Mirabelle, a 28-year-old glove salesgirl at Neiman Marcus in Los Angeles, is pretty in a wallflowerish sort of way. She is an accomplished artist who sells the occasional picture, but spends most of her evenings alone in her apartment. She has an occasional fling with Jeremy, a rather pathetic loser who works at a minimum-wage job painting logos on amplifiers.

Then one day Mirabelle is approached by Ray Porter, a 50-year-old millionaire who is attracted to her and wants to add her to his list of conquests. They date and begin sleeping together, but Ray occasionally feels compelled to let her know that the relationship isn’t permanent. After this happens one too many times, Mirabelle pulls away, although she and Ray remain friends and he continues to support her financially.

She meets Jeremy at an art studio. He has remade himself with the aid of self-help books and is now relatively successful as an amplifier salesman. But Mirabelle decides her life demands a change and moves to San Francisco. Jeremy follows and the two get involved and eventually fall in love. Ray stays in contact and keeps sending her money. He has finally realized that he was in love with her all along, but it’s too late. He has to be content with his role as her surrogate father.

The characters were well-drawn but not particularly likeable. Martin’s portrayal of life as a series of extra-marital flings was depressing. Mirabelle’s vulnerability and waifish beauty were appealing, but she doesn’t really stand for anything. In the end, it was just a depressing book about depressed and depressing people.