Funny Valentine by Amy Jenkins

A chick-lit heroine gets starstruck in Starbucks

You can tell a lot about an author by their choice of photograph. Eyes down, broad grin, Amy Jenkins poses with a kind of self-satisfied faux-modesty, as if to say "Aw shucks, you're too kind". But perhaps we would all be feeling a little smug if we were sitting on that book deal, and allowed to churn out this kind of superficial, plot-driven twaddle for the privilege.

Despite Hodder Headline's prediction that Jenkins's next book would be "very different" from HoneyMoon, Funny Valentine is still very much about the business of love. Her characters clearly believe themselves to be a little beyond the Bridgets of this world, downing shots not chardonnay and setting the world to rights with vitriolic, if practised, rants. They don't even believe in love and marriage – yet find themselves borne mysteriously towards the altar .

Reliably named Stevie Dunlop (a title redolent of school plimsolls) is a woman of principle. Living in a pseudo-communal squat, Stevie is a "kill-joy journalist" who fights for the deserving and disenfranchised, and hates celebrities. This we know from her virtuous tirades against "hypocrisy, injustice and corruption", and the fact that she only drinks fair-trade coffee. She does have a mobile, so we must assume that global telecom conglomerates are OK.

So then: a chick-lit character going against the wheat-free grain? Alas, it only takes an early-morning run and a closet encounter for her to drop her principles sharpish. Soon she is contemplating a Starbucks cappuccino and the full groupie experience with movie star Louis Plantagenet. Of course, it isn't fame that drives our Stevie into the arms of a Hollywood heartthrob; it's true love.

From this juncture, Valentine has little more to offer than a Mills & Boon. All elements are present and correct – the handsome yet unattainable hero; our spunky, argumentative heroine; a beautiful yet evil adversary and, most important, that happy-ever-after-ending. Who could have seen that coming?

Jenkins has been described by one generous critic as the "mistress of the smart line", and there are occasions where her observational humour is on the mark. But she is never laugh-out-loud funny, and her digressions into the trivial (traffic workers, dry cleaners) are neither interesting nor witty enough. Because she is trying so hard to be humorous, potentially touching moments (such as the death of Stevie's grandmother) are clipped callously short, and emotional denouements affected with a "don't care" attitude that only alienates the reader.

If Jenkins intended this novel to answer her critics, she has almost wholly failed. She does try to make her words count, but they read more like a collection of column ideas than a coherent narrative – and she's so hooked on this irritatingly self-aware style that she forgets to give her characters any depth. Jenkins might have had more success if she had made her heroine slightly consistent, but Stevie sticks to her principles with all the wavering commitment of a chick-lit Mr Wrong. "They're not dumbing this baby down," she vows, before being "blinded" into submission by one flash of Louis' dangerous gnashers.

Funny Valentine lacks humour, and is certainly no labour of love. This is one chick-lit heroine better left on the shelf.