2. Lindsey’s nemesis in the office is Cheryl, and Lindsey is upset by how Cheryl uses her sexuality to advance her job. What do you think of Cheryl’s tactics? Is Lindsey right to be so opposed to them?
3. What is your opinion of Alex, Lindsey’s sister? Lindsey views Alex’s life as flawless—do you agree with that characterization? Are there any clues you noticed that showed her life may be less than wonderful?
4. How would you describe the dynamic between Alex and Lindsey? How does being twins affect their relationship as adults, especially since Alex received so much attention growing up?
5. What did you think of the sisters’ parents? Do you see their bumbling, funny personalities as having a balancing effect on their daughters?
6. When Lindsey hides in the bathroom and overhears how much Cynthia Givens’s employees dislike their boss, why does it have such a big effect on her?
7. After Lindsey’s shopping spree, how did her personality change? Was this just a superficial adjustment for her, or did it have a deeper effect? And why did she hide it from her parents and Alex?
8. Why do you think Lindsey didn’t want to be with Bradley when they were younger? Did something else come into play besides the fact that Lindsey wasn’t ready for a “real” relationship?
9. Describe the relationship between May and Lindsey. In what ways were their previous lives—Lindsey as an executive, May as a political wife—similar? In what ways did May rub off on Lindsey, and vice versa?
10. How does Alex’s medical condition affect the relationship between the sisters? Was such a major event the only way they could start over, or do you think they would have eventually formed a better relationship anyway?
11. Do you think it’s common for people to be assigned certain roles in their family—like the “pretty” sister or the “smart” one—and do you think those labels are fair? Were they fair to Lindsey and Alex? Do you feel like you have a certain label in your own family? Do you think it fits you?
12. How did Alex’s flirtation with Bradley affect Lindsey’s feelings for him? Do you believe Lindsey would’ve fallen for Bradley if he and Alex hadn’t connected first? Do you think Lindsey would have been happy with Bradley if they’d ended up together?
13. How do you feel about the relationship that suddenly develops between Matt and Lindsey? Do you think it will last? Do you see Lindsey being happy staying in Maryland? Or do you think she will return to New York City?
14. Lindsey’s mantra throughout the later part of the story was to “jump.” How did she eventually learn to do this? How has she changed since the story began?
A CONVERSATION WITH SARAH PEKKANEN
What was the inspiration for your book? Is it based on any real events in your life?
Nope, it’s pure fiction. I’m lucky to have two brothers I adore, but I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a sister. I’m fascinated by the rich, complex relationships my friends have with their sisters. So when it came time to write The Opposite of Me, I made the relationship between Lindsey and Alex as messy and loving and complicated and competitive as possible.
I’m also intrigued by the way people get assigned certain labels in their families, like the “smart” one, the “pretty sister,” the “drama queen,” or the “peacemaker.” What if those labels don’t fit how we feel inside? What if they’re all wrong for who we are really meant to be?
What do you think the term “chick lit” means today? Is it what you would consider this story?
I think “chick lit” refers to fun, smart books about women who are figuring out their choices in life. As in every other genre, there is a wide range of books—some better than others. I’m not sure if The Opposite of Me will be classified as chick lit. I’m just hoping people will think of it as a good book!
Have you had bosses like the ones in the story? Or were you that type of driven employee yourself?
Luckily, I’ve never had the kind of bosses Lindsey had in New York (though I’ve had several bosses who turned into friends, like May did with Lindsey). I’m not especially driven—I watch far too much reality TV and I have a love affair with Sunday afternoon naps—but I am passionate about writing. I can’t imagine my life without it. It’s what I’ve wanted to do ever since I was a child, when I used to get in trouble in school for not paying attention and wandering into the wrong classroom ten minutes after the bell rang. I was busy creating stories in my mind—and I still do it today, which means I often miss my exit on the highway and don’t realize it until half an hour later. By the way, my husband just loves this quality in me.
You are from Maryland yourself; did you find it easier to write about an area you knew?
Definitely. I knew it would be fun to write about my hometown and give cameos to my favorite spots and restaurants. But someday I’d love to stretch my imagination and create a fictional town as a setting, too. Can you imagine the sense of power as you create tall buildings and lakes and highways while you sip your morning cup of coffee?
Why did you decide to make Lindsey and Alex twins? Do you think it creates a special bond or competition between them?
I’ve always heard that twins do have a special connection, and some even create their own language as babies, or have a physical reaction at the precise moment something bad happens to the other one miles away. But when I sat down to write, I wondered what would happen if Lindsey and Alex were complete opposites. What if they had absolutely nothing in common, yet were constantly compared because they were twins? How would that shape their relationship?
The parents are such lovable, fun characters. Are they based on your own parents, or were you just hoping to add a lighthearted touch to the story?
Thank you! They’re completely fictional, although my parents read The Opposite of Me and expressed suspicion about a few similarities (My parents adore Ikea’s low-priced breakfasts, lingonberries and all.) I love books that make me laugh, so I wanted Lindsey and Alex’s parents to provide some comic relief. I grew really fond of the parents, and hope readers will, too.
Have you ever gone on a blind date? Why was it a field you decided to throw Lindsey into?
I’ve never been on a real blind date—I can only imagine the angst and phone calls to my friends and quantity of hair care products involved!—but I thought a dating service would provide such great material for a novel that I couldn’t resist making it Lindsey’s new workplace. It was interesting to dream up all the reasons why someone would seek out a dating service, and I tried to give Lindsey an eclectic mix of clients.
I’m sure everyone is curious: Is honey on popcorn actually good?
Ooh, it’s so good. One of my sons’ babysitters made it that way once, and I loved it. As Alex says, it’s “worth the sticky fingers.” Try it!
Finally, what projects are you working on now?
I’m diving into the next book, which isn’t a sequel and doesn’t have a title yet. (I’m terrible at coming up with titles; my editor dreamed up The Opposite of Me after I suggested a few clunkers.) And I’m gearing up to meet with lots of groups and book clubs who want to discuss The Opposite of Me—please contact me via my website at www.sarahpekkanen.com if you’d like me to visit or phone in to chat with your group!
Read an excerpt from Sarah Pekkanen’s
Skipping a Beat.
One
WHEN MY HUSBAND, MICHAEL, died for the first time, I was walking across a freshly waxed marble floor in three-inch Stuart Weitzman heels, balancing a tray of cupcakes in my shaking hands.
Shaking because I’d overdosed on sugar—someone had to heroically step up and taste-test the cupcakes, after all—and not because I was worried about slipping and dropping the tray, even though these weren’t your run-of-the-mill Betty Crockers. These were molten chocolate and cayenne-pepper masterpieces, and each one was topped with a name scripted in edible gold leaf.
Decadent cupcakes as place cards for the round tables encircling the ballroom—it was the kind of touch
that kept me in brisk business as a party planner. Tonight, we’d raise half a million for the Washington, D.C., Opera Company. Maybe more, if the waiters kept topping off those wine and champagne glasses like I’d instructed them.
“Julia!”
I carefully set down the tray, then spun around to see the fretful face of the assistant florist who’d called my name.
“The caterer wants to lower our centerpieces,” he wailed, agony practically oozing from his pores. I didn’t blame him. His boss, the head florist—a gruff little woman with more than a hint of a mustache—secretly scared me, too.
“No one touches the flowers,” I said, trying to sound as tough as Clint Eastwood would, should he ever become ensconced in a brawl over the proper length of calla lilies.
My cell phone rang and I reached for it, absently glancing at the caller ID. It was my husband, Michael. He’d texted me earlier to announce he was going on a business trip and would miss the birthday dinner my best friend was throwing for me later in the month. If Michael had a long-term mistress, it might be easier to compete, but his company gyrated and beckoned in his mind more enticingly than any strategically oiled Victoria’s Secret model. I’d long ago resigned myself to the fact that work had replaced me as Michael’s true love. I ignored the call and dropped the phone back into my pocket.
Later, of course, I’d realize it wasn’t Michael phoning but his personal assistant, Kate. By then, my husband had stood up from the head of the table in his company’s boardroom, opened his mouth to speak, and crashed to the carpeted floor. All in the same amount of time it took me to walk across a ballroom floor just a few miles away.
The assistant florist raced off and was instantly replaced by a white-haired, grandfatherly looking security guard from the Little Jewelry Box.
“Miss?” he said politely.
I silently thanked my oxygen facials and caramel highlights for his decision not to call me ma’am. I was about to turn thirty-five, which meant I wouldn’t be able to hide from the liver-spotted hands of ma’am-dom forever, but I’d valiantly dodge their bony grasp for as long as possible.
“Where would you like these?” the guard asked, indicating the dozen or so rectangular boxes he was carrying on a tray draped in black velvet. The boxes were wrapped in a shade of silver that exactly matched the gun nestled against his ample hip.
“On the display table just inside the front door, please,” I instructed him. “People need to see them as soon as they walk in.” People would bid tens of thousands of dollars to win a surprise bauble, if only to show everyone else that they could. The guard was probably a retired policeman, trying to earn money to supplement his pension, and I knew he’d been ordered to keep those boxes in his sight all night long.
“Can I get you anything? Maybe some coffee?” I offered.
“Better not,” he said with a wry smile. The poor guy probably wasn’t drinking anything because the jewelry store wouldn’t even let him take a bathroom break. I made a mental note to pack up a few dinners for him to bring home.
My BlackBerry vibrated just as I began placing the cupcakes around the head table and mentally debating the sticky problem of the video game guru who looked and acted like a thirteen-year-old overdue for his next dose of Ritalin. I’d sandwich him between a female U.S. senator and a co-owner of the Washington Blazes professional basketball team, I decided. They were both tall; they could talk over the techie’s head.
At that moment, a dozen executives were leaping up from their leather chairs to cluster around Michael’s limp body. They were all shouting at each other to call 911—this crowd was used to giving orders, not taking them—and demanding that someone perform CPR.
As I stood in the middle of the ballroom, smoothing out a crease on a white linen napkin and inhaling the sweet scent of lilies, the worst news I could possibly imagine was being delivered by a baby-faced representative from the D.C. Opera Company.
“Melanie has a sore throat,” he announced somberly.
I sank into a chair with a sigh and wiggled my tired feet out of my shoes. Perfect. Melanie was the star soprano who was scheduled to sing a selection from Orfeo ed Euridice tonight. If those overflowing wineglasses didn’t get checkbooks whipped out of pockets, Melanie’s soaring, lyrical voice definitely would. I desperately needed Melanie tonight.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
“In a room at the Mayflower Hotel,” the opera rep said.
“Oh, crap! Who booked her a room?”
“Um … me,” he said. “Is that a prob—”
“Get her a suite,” I interrupted. “The biggest one they have.”
“Why?” he asked, his snub nose wrinkling in confusion. “How will that help her get better?”
“What was your name again?” I asked. “Patrick Riley.”
Figures; put a four-leaf clover in his lapel and he could’ve been the poster boy for Welcome to Ireland!
“And Patrick, how long have you been working for the opera company?” I asked gently.
“Three weeks,” he admitted.
“Just trust me on this.” Melanie required drama the way the rest of us needed water. If I hydrated her with a big scene now, Melanie might miraculously rally and forgo a big scene tonight.
“Send over a warm-mist humidifier,” I continued as Patrick whipped out a notebook and scribbled away, diligent as a cub reporter chasing his big break. “No, two! Get her lozenges, chamomile tea with honey, whatever you can think of. Buy out CVS. If Melanie wants a lymphatic massage, have the hotel concierge arrange it immediately. Here—” I pulled out my BlackBerry and scrolled down to the name of my private doctor.
“Call Dr. Rushman. If he can’t make it over there, have him send someone who can.”
Dr. Rushman would make it, I was sure. He’d drop whatever he was doing if he knew I needed him. He was the personal physician for the Washington Blazes basketball team.
My husband, Michael, was another one of the team’s co-owners.
“Got it,” Patrick said. He glanced down at my feet, turned bright red, and scampered away. Must’ve been my toe cleavage; it tends to have that effect on men.
I finished placing the final cupcake before checking my messages. By the time I read the frantic e-mails from Kate, who was trying to find out if Michael had any recently diagnosed illnesses like epilepsy or diabetes that we’d been keeping secret, it was already over.
While Armani-clad executives clustered around my husband, Bob the mail-room guy took one look at the scene and sped down the hallway, white envelopes scattering like confetti behind him. He sprinted to the receptionist’s desk and found the portable defibrillator my husband’s company had purchased just six months earlier. Then he raced back, ripped open Michael’s shirt, put his ear to Michael’s chest to confirm that my husband’s heart had stopped beating, and applied the sticky patches to Michael’s chest. “Analyzing …,” said the machine’s electronic voice. “Shock advisable.”
The Italian opera Orfeo ed Euridice is a love story. In it, Euridice dies and her grieving husband travels to the Underworld to try to bring her back to life. Melanie the soprano was scheduled to sing the heartbreaking aria that comes as Euridice is suspended between the twin worlds of Death and Life.
Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me that Euridice’s aria was playing in my head as Bob the mail-room guy bent over my husband’s body, shocking Michael’s heart until it finally began beating again. Because sometimes, it seems to me as if all of the big moments in my life can be traced back to the gorgeous, timeworn stories of opera.
Four minutes and eight seconds. That’s how long my husband, Michael Dunhill, was dead.
Four minutes and eight seconds. That’s how long it took for my husband to become a complete stranger to me.
Read an excerpt from Sarah Pekkanen’s
All Is Bright.
I was rounding the corner of a grocery store when my cart almost collided with one coming the other way.
“Sorr
y!” called a voice from my past.
I froze, gripping the cold metal handle, as Griffin’s mother’s sweet, crisp voice conjured a series of memories that swept through my mind like flashcards: her giving me a lime-flavored lollipop and bandaging my skinned knee after I tripped on a rock during a game of tag in her backyard. The expression on her face—pure disappointment; so much more potent than anger—when she caught Grif and me sharing a Marlboro Light, purloined from his aunt’s purse, at the age of fifteen. The tears she didn’t try to hide the night of my senior prom as she snapped photos of her son and me, our dark straight hair, blue eyes, and the bright red of my dress and his cummerbund all forming a pleasing match.
“Elise! What are you doing back in town?” Janice cried now as she hurried over in her parka and puffy down boots—a far more sensible ensemble for the Chicago winter than the Levi’s and brown leather boots I’d pulled on before my flight in from San Francisco. “Your dad and Clarissa are in . . . India, is it? Or could it be Iceland? They send postcards, but it’s hard to keep track! Does Griffin know you’re here?”
Another Janice memory: Her questions tumbled over one another like socks in a spinning dryer. But the habit had always soothed me. Janice’s chatter wasn’t demanding; you could pick which questions you wanted to answer, and she’d skip ahead to new ones without backtracking over the ones you ignored.
“Indonesia,” I said into her auburn-tinted hair, because her arms were wrapped around me. Janice always hugged like she meant it. “They’re in Jakarta right now. I came home because I didn’t want Nana to be alone on Christmas.”
“Of course. How is your grandma? Your dad said her arthritis hasn’t worsened much, thank goodness. But you’re staying alone in that big old house?” Janice asked. Her eyes widened. “Unless you brought someone with you . . .”
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