The perfect recipe for a captivating beach read is all in the balance between sweet and salt, the humour and the heartache. It’s exciting to pick up a comedy novel with a bit of bite, that takes the reader in its teeth, ready to snarl or grin. Here then is Juliet McDaniel’s 2018 novel, Mr and Mrs American Pie, a story that masters this with verve. So, it’s no surprise that it has been made into an Apple TV series, Palm Royale. It was released, to somewhat mixed reviews, in March with an all-star cast from Kristen Wiig to Laura Dern and pop star throwback Ricky Martin. But the reviews shouldn’t deter the reader from the novel.
In recommending Mr and Mrs American Pie, I too should be urging you to book that holiday to Spain you’ve been putting off. It calls for a sun lounger, a pool, and unrestricted time to dive into Maxine Hortence Simmon’s society woman world, which is crumbling around her. Maxine is a lady who lunches with the other wives of her husband’s friends. They get together for lavish dinners, living the high life over cocktails and gossip. But as Maxine pops in her earrings as she’s about to host Thanksgiving dinner, her husband, Douglas, tells her their marriage is over, and he is not the one who will be leaving. She has been usurped by his pregnant secretary.
Set in the late 1960s to early 1970s, the turn of the decade sees Maxine’s life fall apart in spectacular fashion. Stuffed to the gills with Valium and cocktails, she unravels before the turkey is carved. In fact, she doesn’t let it get that far. Inebriated, she runs through the Palm Springs mansion with the turkey that’s too good for the likes of the guests, who all knew about her husband’s affair. This heartache is balanced with McDaniel’s signature levity, as Maxine finds herself tumbling into the swimming pool, arms hugging the roast turkey.
By way of the divorce settlement, she finds herself banished to Scottsdale, Arizona, for three years. For Maxine this truly is rock bottom; with little else to do, she must rebuild her life. Returning to her beauty pageant roots, she decides to get (fake) married and enter Mrs American Pie, a beauty contest for housewives. Limbering up for the contest, she tries on different versions of herself, by testing her acting skills in the Confession booth in a Catholic church. Shrugging on new selves, “[her] alter egos have lain with all manner of businessmen, bankers, ranch hands, drifters, poets, and sculptors ... With each confession, [she] hear[s] the eagerness growing in the voice of the priest.” These moments of humour washing over the undercurrents of terrible pain is reminiscent of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag. It’s brilliant. Now to book that holiday for the re-read.
