Author Biography

Lauren Weisberger is the New York Times bestselling author of When Life Gives You Lululemons, The Singles Game, and The Devil Wears Prada, which was published in forty languages and made into a major motion picture starring Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway. It was announced in 2017 that musician Elton John and Paul Rudnick will adapt The Devil Wears Prada for the stage. Weisberger's four other novels, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont, and Revenge Wears Prada, were all top-ten New York Times bestsellers. Her books have sold more than thirteen million copies worldwide. A graduate of Cornell University, she lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children. Visit LaurenWeisberger.com to learn more.

Review

PRAISE FOR NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER LAUREN WEISBERGER:

REVENGE WEARS PRADA
"A juicy drama."
--US Weekly LAST NIGHT AT CHATEAU MARMONT
"Accurate, revealing and yes, occasionally chilling."
--USA TODAY CHASING HARRY WINSTON
"[A] glitzy Manhattan romp."
--People EVERYONE WORTH KNOWING
"Deliciously entertaining."
--Life Magazine THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA
'[A] pure gossipy pleasure."
--Chicago Sun Times
PRAISE FOR THE SINGLES GAME: "The Devil Wears Prada scribe turns her biting wit to the high stakes world of women's pro tennis. Look out for cameos from David Beckham and Princes Will and Harry, not to mention lots of sizzling locker-room antics."
--Cosmopolitan "A good-girl tennis star is pushed by her tough-genius coach into intense training--and even more intense celebrity status. Lauren Weisberger does the high life like nobody else."
--Glamour.com "A sparkling novel about a tennis pro who stages a big comeback with the help of her shark-like new coach...the book zooms along in the great tradition of summer reads...If you're looking for a fast-paced romance with believable characters, Weisberger serves it up right."
--Washington Post "Lauren Weisberger, author of the best-selling The Devil Wears Prada, trades fashion magazine politics for the drama that often follows the elite world of competitive tennis in her new book...Weisberger is able to weave interesting aspects of Charlie's celebrity life and work ethic into the fabric of a sizzling love story. Readers will rally along with Charlie's entourage."
--Associated Press "This summer, The Singles Game will satisfy your craving."
--USA Today "An ace of a beach read."
--OK Magazine "A dishy tale. Game, set, match!"
--Star Magazine "[The Singles Game is] brilliantly written, fun and so stuffed full with interesting characters you won't be able to put it down."
--Daily Mail (UK) "A fun, fast-paced read filled with well-crafted and memorable characters."
--Kirkus Reviews "[Weisberger] takes readers inside the posh world of tennis through the eyes of Charlotte "Charlie" Silver...[and] gives fans a behind-the-scenes look at the good, bad and glam world of professional sports (and all the juicy details that come along with it)." --Jezebel "Tennis fans will love the spot-on descriptions of life on the tour. Weisberger fans will welcome a protagonist who learns to control her life even while living the dream. And women's-fiction fans will cheer that they've found the perfect beach read."
--Booklist "Sexy and fun."
--PopSugar "[A] blissful summer escape."
--Fort Worth Star-Telegram

Review Quote

PRAISE FOR THE SINGLES GAME : "The Devil Wears Prada scribe turns her biting wit to the high stakes world of women's pro tennis. Look out for cameos from David Beckham and Princes Will and Harry, not to mention lots of sizzling locker-room antics." -- Cosmopolitan

Excerpt from Book

The Singles Game 1 not all strawberries and cream WIMBLEDON JUNE 2015 It wasn''t every day a middle-aged woman wearing a neat bun and a purple polyester suit directed you to lift your skirt. The woman''s voice was clipped, British proper. All business. After glancing at her coach, Marcy, Charlie lifted the edges of her pleated white skirt and waited. "Higher, please." "I promise you, everything''s in order down there, ma''am," Charlie said, as politely as she could. The official''s eyes narrowed to a steely squint, but she didn''t say a word. "All the way, Charlie," Marcy said sternly, but it was obvious she was trying not to smile. Charlie pulled the skirt up to reveal the waistband of the white Lycra shorts she wore beneath. "No underwear, but they''re double-lined. No matter how much I sweat, no one will get a show." "Very well, thank you." The official made a notation on her legal pad. "Now your shirt, please." At least a dozen more jokes sprung to mind--it''s like going to the gynecologist, only in workout wear; it''s not just anyone she''ll show her underwear to on the first date; et cetera--but Charlie held back. These Wimbledon people had been welcoming and polite to her and her entire entourage, but no one could accuse them of having a sense of humor. She yanked her shirt up so far it covered most of her face. "My sports bra is made of the same material. Totally opaque, no matter what." "Yes, I can see that," the woman murmured. "It''s just this band of color here around the bottom." "The elastic? It''s light gray. I''m not sure that counts as a color," Marcy said. Her voice was even, but Charlie could hear the smallest hint of irritation. "Yes, but I must measure it." The official removed a plain yellow tape measure from a small fanny pack she wore over her uniform suit and gingerly wrapped it around Charlie''s rib cage. "Are we through yet?" Marcy asked the official, her irritation now readily apparent. "Very close. Miss, your hat, wristbands, and socks are all acceptable. There is only one problem," the official said, her lips pressed together. "The shoes." "What shoes?" Charlie asked. Nike had gone above and beyond ensuring that her regular sneakers were modified to fit Wimbledon''s stringent standards. Her usual cheerfully bright outfits had been changed entirely to white: not cream, not ivory, not off-white, but white. The leather around the toe cage was pure white. Her laces were white, white, white. "Your shoes. The sole is almost entirely pink. That is a violation." "A violation?" Marcy asked in disbelief. "The sides, back, top, and laces are entirely white, strictly to code. The Nike logo is even smaller than it''s required to be. You can''t possibly have an issue with the soles!" "I''m afraid swaths of color that large are not permitted, even on the soles. The rule is a band of one centimeter." Charlie turned in panic to Marcy, who held up her hand. "What do you suggest we do, ma''am? This young lady is due on Centre Court in less than ten minutes. Are you telling me she can''t wear her sneakers?" "Of course she must wear trainers, but according to the rules, she may not wear those." "Thank you for that clarification," Marcy snapped. "We''ll handle it from here." Marcy grabbed Charlie''s wrist and hurried her toward one of the private training rooms in the back of the locker room. Seeing Marcy rattled gave Charlie the sensation of experiencing turbulence on a plane. When you glanced toward the flight attendants for reassurance, it was almost nauseating to see them panicked. Marcy had been Charlie''s coach since Charlie was fifteen, when she''d finally excelled beyond her dad''s skill set. Marcy was chosen for her coaching acumen, of course, but also for the fact that she was a woman: Charlie''s mom had died from breast cancer only a few years earlier. "Wait here. Do some stretching, eat your banana, and do not think about this. Focus on how you''re going to dismantle Atherton''s game point by point. I''ll be back in a minute." Too nervous to sit, Charlie paced the training room and tried to stretch out her calves. Could they be tightening up already? No, that was impossible. Karina Geiger, the fourth seed with the body of a refrigerator that earned her the unfortunate but mostly affectionate nickname the Giant German, popped her head into the training room. "You''re on Centre, right?" she asked. Charlie nodded. "It is a madhouse out there," the girl boomed in a strong German accent. "Prince William and Prince Harry are in the Royal Box. With Camilla, which is unusual, because I think they do not like each other, and Prince Charles and Princess Kate are not there." "Really?" Charlie asked, although she already knew this. As if playing Centre Court at Wimbledon for the very first time in one''s career wasn''t stressful enough, she had to be playing the lone seeded British singles player. Alice Atherton was only ranked number fifty-three but she was young and being hailed as the next Great British Hope, so the entire country would be cheering for her to crush Charlie. "Yes. Also David Beckham, but he is at everything. It is not so special to see him. Also one of the Beatles, which one is still alive? I can''t remember. Oh, and I heard Natalya say that she saw--" "Karina? Sorry, I''m just in the middle of some stretches. Good luck today, okay?" Charlie hated to be rude, especially to one of the few nice women on the tour, but she couldn''t stand the talking for even one more second. "Ja, sure. Good luck to you, too." Karina passed Marcy on the way out, who had reappeared at the door with a tote bag full of all-white sneakers. "Quickly," she said, pulling out the first pair. "These are a ten narrow, by some miracle. Try them." Charlie dropped to the floor, her black braid smacking the side of her cheek hard enough to hurt, and pulled on the left shoe. "They''re Adidas, Marce," she said. "I am really not interested in how Nike feels about you wearing Adidas. Next time they can get the sneakers right and none of us will have to worry about it. But now you''ll wear what feels the best." Charlie stood up and took a tentative step. "Put on the other one," Marcy said. "No, they''re too big. My heel''s slipping." "Next!" Marcy barked, tossing over another Adidas shoe. Charlie tried the right one on this time and shook her head. "I''m a little jammed up in the toe cage. And it''s pinching my pinky toe already. I guess we could tape the toe and try it . . ." "No way. Here," Marcy said, untying a pair of K-Swiss sneakers and placing them at Charlie''s feet. "These might work." The left one went on easily and felt like it fit. Hopeful, Charlie slipped on and tightened the laces on the right shoe. They were clunky-looking and ugly, but they fit her feet. "They fit," Charlie said, although they felt like she was wearing cinder blocks. She did a few jumps followed by a short jog and a quick cut to the left. "But it''s like wearing a pair of bricks. They''re so heavy." Just as Marcy was reaching into the bag to pull out the last pair, an announcement came over the ceiling speakers. "Attention, players. Alice Atherton and Charlotte Silver, please report to the tournament desk to be escorted to your court. Your match is scheduled to begin in three minutes." Marcy knelt down and pushed against her toes. "You definitely have room in there. Not too much, right? Will they work?" Charlie did another hop or two. There was no denying they were heavy, but they were the best of the three. She probably should try on the final pair, but she glanced up just in time to see Alice in her own all-white outfit walk past the training room and toward the tournament desk. It was time. "They''ll work," Charlie said with more conviction than she felt. They have to work, she couldn''t help thinking. "Good girl." The relief on Marcy''s face was immediate. "Let''s go." Marcy slung Charlie''s enormous racket bag over her shoulder and headed out the door. "Remember, as much spin as you can. She struggles when the balls jump high. Take advantage of your height over hers and force her to hit high ones, especially on her backhand. Slow, steady, and persistent will win this one. You don''t need excessive force or flash. Save that for the later rounds, okay?" Charlie nodded. They were only just approaching the tournament desk and already her calves were feeling tight. Was the right heel rubbing a little? Yes, it definitely was. She was going to get blisters for sure. "I think I should try on those last--" "Charlotte?" Another Wimbledon official, also clad in the same purple polyester skirt suit, took Charlie''s elbow and led her the final ten steps to the tournament desk. "Please, just a signature right here and . . . thank you. Mr. Poole, both ladies are ready to be escorted to Centre Court." Charlie''s and her opponent''s eyes met for the briefest of seconds and they each nodded. Half nodded. The only other time they''d played before had been in Indian Wells two years earlier in the first

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