London housewife Fran Clark — a formerly in-demand voice-over artist on the brink of her 37th birthday — seems like such a tough, funny chick. So it’s not at all clear how she ended up so rudderless, nipping a bit too much at the bottle in Maria Beaumont’s 37. Her husband’s office affair finally pierces through her depression (and the wine fumes), forcing her to reassess marriage, motherhood, and her own self-worth. But despite Fran’s wisecracking (”reaching the inevitable point of No Longer Noticing coincides perfectly with Looking Like A Sack of S—”), 37 never rises above the banal and predictable. And that’s the kiss of death for a romantic novel. C-

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