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The Other Woman: A Novel Hardcover – August 21, 2018
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THE REESE WITHERSPOON X HELLO SUNSHINE BOOK CLUB PICK AND NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
"One of the most twisted and entertaining plots."―Reese Witherspoon
"Whiplash-inducing."―New York Times Book Review
"Such fun you'll cheer [Emily's] chutzpah."―PEOPLE
"This thriller will hit close to home."―Refinery29
The most twisty, addictive and gripping debut thriller you'll read this year.
HE LOVES YOU: Adam adores Emily. Emily thinks Adam’s perfect, the man she thought she’d never meet.
BUT SHE LOVES YOU NOT: Lurking in the shadows is a rival, a woman who shares a deep bond with the man she loves.
AND SHE'LL STOP AT NOTHING: Emily chose Adam, but she didn’t choose his mother Pammie. There’s nothing a mother wouldn’t do for her son, and now Emily is about to find out just how far Pammie will go to get what she wants: Emily gone forever.
The Other Woman will have you questioning her on every page, in Sandie Jones' chilling psychological suspense about a man, his new girlfriend, and the mother who will not let him go.
- Print length304 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherMinotaur Books
- Publication dateAugust 21, 2018
- Dimensions6.5 x 1.25 x 9.5 inches
- ISBN-109781250191984
- ISBN-13978-1250191984
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Editorial Reviews
Review
The Reese Witherspoon x Hello Sunshine Book Club pick
Picked by Good Morning America as "One of 20 Books to Read Before Summer Ends"
One of PopSugar's "10 Bingeworthy Books to Read After The Woman in the Window"
One of Library Journal's "Best Debuts of Summer and Fall"
One of CrimeReads' "The Most Anticipated Books of Summer"
One of BookBub's "10 Creepiest Thrillers By Women"
One of Brit+Co's "Best New Thrillers by Women That Will Give You the Chills This Summer"
One of Refinery29's "Summer Thrillers That Will Have You at the End of Your Chaise Lounge"
One of Working Mother's "17 End-Of-Summer Books to Read While You Still Can"
An August 2018 LibraryReads pick
One of BuzzFeed's "15 Thriller Novels to Read if You Breezed Right Through HBO's 'The Undoing'"
"Whiplash-inducing final pages."―New York Times Book Review
"Excellent . . . [Jones] delves into the motives of a homegrown monster . . . delivers a tightly coiled story in The Other Woman and fills it with believable characters."―Associated Press
"Such fun you'll cheer [Emily's] chutzpah."―PEOPLE
"Monster-in-law! The love triangle in this twisted psychological thriller is between Emily, her new boyfriend Adam and Adam’s mother, Pammie, who refuses to let her son go and wants Emily out of his life!"―In Touch Weekly “Book Report” (A-)
"It's a page turner like no other, and the ending will knock your socks off."―Hello Giggles
"Begs to be devoured in one sitting . . . deliciously dramatic and sinister . . . If you're in the market for a lighter suspense read with a genuinely jaw-dropping finale, Sandie Jones' debut belongs on your TBR."―Crime by the Book
"For anyone who's dealt with an unsavory in-law, this thriller will hit close to home."―Refinery29
"This book will have you cheering its spunky heroine one minute and gasping from shock the next."―PopSugar
"A twisted read, perfect for a long day at the beach."―Brit+Co
"Sandie Jones is the real deal. The Other Woman is a stunning psychological thriller on par with Harlan Coben's Fool Me Once, and a serious contender for best twist of the year."―The Real Book Spy
"Pammie is every young woman's worst nightmare: a mean mother-in-law (on steroids) in this addictive debut thriller. Readers' pulses will race as they anticipate how she might strike next and be completely knocked off balance by the shocking ending."―Library Journal (Starred and Boxed)
"Jones ratchets up the tension to the breaking point and throws in a curveball that will make readers' heads spin. Wildly entertaining, with a smashing twist."―Kirkus Reviews
"This sneak-attack thriller’s power is in its relatability . . . Emotionally tense, with layers of deception offering strong appeal for fans of Clare Mackintosh, Christobel Kent, and Karen Perry."―Booklist
"Fans of plot-driven psychological thrillers will enjoy the ride."―Publishers Weekly
"A perfect beach read."―Kristin Hannah
"A twisty, deliciously fun read."―Sarah Pekkanen, New York Times bestselling co-author of The Wife Between Us
"The Other Woman is an absolute corker―wickedly relatable story, wonderful characters and a great twist. Should definitely be on your reading list for this summer."―T.M. Logan, author of Lies
"The Other Woman knocked my socks off! Psychological suspense at its most addictive, with a shocker of an ending. I couldn’t put it down!"―Michele Campbell, author of It's Always the Husband
"The Other Woman is fun and fiendishly clever with a twist you will not see coming. Make room in your beach bag for this one!"―Wendy Walker, bestselling author of All Is Not Forgotten
"Thoroughly entertaining. Pammie is the mother-in-law from hell!"―Michelle Frances, #1 bestselling author of The Girlfriend
"What an incredible read. Pammie was such a compelling and unique villain, someone I hated more and more with each turn of the page . . . a definite must-read this summer!"―Hollie Overton, author of Baby Doll
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Other Woman
By Sandie JonesSt. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2018 Sandra SargentAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-19198-4
CHAPTER 1
There weren't many things that I didn't like about Adam when I first saw him across the crowded bar at the Grosvenor Hotel in London, aside from his lack of empathy. I'd just come out of an incredibly dull "Future of Recruitment" conference and needed a drink far more than he or the barman realized.
I'd been standing at the bar for what felt like an eternity, theatrically waving a battered ten-pound note in the air, when, just along from me, a dark-haired man muscled his way to the front, holding a credit card. "Yep. Over here, mate," he said in a booming voice.
"Er, excuse me," I said, a little louder than I intended. "I think you'll find I was here first."
He shrugged and smiled. "Sorry, but I've been waiting ages."
I stood and watched openmouthed as he and the barman shared a knowing tip of the head, and without him even saying a word, a bottle of Peroni was put in front of him.
Unbelievable, I mouthed, as he looked over at me. He smiled that smile again, and turned to the throng of men beside him to take their orders.
"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned, before letting my head drop into my arms while I waited. I was sure that it would be an inordinate amount of time until my turn.
"What can I get you?" asked the man behind the bar. "The guy over there reckons you're a rosé kind of girl, but I'm going to bet you're after a gin and tonic."
I smiled despite myself. "As much as I'd like to prove him wrong, I'm afraid to say a glass of rosé would be perfect, please."
I went to hand him the tenner as he placed the glass in front of me, but he shook his head. "No need," he said. "Please accept it with the compliments of the gentleman who jumped the queue."
I didn't know who I loved more: the bartender who, in my opinion, ought to be elevated to chief sommelier, or the really rather nice fellow smiling down the bar at me. Oh, the power of a chilled pink blush.
My face flushed the same color, as I held the glass up to him and headed over to where my seminar colleagues were gathered in a corner, each nursing their own alcoholic preference. We'd been strangers up until seven hours ago, so it seemed that the general consensus was to get your own drink and not worry about everybody else.
Mr. Peroni obviously doesn't have the same arrangement with his own acquaintances, I thought, smiling to myself as I looked up and saw that he had continued to order his round.
I took a sip of wine and could hear my taste buds thanking me as the cold liquid teased them before hitting the back of my throat. What is it with that first taste that can never be replicated? I sometimes find myself postponing that initial swig for fear of losing that sensation.
I'm making myself sound like a raging alcoholic, but I only ever drink on weekends, and on mind-numbingly tedious Wednesdays after being holed up with two hundred HR personnel for the day. We'd been helpfully informed during a lecture entitled "Nobody Likes Us. We Don't Care" that a recent survey had revealed that recruitment consultants were fast becoming the most disliked professionals, second only to real estate agents. I wish I could defy the haters and prove that we weren't all morally lacking, unethical deal makers. But as I looked around at the brash, loud, would-be City boys with their slicked-back hair and insincere expressions, I had to hold my hands up in defeat.
Despite having introduced myself in the "forum" earlier in the day, I felt I had to do it again as I approached the baying mob.
"Hi, I'm Emily," I said awkwardly to the guy in the outermost circle. He wasn't someone I was particularly interested in talking to, but talk I had to, if I wanted to finish my glass of wine without looking like a complete Norman nomates. "I'm a consultant at Faulkner's," I went on.
I offered my hand and he took it, shaking it brusquely in a slightly territorial fashion. This is my manor and you're on my turf, was the message he conveyed, even though we'd spent the entire day learning how to do the exact opposite.
"Be open. Be approachable," Speaker No. 2 had stated earlier. "Employers and employees want to deal with a friendly face. They need to feel that they can trust you. That you are working for them, not the other way around. Deal with your clients on their terms, not on yours, even if it does put a dent in your pride. So, read each situation individually and react accordingly."
I'd always prided myself on doing exactly that, hence why I'd been the top consultant at Faulkner's seven months in a row. In person, I was the antithesis of what people expected since I was honest, considerate, and blasé about target-chasing. As long as I had enough to pay my rent, eat, and heat, I was happy. On paper, however, I was smashing it. Clients were requesting to deal exclusively with me, and I'd secured more new business than anyone else across the five-office network. Commissions were flooding in. Perhaps I should have been the one standing on that podium, telling them how it's done.
The man, from an obscure agency in Leigh-onSea, made a half-hearted attempt at pulling me into the throng. No one introduced themselves, preferring instead to eye me up and down as if seeing a woman for the first time. One of them even shook his head from side to side and let out a slow whistle. I looked at him with disdain, before realizing it was Ivor, the bald, overweight director of a one-office concern in Balham, whom I'd had the misfortune of partnering with in the role-play exercise just before lunch. His breath had smelled of last night's curry, which I'd imagined he'd scoffed impatiently from a silver-foil container on his lap.
"Sell me this pen," he'd barked, during our how-to-sell-snow-to-an-Eskimo task. A cloud of stale turmeric permeated the air, and I wrinkled my nose in distaste. I'd taken a very normal-looking Bic Biro from him and had begun to relay its redeeming qualities: the superior plastic case, the smooth nib, the flow of the ink. I'd wondered, not for the first time, what the point was in all this. My boss, Nathan, insisted that these conferences were good for us: that they kept us on our toes.
If he was hoping that I'd be motivated and captivated by new and exciting ways to do business, he'd booked the wrong day. And I'd certainly been paired with the wrong man.
I'd continued to enthuse about the pen's attributes, but as I'd looked up, Ivor's eyes hadn't even been attempting to look at the tool in my hand, preferring instead to fixate on the hint of cleavage beyond.
"Ahem," I'd coughed, in an attempt to bring his attention back to the task at hand, but he'd merely smiled, as if relishing in his own fantasy. I'd instinctively pulled my blouse together, regretting the decision to wear anything other than a polo neck.
His beady little eyes were still on me now. "It's Emma, isn't it?" he said, stepping forward. I looked down at the name badge secured to my left bosom, just to check for myself.
"Em-i-ly," I said, as if speaking to a toddler. "It's Em-i-ly."
"Emma, Emily, it's all the same."
"It's not really, no."
"We were paired up this morning," he said proudly to the other men in the group. "We had a good time, didn't we, Em?"
I'm sure I felt my skin crawl.
"It's Em-i-ly, not Em," I said, exasperated. "And I didn't think we worked particularly well together at all."
"Oh, come on," he said, looking around, his face betraying the confidence in his voice. "We were a good team. You must have felt it." I stared emptily back at him. There were no words of recourse, and even if there were I wouldn't have wasted my breath. I shook my head as the rest of the group looked awkwardly to the floor. No doubt as soon as I turned on my heels they'd be patting him on the back for a job well done.
I took myself and my half-drunk wine to the space at the end of the crowded bar. I'd only been there two minutes before I realized that the reason no one else was standing there was because, every few seconds, I was getting hit in the back by a bony elbow or shouldered out of the way by the waitstaff, as they busily collected drinks and returned glasses. "This is our area," barked a young girl, her face all pinched and pointed. "Keep it clear."
"Please," I said under my breath, but she was far too important to stand still long enough to hear it. Still, I edged up a little to remove myself from "her area" and rummaged around in my bag for my phone. I only had three more sips, or one big gulp, of wine left. Four minutes max and I'd be on my way.
I surreptitiously ran through my emails, in the hope that (a) I wouldn't be bothered by anybody and (b) it'd look like I was waiting for someone. I wondered what we'd done before mobiles and their far-reaching information trails. Would I be standing here perusing the Financial Times or, better yet, feel inclined to strike up a conversation with someone who might prove to be interesting? Either way, I'd most definitely be better informed as a result, so why, then, did I log on to Twitter to see what Kim Kardashian was up to?
I groaned inwardly as I heard someone shout, "Emily, fancy another drink?" Really? Did he not get the hint? I looked over at Ivor, but he was engrossed in conversation. I had a furtive glance around, embarrassed to know that the person who had said it would be watching my confusion. My eyes fleetingly settled on Mr. Peroni, who was grinning broadly, revealing straight white teeth. I smiled to myself as I remembered Mum's erstwhile advice. "It's all in the teeth, Emily," she'd said after she met my last boyfriend, Tom. "You can always trust a man with nice teeth." Yeah — and look how that turned out.
I put more importance on whether someone's smile reaches their eyes, and this guy's, I noticed, definitely did. I mentally undressed him, without even realizing I was doing it, and registered that his dark suit, white shirt, and slightly loosened tie were hanging from a well-built body. I imagined his wide shoulders sitting above a strong back that descended into a narrower waist. Triangular-shaped. Or maybe not. It's difficult to tell what a suit is disguising; it could be hiding a multitude of sins. But I hoped I was right.
Heat rose up my neck as he stared intently at me, his hand pushing his hair to one side. I offered a watery smile, before turning my head a full 360 degrees, looking for the voice.
"Is that a yes or no?" it said again, a little closer now. Mr. Peroni had maneuvered himself so that he was now my next-door neighbor but one. What an odd expression that is, I thought, oblivious to the fact that he was now standing right beside me. Can you also have a next-door neighbor but two, and three? I wondered.
"How many have you had?" He laughed as I continued to look at him blankly, though not without acknowledging that he was taller when he was close up.
"I'm sorry, I thought I heard someone call my name," I replied.
"I'm Adam," he offered.
"Oh. Emily," I said, thrusting out my hand, which had instantly become clammy. "I'm Emily."
"I know, it's written in rather large letters across your chest."
I looked down and felt myself flush. "Aha, so much for playing hard to get, eh?"
He tilted his head to one side, a naughty twinkle in his eye. "Who said we were playing?"
I had no idea whether we were or weren't. Flirting had never been my strong suit. I wouldn't know where to start, so if it was a game he was after, he was playing on his own.
"So, what's the deal with the name badge?" Mr. Peroni, aka Adam, asked, as coquettishly as a man can.
"I'm a member of an elite conference," I said, far more boldly than I felt.
"Is that so?" He smiled.
I nodded. "I'll have you know I'm the cream of the crop in my industry. One of the highe-stranking performers in the field."
"Wow." He smirked. "So, you're part of the Toilet Roll Sellers seminar? I saw the board for it when I walked in."
I suppressed a smile. "Actually, it's a secret meeting of MI5 agents," I whispered, looking around conspiratorially.
"And that's why they wrote your name all over your chest, is it? To make sure nobody finds out who you are."
I tried to keep a straight face, but the corners of my mouth were curling upward. "This is my undercover name," I said, tapping the cheap plastic. "My conference pseudonym."
"I see, Agent Emily," he said, rolling up his sleeve and talking into his watch. "So, is the gentleman at three o'clock also an agent?" He waited for me to catch up, but I didn't even know which way to look. I was twisting myself in every direction, haplessly trying to find three o'clock on my internal compass. He laughed as he caught hold of my shoulders and turned me to face Ivor, who was gesticulating wildly to a male colleague, while looking longingly at a female dressed in tight leather trousers behind him. She was happily unaware that his eyes were drinking her in. I shuddered involuntarily.
"Negative," I replied, one hand to my ear. "He is neither an agent nor a gentleman."
Adam laughed, as I warmed to the theme. "Can we class him as the enemy?"
"Affirmative. Take him down if you wish."
He squinted, in an effort to read the perpetrator's name badge. "Ivor?" he questioned.
I nodded.
"Ivor Biggun?" He looked at me, waiting for a reaction. It took me a while, a long while, in fact, to get it, but until I did, he just stood there, staring at me.
CHAPTER 2I wasn't looking for a boyfriend. I hadn't even known I'd wanted one until Adam showed up. Pippa, my flatmate, and I were blissfully content going to work, coming home, having our tea on trays, then gorging ourselves on chocolate while watching back-to-back episodes of Prison Break. It was heaven on earth for those few short hours, but the next morning I'd get on the scales and damn my nine pounds of winter weight gain. It was the same every year — and not helped by the fact that I never went to the gym that I paid seventy-two pounds a month for. I could no longer fit into the size-twelve jeans I'd worn the year before, but instead of buying myself a size fourteen, I'd scoured the shops to find a more generous size-twelve pair that I could pour myself into. I'd spent the entire summer "in denial," and was still kidding myself that the promised Indian summer would be sure to see my motivation return.
I would go out every once in a while, particularly around payday, but nights out weren't what they used to be. Maybe it was because I was getting older, or everyone else was getting younger, but I saw little benefit in standing in a crowded pub and having to elbow my way to the bar every time I wanted a drink. Pippa'd dragged me kicking and screaming to a few gigs, though not, unfortunately, at the O2 Arena. She favored underground caverns, where bands, most of whom she seemed to have slept with, thrashed about the stage and encouraged their audience to do the same. I was the one standing alone at the back, with hidden earphones blasting out Musical Theater's Greatest Hits.
Thank God for Seb, my best friend and a male version of me. I'd have married him years ago if I thought there was a single hair on his body that I could have turned straight, but, alas, I had to make do with evenings locked in a soundproof karaoke booth, each of us competing for the best lines in Les Misérables. We met during what he referred to as my "hairdressing period." Discontented with secretarial work, I'd booked myself on a night course for hair and beauty. Obviously, I had visions of becoming a female Vidal Sassoon, with a trendy salon in the middle of Mayfair and celebrity clients having to book months in advance. Instead, I spent three months sweeping up other people's hair and developing eczema on my hands from the caustic shampoo. I used to have these half-baked ideas and rush off to start making them happen, but I was forever deluded by grandeur. Like the time I enrolled on a homemaking course at my local college. It was never my intention to learn how to make a pretty cushion or spend hours rubbing five layers of eggshell off an old chest of drawers. No, I was going to bypass all the graft and groundwork that learning a new skill entailed. I was heading straight for New York, where I would be immediately commissioned to design a vast loft space for Chandler from Friends. Needless to say, the cushion never got finished and all the wallpaper samples and fabric swatches I'd acquired never saw the light of day again.
(Continues...)Excerpted from The Other Woman by Sandie Jones. Copyright © 2018 Sandra Sargent. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Product details
- ASIN : 125019198X
- Publisher : Minotaur Books; First Edition, 2nd printing (August 21, 2018)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 304 pages
- ISBN-10 : 9781250191984
- ISBN-13 : 978-1250191984
- Item Weight : 1.1 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.5 x 1.25 x 9.5 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #754,892 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #3,091 in Domestic Thrillers (Books)
- #12,802 in Psychological Thrillers (Books)
- #36,764 in Suspense Thrillers
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Sandie Jones has been a freelance journalist for over 20 years, interviewing celebrities such as Justin Timberlake, Isla Fisher, Simon Cowell and Naomie Harris.
Her debut novel, The Other Woman, is a psychological thriller about the destructive relationship between a woman and her partner's mother.
If Sandie wasn't an author she'd be an interior designer as she has an unhealthy obsession with wallpaper and cushions!
She lives in London, England, with her husband and three children.
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This book kept me up reading into the late hours, just so I could enjoy each chapter in silence. I’ve read reviews that stated they were “lost” or “confused” as to what was going on.
Wasn’t that the entire point of reading a thriller? You just never have an idea of how it’s going to go.
**kind of a spoiler, but not so much you won’t read!”
One minute I’m reading thinking this is one crazy, psycho mother. The next I’m wondering why the woman is putting up with all the mess, she should just walk away quickly. Then I realized she has a mind of her own- so what if she wants to stay and fight it out. She truly loves him.
Truth be told it’s a giant cat fight over a boyfriend of one woman and a son of another. The claws come out, you end up angry at both. Then you start to attempt to read between the lines.
Then you realize you can’t, you’ll just have to finish it. You can’t put it down until you discover the true madness of everyone involved. I’m pleased with ending. I’m glad I was able to get this thriller in for my second read of 2019!!!
So much to unpack here. I won’t get into all of it, so I’ll just get to the most important bits. This book gave me anxiety. I cringed whenever Pammie is in the scene, and I feel for Emily whenever she wants to shake some much-needed sense into Adam. But as annoying as Pammie is, I also find Emily and Adam unbearable at times. Emily’s “blind spot” is infuriating, and after the whole thing with Adam’s younger brother, I just wanted to shake her and say, “Run — don’t walk — as far away from that crazy family as humanly possible!” I mean, seriously, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and she’s hooked on the one with the insufferable mother. Speaking of Adam... This guy. That expression sums up my feelings for him. This. Guy. He seemed like the typical co-dependent son at a glance, but his actions reeked of triangulation. The book’s opening sentence is awesome, because of a key word that stands out like a 300-pound sore thumb. I kept thinking back on it as I read the book, because I knew it would come back, and sure enough...
THE OTHER WOMAN is an entertaining — albeit headache-inducing — psychological thriller. Downsides? Several. My frustration with Emily was so huge, that I literally shouted, “B#%&h, use your phone!” She wanted to expose Pammie, but not once does she reach for her phone to record their conversations. She would’ve saved herself a whole lot of grief if she’d done that in, say, a quarter into the book. So this is a glaring error in the book that I just couldn’t ignore. I also find it hard to believe that Pammie managed to fool everyone but Emily. She’s not even subtle most of the time. There’s that scene where Emily tries on her wedding dress. All of her friends and family gush — except for Pammie, who goes as far as to say that the dress is plain. Why no one told her to go home is beyond me. The plot twists are tricky, because it seems, well, far-fetched. If not for the fact that I’ve been around people this terrible, I would have had a great deal of trouble buying into it. Alas, I couldn’t put the book down, so the author must’ve done something right! Pick this up if you can stomach a MONSTER-IN-LAW type of character. Four out of five pumpkin and almonds iced coffee, with extra oat milk.
My soul was soothed by the intrinsic accuracy of the description of this evil mother-in-law's deeds. I've met this person and experienced this, but have never been able to tell anyone and make them believe these insidious events were happening in the face of sweet, polite, helpful words to the contrary. This was perfect! I had so many "oooh"
moments. The author did it.
I won't say much more because it will give away the story. But, I will tell you not to listen to other reviewers who say they would never be victim to evil, would walk away holding their powerful aloofness. No, it's not simple like that. As this book shows, there are feelings behind our actions, on both sides-always. Otherwise, there would be no ME-TOO movement. These are richly layered and completely believable characters.
Cognitive Dissonance-the state of having inconsistent thoughts, beliefs, or attitudes, especially as relating to behavioral decisions and attitude change.
My soul was soothed by the intrinsic accuracy of the description of this evil mother-in-law's deeds. I've met this person and experienced this, but have never been able to tell anyone and make them believe these insidious events were happening in the face of sweet, polite, helpful words to the contrary. This was perfect! I had so many "oooh"
moments. The author did it.
I won't say much more because it will give away the story. But, I will tell you not to listen to other reviewers who say they would never be victim to evil, would walk away holding their powerful aloofness. No, it's not simple like that. As this book shows, there are feelings behind our actions, on both sides-always. Otherwise, there would be no ME-TOO movement. These are richly layered and completely believable characters.
Cognitive Dissonance-the state of having inconsistent thoughts, beliefs, or attitudes, especially as relating to behavioral decisions and attitude change.