for the publishing world. At its core, the single girl’s eternal quest for Mr Right. Ups, downs, Gloria Gaynor and gay best friends are all so much embellishment: no Darcy, no two-book, six-figure deal.

Lately, though, the twenty-something heroines with carefully maintained blonde highlights and twirly, swirly book jackets have had a new rival. The wife. Not the disposable, walk-on, fade-out former wife of Mr Darcy, but a far more formidable and complex creature: their own grown-up selves.

Bridget Jones, ten years on, two stone heavier, struggling to manage kids, career, pelvic floor and her husband’s newfound passion for long hours at the office (read: sleeping with his secretary/childless woman colleague). Yes, little Ms Chick-lit suddenly finds herself on the wrong side of the fortysomething fence — and the view isn’t too pretty.

As girly authors grow up it is only natural that the climax of one genre — the soaring of heart strings, the meeting of souls — should become the jumping-off point (or jumping-off-a-tall-building point) for another. These books are, for the most part, written from personal experience. So we go from chick-lit to wily-old-bird-lit (indigestible sinews and all) in roughly the time that it takes to pop the first sprog and start work on the kitchen extension.

Kathy Lette’s novels have followed this trajectory with gleeful accuracy. From sassy single girls through weddings to slummy mummies via plastic surgery and reality TV, Lette has written about every cliché of modern womanhood with the possible exception of lesbianism (although not having read the entire canon I may have missed a key sapphic embrace). How To Kill Your Husband (And Other Handy Household Hints) is the fast talking, heart-stoppingly paced and pun-tastic culmination of all that.

If this — and Gigi Levangie’s The Starter Wife — are to be believed, a husband’s transition from Mr Right to Mr Wrong is as much part of the pattern of the universe as night follows day. It happens slowly, gradually and without you really noticing — much like wrinkles or the gradual southwardly migration of bosoms — but happen it does.

Neither Lette’s nor Levangie’s bride deserves the breakdown of her marriage. These are not women who have let themselves go morally and kissed goodbye to the high ground — there is no gin-drinking, adulterous 1970s-style neurotic behaviour here. These are wives on the go — women whose personal neglect is the result of the demands of combining marriage, motherhood and career.

Who are their rivals? Why, the same white-teethed, lithe-hipped sex kittens that they themselves used to be before life, love and Lamaze relegated them to the scrapheap. Isn’t it ironic, as dear old Alanis Morissette once said.

But there Lette and Levangie part company. Levangie’s book follows the faded fortunes of a Hollywood wife, Gracie, as her producer husband dumps her a whisker before their tenth anniversary (and the invalidation of his pre-nup — described, with a clunking “allegedly”, as being “Cruised”, a reference to the star’s divorce from Nicole Kidman).

The set-up is entertaining but Levangie confuses plot with personal expertise. The wife of a Hollywood player herself, she is undoubtedly qualified; but once Gracie has been dumped, Levangie runs out of steam. Her heroine’s redemption reads like any other identikit romantic novel: she finds true love in the arms of a homeless man — who turns out to be a multimillionaire(!). Harmless enough, but inexpertly played.

Lette’s writing, on the other hand, is as taut as Angelina Jolie’s inner thigh (although now she’s succumbed to Brad’s sperm, there is hope for us all) — and really funny. Chapter Six: The Working Mother’s Week, or Where the Hell’s Your Father says it all, with frantic scenes of the school and work run punctuated by serene images of the husband, calmly and variously on the loo, in the shower, having a shave — and heading out the door.

In her customary breezy fashion, Lette crystallises all the pitfalls facing the modern working couple: work tensions (men always think that their careers are more important than their wives’, even if their wives are Prime Minister); the sexual tensions (Chapter Three: The Hand — A Modern Gothic Horror Story is a hilarious precis of what happens to sex in marriage once work and children have taken their toll) — and, more darkly, what becomes of two people who have lost all respect for each other. She also manages to get away with referring to a McDonald’s as a “McShit meal” without the interference of any “allegedlys”, which shows that even lawyers are scared of her. Which I like.

But what really makes Lette such a pro is that, as well as insight, she provides her reader with that rarest of things: a good plot. Fundamentally, this is a well constructed, tightly written thriller. It may be lavishly embellished with home truths, somewhat over-punned and stuffed with silly jokes but underneath it’s solid to the core. Like a good marriage, really.

Explore Books

• Book Extracts

• Book Reviews

• Books Group

• Audio Books

Times Recommends

• The 100 Best Books of the Decade
• The Times picks the 50 best paperbacks of 2009
• The conversation: James Ellroy