We all have a friend or family member we love, don’t we, even if, we were being judgmental, we’d find them lacking in character? Don’t we make allowances for their behavior because we care about them? Well, I don’t know Connie Green, the protagonist of Playing Away, so I don’t need to make allowances for her behavior and can simply pass judgment on her story. Until the final 19 pages of this book, I found her to be a selfish sot, and though the author strives hard for that Absolutely Fabulous, Bridget Jones type of humor, she does not succeed. Some readers may be swept away in the sea of La Perla lingerie and bottles and bottles of champagne, but the only part of the book that felt real was the unrealistic ending.

Thirty-year-old Connie Green slept around an awful lot before settling down with Luke, her architect husband. They have a disposable income ( she acts as though her job is disposable too), and their group of friends come together often to party, dish, and be altogether young and beautiful. On a business trip she meets John Harding, a wildly attractive man who wants what he can’t have. Being a married woman, Connie fits that bill perfectly, and against her better judgment, begins a down-and-dirty affair with the man who may be her destiny. What, wouldn’t you prefer the man who farts in your face to the one whose marriage proposal is the envy of all your friends?

Connie’s descent into infidelity is but part of the story, which revolves around her best friends as well. There’s Lucy, a beautiful barracuda who prefers married men; Rose, the earth-mother of two young sons who is going through her own marital woes; Sam, her workmate who, ironically, would rather be married than be the boss; and Daisy, who falls in love just as the bored Connie is falling into trouble.

Two visits to two parks illustrate the two worlds Connie comes to inhabit. Early in the story, Connie, Luke, and their gang have an outing in the park, replete with joy and good fellowship. Not terribly later in the book, Connie and John go at it in a secluded area, replete with mud and bodily fluids. If you are bothered by very graphic terminology, beware; “fart” is one of the nicer words used by author Parks.

This book has the feeling of being a morality play “lite,” and each of Connie’s friends seems assigned a specific role as she barrels through life. Perhaps if I were younger and hipper, her actions wouldn’t seem so hedonistic and “in-your-face.” But when everything eventually crashes down around her, there is no sympathy to be mustered. And though there she does suffer somewhat, she doesn’t suffer nearly enough. If you’re looking for a good book about infidelity involving bitchy British women, I recommend Neurotica by Sue Margolis instead.