‘Cracking, laugh-out-loud dialogue, characters that feel

painfully real, and a sweet premise about love in the

information age: if Attachments were an email, I’d be

forwarding it to my entire list of contacts’

Jodi Picoult

It's 1999 and for the staff of one newspaper office, the internet is

still a novelty. By day, two young women, Beth and Jennifer, spend their hours emailing each other, discussing in hilarious detail every aspect of their lives, from love troubles to family

dramas. And by night, Lincoln, a shy, lonely IT guy, spends his hours reading every exchange.

At first their emails offer a welcome diversion, but as Lincoln unwittingly becomes drawn into their lives, the more he reads,

the more he finds himself falling for one of them.

Heartwarming, witty and unforgettable, Attachments is an irresistible romantic comedy

about falling in love from afar.

We dare you not to fall in love with it.

www.rainbowrowell.com

� ATTACHMENTS �

Rainbow Rowell

Meet Beth and Jennifer…

From: Beth Fremont To: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder Sent: Wed, 09/22/1999 2:38 PM Subject: Roo-ah-rooo-ahhh. Roo-ah-rooo-ahhh. <<Jennifer to Beth>> What’s that? <<Beth to Jennifer>> It’s the Cute Guy Alarm. <<Jennifer to Beth>> It sounds like a bird. <<Beth to Jennifer>> There’s a cute guy working here. <<Jennifer to Beth>> No, there isn’t. <<Beth to Jennifer>> I know, that was my first response, too. I thought he must have come in from the outside, a repairman, perhaps, or a consultant. That’s why I waited for two confirmed sightings before sounding the Cute Guy Alarm. <<Jennifer to Beth>> Is this Cute Guy Alarm something you made up with your eighth-grade friends? Do I need to be wearing Guess overalls to understand this? Also—confirmed by whom? <<Beth to Jennifer>> Confirmed by me. I know a cute guy when I see him. Remember when I told you about the cute messenger? (And I just now made up the alarm. It felt necessary.) <<Jennifer to Beth>> Oh, that messenger was cute. <<Beth to Jennifer>> And that’s why he didn’t last. This place can’t sustain cuteness, I don’t know why. It’s cuteness-cursed. <<Jennifer to Beth>> You’re very cute. <<Beth to Jennifer>> Oh, I was. Once. Before I came to this de-cuteing factory. Look around you. We journalists are a homely lot. <<Jennifer to Beth>> Matt Lauer isn’t homely. <<Beth to Jennifer>> Now, that is a matter of opinion. (And I can’t believe you went straight to Matt Lauer. Have you seen Brian Williams?) Regardless, TV journalists don’t count; cute is their job. There’s no reason to look pretty in print journalism. Readers don’t care if you’re cute. Especially not my readers. The only time I’m out in public, I’m sitting in the dark.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Now that you mention it, I haven’t worn lipstick to work in three years. <<Beth to Jennifer>> And you’re still too cute for the copy desk. <<Jennifer to Beth>> Damn me with faint praise, why don’t you. Tell me more about this cute guy you’ve imagined. <<Beth to Jennifer>> There’s not much to tell—beyond his monumental

cuteness. <<Jennifer to Beth>> Monumental?

<<Beth to Jennifer>> He’s very, very tall. And strong-looking. Like the kind of guy you feel standing next to you before you actually see him, because he’s blocking so much ambient light. <<Jennifer to Beth>> Is that how you spotted him? <<Beth to Jennifer>> No, I spotted him the first time walking down the hallway. And then I spotted him at the drinking fountain—and I thought to myself, “Now there’s a tall drink of water . . . getting a drink of water.” He has really nice brown hair and action-hero facial features. <<Jennifer to Beth>> Explain. <<Beth to Jennifer>> Manly. Kind of square. Harrison Fordish. The kind of guy you can picture negotiating for hostages and also jumping away from an explosion. Do you think it’s scandalous that someone in a committed relationship like mine is checking out guys at the drinking fountain? <<Jennifer to Beth>> No. How could you not notice a cute guy around here? That’s like spotting a passenger pigeon. <<Beth to Jennifer>> A passenger pigeon with a sweet ass. <<Jennifer to Beth>> Why did you have to go there? <<Beth to Jennifer>> To bug you. I didn’t even look at his butt. I never remember to do that. <<Jennifer to Beth>> I’m going back to work now. <<Beth to Jennifer>> You seem a little testy. Is everything okay?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> I’m fine. <<Beth to Jennifer>> See what I mean? Testy. <<Jennifer to Beth>> Okay, I’m not fine. But I’m too embarrassed to talk about why. <<Beth to Jennifer>> Don’t talk, then. Type. <<Jennifer to Beth>> Only if you don’t go repeating what I’m about to tell you. It makes me sound unbalanced. <<Beth to Jennifer>> I won’t. I swear. Cross my heart, needles, etc. <<Jennifer to Beth>> All right. But this is really stupid. More stupid than usual. I was at the mall last night, walking around by myself, trying not to spend money, trying not to think about a delicious Cinnabon . . . and I found myself walking by the Baby Gap. I’ve never been in a Baby Gap. So, I decided to duck in. On a lark. <<Beth to Jennifer>> Right. On a lark. I’m familiar with those. So . . . <<Jennifer to Beth>> So . . . I’m larking through the Baby Gap, looking at tiny capri pants and sweaters that cost more than . . . I don’t know, more than they should. And I get totally sucked in by this ridiculous, tiny fur coat. The kind of coat a baby might need to go to the ballet. In Moscow. In 1918. To match her tiny pearls. I’m looking at this preposterous coat, and a Baby Gap woman comes up to me and says, “Isn’t that sweet? How old is your daughter?” And I say, “Oh, no. She’s not. Not yet.” And she says, “When are you due?” And I say, “February.” <<Beth to Jennifer>> Whoa. <<Jennifer to Beth>> I know. I just lied. About being pregnant. If I were really pregnant, I wouldn’t be at the Baby Gap, I’d be sitting in a dark room, sobbing. So Baby Gap lady says, “Well, then you’ll want one for next season, size 6 to 12 months. These coats are a steal. We just marked them down today.” And I agreed that a faux fur coat for only $32.99 was indeed an irresistible deal. <<Beth to Jennifer>> You bought baby clothes? What did Mitch say? <<Jennifer to Beth>> Nothing! I hid it in the attic. I felt like I was hiding a body.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Wow. I don’t know what to say. Does this mean you’re softening on the baby issue? <<Jennifer to Beth>> I think it means I’m softening on the sanity issue. I’m viewing this as a dysfunctional appendage to my general psychosis about babies. I still dread getting pregnant. But now I’m buying clothes for the child I’m terrified to have, and guess what, it’s a girl.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Wow. <<Jennifer to Beth>> I know.

Meet Lincoln…

“Lincoln, you look terrible.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He’d have to take her word for it. He hadn’t looked in a

mirror today. Or yesterday. Lincoln rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers

through his hair, trying to smooth it down . . . or maybe just over. Maybe he

should have combed it when he got out of the shower last night.

“Seriously, look at you. And look at the clock. It’s noon. Did you just

wake up?”

“Mom, I don’t get off work until one a.m.”

She frowned, then handed him a spoon. “Here,” she said, “stir these

beans.” She turned on the mixer and half shouted over it. “I still don’t

understand what you do in that place that can’t be done in daylight. . . . No,

honey, not like that, you’re just petting them. Really stir.”

Lincoln stirred harder. The whole kitchen smelled like ham and onions

and something else, something sweet. His stomach was growling. “I told

you,” he said, trying to be heard, “somebody has to be there. In case there’s

a computer problem, and . . . I don’t know . . .”

“What don’t you know?” She turned off the mixer and looked at him.

“I think maybe they want me to work at night so that I don’t get close to

anyone else.”

“What?”

“Well, if I got to know people,” he said, “I might . . .”

“Stir. Talk and stir.”

“If I got to know people”—he stirred—“I might not feel so impartial

when I’m enforcing the rules.”

“I still don’t like that you read other people’s mail. Especially at night, in

an empty building. That shouldn’t be someone’s job.” She tasted whatever

she was mixing with her finger, then held the bowl out to him. “Here, taste

this . . . What kind of world do we live in, where that’s a career?”

He ran his finger around the edge of the bowl and tasted it. Icing.

“Can you taste the maple syrup?”

He nodded. “The building isn’t really empty,” he said. “There are people

working up in the newsroom.”

“Do you talk to them?”

“No. But I read their e-mail.”

“It’s not right. How can people express themselves in a place like that?

Knowing someone’s lurking in their thoughts.”

“I’m not in their thoughts. I’m in their computers, in the company’s

computers. Everyone knows it’s happening . . .” It was hopeless trying to

explain it to her. She’d never even seen e-mail.

“Give me that spoon,” she sighed. “You’ll ruin the whole batch.” He

gave her the spoon and sat down at the kitchen table, next to a plate of

steaming corn bread. “We had a mailman once,” she said. “Remember?

He’d read our postcards? And he’d always make these knowing comments.

‘Your friend is having a good time in South Carolina, I see.’ Or, ‘I’ve never

been to Mount Rushmore myself.’ They must all read postcards, all those

mailmen. Mail people. It’s a repetitive job. But this one was almost proud of

it—gloaty. I think he told the neighbors that I subscribed to Ms.”

“It’s not like that,” Lincoln said, rubbing his eyes again. “I only read

enough to see if they’re breaking a rule. It’s not like I’m reading their diaries

or something.”

His mother wasn’t listening.

“Are you hungry? You look hungry. You look deficient, if you want to

know the truth. Here, honey, hand me that plate.” He got up and handed her

a plate, and she caught him by the wrist. “Lincoln . . . What’s wrong with

your hands?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Look at your fingers—they’re gray.”

“It’s ink.”

“What?”

“Ink.”

When Lincoln worked at McDonald’s in high school, the cooking oil got

into everything. When he came home at night, he felt all over the way your

hands feel when you get done eating French fries. The oil would get into his

skin and his hair. The next day, he would sweat it out into his school clothes.

At The Courier, it was ink. A gray film over everything, no matter how

much anyone cleaned. A gray stain on the textured walls and the acoustic

ceiling tiles.

The night copy editors actually handled the papers, every edition, hot off

the presses. They left gray fingerprints on their keyboards and desks. They

reminded Lincoln of moles. Serious people with thick glasses and gray skin.

That might just be the lighting, he thought. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize

them in the sunshine. In full color.

They surely wouldn’t recognize him. Lincoln spent most of his time at

work in the information technology office downstairs. It had been a

darkroom about five years and two dozen fluorescent lights ago, and with all

of the lights and the computer servers, it was like sitting inside a headache.

Lincoln liked getting called up to the newsroom, to reboot a machine or

sort out a printer. The newsroom was wide and open, with a long wall of

windows, and it was never completely empty. The nightside editors worked

as late as he did. They sat in a clump at one end of the room, under a bank of

televisions. There were two, who sat together, right next to the printer, who

were young and pretty. (Yes, Lincoln had decided, you could be both pretty

and mole-like.) He wondered if people who worked nights went on dates

during the day.

Coming out in hardback on 12th

May 2011

Pre-order your copy at half-price from Waterstones.com (discount code: AH7598)

Full terms and conditions apply: Discount code AH7598 entitles you to buy Attachments, HB, 9781409116288 for half price at £4.99 (RRP £9.99) at Waterstones.com, exclusive of online postage and packaging. Discount code is valid from 08/02/2011 to 19/05/2011. Discount can only be used once per person. One discount code to be used per transaction. Discount code cannot be used with any other voucher or coupon. Discount code can only be used at time of purchase and not retrospectively. This voucher can only be used on Waterstones.com and not in Waterstone's stores. All prices on Waterstones.com are online only and may differ from Waterstone's stores. Discount does not apply to eReaders, eBooks or eReader accessories and Penwizard personalised gifts.