Name: Anna Christie
Age: Very, very early thirties
Marital status: Living with boyfriend, Adam
Sex: It's been a while. Maybe six weeks?
Career: Crafting sparkling features for groundbreaking magazine Casual Chic such as 'Impotence: Why No Marriage is Safe'
Current dilemma: What to do when your much loved boyfriend of ten years gets down on one knee and pops the question you've been secretly dreading?

Options: Stick - say yes, jump on the marriage bandwagon, accept that babies are now standard issue and always wonder if the grass is greener ...

OR

Twist - walk away to start a new, exciting life, but end up living on your best friend's sofa and pining for your ex. Turn to work for distraction, accidentally lie to hateful colleagues about your non-existent engagement, put together a painful wedding-centred work event, but perk up once young, sexy and seemingly perfect Harry Langham comes breezing into your life…

Hilarious, romantic and painfully honest, Stick or Twist proves that sometimes the most unlikely man turns out to be the One.

» Read the first four chapters of Stick or Twist by downloading the Penguin Taster here

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Chapter One

Saturday mornings are the most menacing time. Teeth brushed and genitals soaped, this is the moment when ‘monogamous man’ stalks his prey.

I can hear Adam going about his business – whistling as he snatches the Times from the doormat, chatting away to Hector as though he might suddenly confound science and reply. All those little habits and traits which add up to him are so utterly familiar that they’re almost part of me. Not having him in my life is un9imaginablly awful: it would be like cutting out a chunk of myself with a kitchen knife. He’s my best friend, the person who’s on my team no matter what – but an evil, anarchistic part of me is starting to wonder if that’s enough.

Monogamy and monotony are worryingly similar words, don’t you think? When the sex first began its inevitable decline, I tried my best to claw it back. I’d wear uncomfortable thong knickers which felt like cheese wire, and send Adam self consciously sexy emails at work. Eventually I had to gracefully accept defeat. It became clear that it’s almost impossible to feel truly erotic about someone who you also have to trudge round a supermarket with discussing the ply of your loo roll. Quilted? Recycled? None of these knotty dilemmas make me feel particularly hot.

But of course it’s not just about sex, its about who we’ve become to one another. I’ll quite happily clip my toenails in front of EastEnders, whilst he’s all too prone to tunnelling down his ears in search of waxy lumps. There’s something comforting and familial about how intimate we can be, but there’s not much novelty or mystery left in its wake. And I’m terrified that the arrival of children would increase the domestic tedium tenfold. Right now I feel way too immature to sign up to a life of carrot puréeing and vomit wiping, but who am I trying to kid? ~My days as a hard-bodied twenty something are well and truly behind me (if they ever existed). Maybe it’s time to get with the programme and sign up for stage two.

Adam and I are so good for each other in a million different ways, but I still can’t help longing for something exciting to happen. I don’t know what exactly, because the idea of an affair appals me, and the thought of throwing away what’s an almost ten year commitment is frankly terrifying. But the suspicion that most of the adventures are already behind me, at the grand old age of 32, depresses me beyond measure.

Now he’s bounding up the stairs and through the bedroom door, all expectation and nerves.

“Morning, beautiful girl.”

My vain little heart jumps, hopefully. Could I be having one of those days where it miraculously comes together? You know the ones I mean; where it’s not about how much make up you’ve go on, or what you’re wearing, you’ve just somehow ‘got it’. But then I catch sight of myself in the wardrobe door, and it becomes crushingly clear he’s lying. My blondey-brown curls are looking distinctly mouse and my eyes look Honey Monster puffy. At least I’m not a chubber, although the pay off is Britain’s smallest breasts.

It’s so hard to judge one’s own physical charms objectively, even though we’re relentlessly judgemental of each other’s. Women are hopelessly competitive, whether or not they choose to admit it. If another girl’s walking past me I’m like Rain Man with my split second calculations: great face, fat arse, lank hair. Or it could go amazing eyes, perfect figure but, joy of joys, hairy arms. I do scrub up quite well, I know that, but I’m no natural beauty. I definitely have to work at it.

Adam flops into bed beside me like an eager Labrador, his hand snaking its way beneath my manky pyjamas.

“I really want to be inside you right now.”

Oh God, not the sub-standard porn dialogue. I stroke his thick, dark hair. “I love you” I whisper, which is achingly true. I want so much to want this, yet every fibre of my being longs to flee. He’s as handsome as he ever was – stubbly and dark with sinuous rower’s legs – but it somehow doesn’t register anymore.

As his hand slips lower, I try to lose myself in imagination. But disastrously, I’ve got fantasist’s block. I take hold of his cock, working it between my palms. At first he responds, moaning softly and reaching for me. But then he suddenly tenses up, sensing my dislocation. He jerks away, angry and hurt.

“What’s the problem here? Jesus, why do you have to make it so hard for me?”

“Don’t be cross with me,” I please, feeling hot, self-hating tears springing to my eyes. “I’m just so tired.”

But we both know I’m lying.

Which newspaper do you read?
Being brought up by terrible old lefties means I still read The Guardian, but as the news section depresses me I end up getting most of my current affairs knowledge from Magic FM! I can’t live without Grazia and I subscribe to Vogue, Harpers, Time Out and Vanity Fair.

Who/What is your biggest influence?
I love Melissa Bank, the author of The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing and The Wonder Spot. She writes so brilliantly about the trials and tribulations of love and how it feels to be a young woman.

What books are you reading at the moment?
A brilliant American debut novel called The Book of Dahlia about a 29 year old dying of cancer. Incredibly it’s hilarious. It’s also acerbic and truthful and clever. I recently adored Eat, Pray, Love. It’s author ran away from an unhappy marriage to Rome where she stuffed her face with pasta, and then to an ashram where she stuffed her head with meditation. That mixture of indulgence and contemplation really appealed to me. Plus I agree with her that settling is not an option.

What books did you read as a child?
Noel Streatfield’s Ballet shoes was my all time favourite and I gobbled up the Famous Five and Malory Towers like they were going out of fashion (which they kind of were).

Which literary character would you most like to meet?
Rupert Campbell Black – durr!

What’s your day job?
My day job is as an executive producer for drama at the BBC. I’ve worked on lots of shows, including Hotel Babylon, Spooks and Rome (that was a good gig!). I’ve had a bit of a run of writers recently, exec-ing biopics of Enid Blyton and Barbara Cartland. If I could ever reach Barbara’s 6000 words a day average I’d be a happy woman!

Who or what always puts a smile on your face?
Flight of the Conchords makes me laugh more than anything. And I love 30 Rock, although I do worry sometimes that I’m turning into Liz Lemon (and not in a good way). I could watch When Harry Met Sally every day for the rest of my life and never get bored of it.

What is your greatest fear?
I’m terrified of rats. I’m also terrified that we’re all going to be smothered by a layer of pointless plastic packaging.

How do you spoil yourself?
A massage, a box of Godiva chocolates, 2 episodes of Gossip Girl back to back.

Who do you turn to in a crisis?
My girlfriends, I couldn’t ask for a better gang.

What makes you angry?
Cruelty to children. The aforementioned tide of plastic.

What’s your worst vice?
DVD box sets from American Amazon – Beverley Hills 90210 Series One anyone? eBay’s a problem too – I literally bid on a dead woman’s shoes last week. Thank God I didn’t win.

Where’s your favourite city?
Rome and New York – it’s a tie. You can’t get more romantic than Rome and you can’t get better shoes anywhere other than Manhattan.

When was the last time you cried?
I cry at the drop of a hat, just call me Tiny Tears. Last week’s Grey’s Anatomy most likely.

Did you enjoy school?
HATED school until my A-levels. You try having a wardrobe entirely made up of tank tops and brown cord flares when everyone else is wearing a ra ra skirt.

What's your worst habit?
Sometimes I’m a little bit bossy.

What quality would you most like to have?
The ability to add up (still don’t have a maths GCSE). A fabulous cleavage. Carpentry.

Have you got a party trick?
I do an excellent rendition of Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart. Grown men have been known to weep.

Do you have any nicknames?
All my closest friends call me Alan. Don’t ask.

Do you have any unfulfilled ambitions?
Sometimes I wish I’d travelled the world but I’m not very intrepid (bad plumbing makes me depressed) and I got a proper job straight out of uni and missed the moment.