Zusatztext Honest! self-deprecating and well-written. Informationen zum Autor Candice Bergen Klappentext Candice Bergen shares her marriage to a famous French director, the birth of her daughter, Murphy Brown, widowhood, and falling in love again. Leseprobe A Fine Romance 1 It was midway through October 1985, as I waddled in a huge plaid tent dress through the ground floor of Bergdorf's. I'd put on almost fifty pounds since becoming pregnant. A woman kept peering at me, looking away, looking back. Finally she approached. You know, you have Candice Bergen's face. But not her body, I said. Old friends saw me lurching along the street and burst out laughing. I scowled back. Would this baby be born in a hospital or at SeaWorld? The due date was the second half of October. I'd been hoping she'd arrive on Halloween, which was the day after my husband Louis Malle's birthday. As the date grew closer, then passed, I went in for a checkup. Whoever was in there, she was hyperactive, that much was sure. She somersaulted and flipped around. Then she landed wrong. Her feet were tangled in the umbilical cord and she was upside down and feet first. There was a high risk of her cutting off the supply of oxygen and nutrients. A risk of brain damage. My obstetrician, the ironically named Dr. Cherry, was an affable, easygoing guy, but he grew concerned after the recent sonogram. We need to think about scheduling a Cesarean, he told me. Meanwhile, I was to go home and stay in bed with my feet up. No activity. That would be interesting, as Louis and I lived in a two-story loft and were having people for dinner that night. That was the beginning of the real bonding. Until that point, I'd kept a bit of distance, thinking of the baby as a kind of invader in my comfortable routines. I'd dragged my feet about preparing her room. No longer. It was ready, wallpapered in tiny pink rosebuds. I'd bought a white rocker and a white crib with pink ticking on the mattress and bumpers and found a pink Kit-Cat clock whose eyes and tail moved rhythmically back and forth. Now the Alien was in jeopardy. I could not lose her. Louis and I had been invited to a state dinner at the White House in honor of Prince Charles and Princess Diana. It was the big wingding of the fall, and the royal couple was causing quite the stir. It was possible we could make it if the baby was prompt. The dinner was November 6. I figured we could take the train with the newborn and a baby nurse and stay in DC for a night. I would look like a blimp, but we could attend. As the date inched closer and there was no sign of a baby, I called Nancy Reagan, who has been a family friend all my life, and apologized for the delayed response. Mrs. Reagan, she's not moving, I told her. She couldn't have been sweeter. Well, they'd love you to be there, Candy. Let us know when you can. Of course we understand. What I didn't understand was where this baby was. What was keeping her? At almost two and a half weeks past the due date, Dr. Cherry told me he'd decided to extract the baby by cesarean in three days; he was afraid she might have exhausted prepartal nutrients. Apparently my amniotic fluid was drying up. She was running out of snacks. The Kit-Cat clock was ticking. I was not in the market for abdominal surgery. I wanted to have this baby naturally. More or less. I did the few primitive things that were suggested to induce labor. Three of my closest girlfriends took me out to dinner and I ate the spiciest things on the menu, hoping to bring on contractions. Sweat streamed down my tiny head and pooled under my newly enlarged breasts. Nothing. I heaved my 180 pounds sixteen floors up to my apartment to see if that wou...

8220;Honest, self-deprecating and well-written.”

Autorentext

Candice Bergen's film credits include The Sand Pebbles, Carnal Knowledge, Starting Over (for which she received an Oscar nomination), and Miss Congeniality. On television, she made headlines as the tough-talking broadcast journalist and star of Murphy Brown, for which she won five Emmys and two Golden Globes. She later starred with James Spader and William Shatner in the critically acclaimed series Boston Legal.

Klappentext

Candice Bergen shares her marriage to a famous French director, the birth of her daughter, Murphy Brown, widowhood, and falling in love again.

Zusammenfassung
A Fine Romance begins with Bergen's charming first husband, French director Louis Malle, whose huge appetite for life broadened her horizons and whose occasional darkness never diminished their love for each other. But her real romance begins when she discovers overpowering love for her daughter after years of ambivalence about motherhood. As Chloe grows up, Bergen finds her comic genius in the biggest TV role of the 80s, Murphy Brown, and makes unwanted headlines when Dan Quayle pulls her into the 1992 presidential campaign.

Fifteen years into their marriage, Malle is diagnosed with cancer, and Candice is unflinching in describing her and Chloe's despair over his death. But after years of widowhood, she feels the sweet shock of finding a different kind of soulmate. Candice takes us through the first years of her new marriage and shares the bittersweetness of watching Chloe leave home and flourish-and the comedy of a losing battle against those damn wrinkles and extra pounds.

A natural writer, Candice is hilarious, brutally honest, down-to-earth, and wise. She may be a beautiful Hollywood actress with a charmed life, but Candice is someone who can talk frankly about extraordinary events. Readers who pull up a chair will feel like they've just made a best friend.

Leseprobe
A Fine Romance

1

It was midway through October 1985, as I waddled in a huge plaid tent dress through the ground floor of Bergdorf’s. I’d put on almost fifty pounds since becoming pregnant. A woman kept peering at me, looking away, looking back. Finally she approached. “You know, you have Candice Bergen’s face.”

“But not her body,” I said.

Old friends saw me lurching along the street and burst out laughing. I scowled back. Would this baby be born in a hospital or at SeaWorld?

The due date was the second half of October. I’d been hoping she’d arrive on Halloween, which was the day after my husband Louis Malle’s birthday. As the date grew closer, then passed, I went in for a checkup. Whoever was in there, she was hyperactive, that much was sure. She somersaulted and flipped around. Then she landed wrong. Her feet were tangled in the umbilical cord and she was upside down and feet first. There was a high risk of her cutting off the supply of oxygen and nutrients. A risk of brain damage.

My obstetrician, the ironically named Dr. Cherry, was an affable, easygoing guy, but he grew concerned after the recent sonogram. “We need to think about scheduling a Cesarean,” he told me. Meanwhile, I was to go home and stay in bed with my feet up. No activity. That would be interesting, as Louis and I lived in a two-story loft and were having people for dinner that night.

That was the beginning of the real bonding. Until that point, I’d kept a bit of distance, thinking of the baby as a kind of invader in my comfortable routines. I’d dragged my feet about preparing her room. No longer. It was ready, wallpapered in tiny pink rosebuds. I’d bought a white rocker and a white crib with pink ticking on the mattress and bumpers and found a pink Kit-Cat clock whose eyes and tail moved rhythmically back and forth.

Now the Alien was in jeopardy. I could not lose her.

Louis and I had been invited to a state dinner at the White House in honor of Prince Charles and Princess Diana. It was the big wingding of the fall, and the royal couple was causing quite the stir. It was possible we…