All the Wrong Places - Joy Fielding

Having thoroughly enjoyed She’s Not There by Joy Fielding I was delighted to receive her latest novel from Readers First. If a missing child was at the heart of She’s Not There then missing girls are at the heart of this taut and quite chilling pyschological thriller. 

As sub text the remit of including older female characters and rendering them both crucial to the storyline and characters of some substance is satisfied. Paige’s mum, Joan, leaps off the page at you. And if you are of mature years there is much to relate to. What I particularly enjoyed was the dynamic between her and Paige, (our sort of heroine), that ably demonstrated the balance required  between being a mum and being your own person too. 

However that is not the main thrust of the book. The story looks at the perils of internet dating sites and the risks you take when meeting up with strangers. It also looks at relationships and fidelity. I hope that isn’t one spoiler too many. Apologies if it is. 

The cast of characters fall very much into two camps, the goodies and the baddies. The baddies are odious which is necessary because of what happens ultimately in the story and that I won’t give away except to say that I found the implications of what happens to one character really nasty. But I did see it coming. It didn’t dilute my feelings though and the conclusion is open ended which leaves the reader with that ‘looking over your shoulder’ feeling. 

I guess it’s almost a fusion of chick lit meets psycho thriller but it never teeters over into one camp more than another. In fact I’ll qualify that by saying that the psycho thriller part does dominate.   

The story is set in Boston which I’ve had the pleasure of visiting a few times even though I’m a Brit so many of the locations were familiar to me - Newbury Street and the Paul Revere House for example. As a reader I do enjoy that. It gives a story a subtle, subconscious almost, elevation.

Joy Fielding is an experienced writer who seems to know how to entertain readers even if that means making them uneasy! The narrative flows and rarely loses momentum so you want to keep reading and reading to find out if, and how, and why and when and a myriad of other questions.

But it isn’t a feel good book, even though the main characters emerge with various redemptions and there are some attempts at lighter moments I think you are left feeling vaguely disturbed. But, my dear reader, that is the diversity of fiction for you! And we wouldn’t have it any other way!

Book Blogging, Social Media and Me

I’m old enough to remember what I was doing when John F. Kennedy got shot. I remember pre decimal coinage - threepenny bits and sixpences. I  remember Green Shield Stamps. I remember Dixon of Dock Green and I definitely remember that time when we had no internet or mobile phones. And I know that I rub shoulders with a generation who were born into this broadband, wifi, digital age and know no different. But I’m no technophobe.I was using a Sinclair ZX 81 back in the day!  I have my reservations about the integrity of some platforms and practices and I think cyber crime is a huge threat. And I think social media is a mixed blessing. In the earlier days of the Internet there was no social media. Unless you count ICQ? Anyone remember that, back in the nineties? The first social media site I remember in 2000 was Friendster. It predated Facebook. I never had a good feeling about Facebook. I never had a good instinct about Mark Zuckerberg. I mean the first use of Facebook to compare pictures of women and decide the most attractive is an abomination. I wouldn’t want to be associated in any way with such a platform. But it puts me in a definite minority. And has it harmed my status as a blogger and ‘influencer’ (not sure I like that term)?

 I do not have a huge reach on social media. I don’t know why. Perhaps it is because I am not good at self promotion. It doesn’t come easily to me and to be honest i find it embarrassing. Not enough self belief maybe. So my follower count is pretty low on both Twitter and Instagram. I don’t do Facebook - as you know ;-). And, sadly, your reach seems to determine how good a blogger you are perceived to be regardless of your reviewing ability. But I also think that levels of interaction also play a part and that is something that mystifies me. Am I good reviewer but a bad blogger? Or I am simply not good enough on social media to be considered a good blogger let alone a decent reviewer? 

I am constantly amazed by the output of so many people on social media. People who have full time jobs, and families and yet they seem to post extensively and articulately on an almost daily basis. The quality of some Instagram photos is stunning. The effort that goes into them is almost mind boggling. And they comment and interact copiously too. I don’t know how they do it.  My efforts at photographs are of low quality. And I haven't the faintest idea how you do a story on Instagram. I tried once and something happened which I didn't want to happen and it's put me off forever! I try, I really do but I scroll through maybe a dozen photos on Instagram, I’m trying to read everything and even trying to comment but then I start to lose interest. The damned adverts drive me to distraction.  I look at the time and realise there are too many other things needing to be done. Same on Twitter. So much stuff to read and I’m not following that many people! How do folk following thousands of people keep up with them all?   

And the interaction. Again I try to interact when it seems relevant. But there seems to be

cluster cliques of bloggers who all solidly support one another. I confess I feel quite envious sometimes. They seem to know each other and meet up too. I’ve never been able to break into any of these cliques. Is that because I’m not a good enough blogger or influencer and do not garner respect from my blogging colleagues or is it because I am no good on social media? Social media seems all about having a potent and visible presence. I have sporadic and quite heartwarming interaction with some people but I always feel I’m on the periphery of it all. If one of my tweets gets a half dozen likes then that’s tantamount to it going viral for me!

But does it matter? As far reach goes it is a disadvantage for a book blogger because there are publishers who won’t consider adding you to their blogger lists unless you have a minimum 1K followers! That leaves me out for the foreseeable future! I’ve not even hit 300 followers on Twitter yet!!  I’m reminding myself of an earlier post this year where I was stressing about my decline as a blogger. I came to terms with that and found a kind of peace because I am happy with what I’m doing. It all comes from my heart. I suppose I’m just mystified at how it all works. Sometimes social media reminds me of a school playground. Kids coming out to play in their groups. Some won’t play at all. Others wander round the outside making an occasional foray in, to be half welcomed but not wholly accepted.  Others are repelled no matter what they do until they go complaining to the teacher. Other just try and spoil the games and make some of the kids fearful of playtime. Trolls they’re called. Like in the fairy story. 

Will the internet and social media end up being part of a fairy story? Once upon a time? Nothing is forever. Will it all implode one day without warning? How will we cope? Me? I’ll just carry on reading and scribbling as the screens go black one by one.

Ring the Hill - Tom Cox

This is the third of Tom Cox’s books that I’ve pledged towards. Normally I’ve started to read them almost before I’ve taken the packaging off. But not this time. I decided I would restrain myself and savour the event. Make it last. For without a doubt a new Tom Cox book is an absolute joy.

Ring the Hill offers a return to Tom’s non fiction writing after his fiction foray with Help The Witch. ( I do hope he will explore fiction again.)  It seems such an effortless narrative, I’m sure it isn’t, but sometimes it’s like you’re having a chat with a mate who is sharing, with loquacious enthusiasm, something he’s found out and is overflowing to tell you. It’s very uplifting. It’s warm and it’s witty and it’s honest. The love and reverence for the natural world is the life blood of this book and Tom’s devotion is infectious. I wanted to go out and see some hares, I wanted to swim, I wanted to climb Glastonbury Tor. I wanted to sit in the sun with Roscoe and Ralph. I felt the chill and snow depression of the Derbyshire winter.I wanted to make sure Clinton was safe.  I wanted to live in The Magic House. And I wept all over again for the loss of The Bear and Shipley. 

And if all of the above pertain to a somewhat emotional response to the book rest assured that there is plenty of folklore and information to excite and satisfy the more cerebral of readers out there. Illustrated with Tom’s own photos and some beautiful contributions from his talented mum this is a nature book to entertain the curious. And would you just look at that cover?

And as always, and how I would be complaining were it not so, TOM’S DAD OFFERS US HIS IRREPRESSIBLE TAKE ON LIFE. With just a simple change of case Tom’s word portrait of his Dad is so vibrant you feel like you’d know Mr. Cox senior if you met him. 

Tom’s books are unique I think because in many ways they are genre defiant. They are never ‘just’ nature books,  or books about cats, neither are they ‘simply’ a memoir or autobiography. They are portals into one man’s original and positive take on life and the world we live in. We would do well to take Tom on as a role model and try to emulate. In this book Tom Cox shows us that life does not have to be complicated. Take a walk in the landscape around you and look at the beauty of all things natural. Chat with people you encounter on the way. They all have their stories to tell. Everyone can do this and be better for it. (Maybe not move house so many times though! ;) )

My thanks to Tom Cox for the writing of this book. Reader, I loved it and I'm a better person for reading it. 

17 Church Row - James Carol

If Mary Shelley subtitled her book ‘A Modern Prometheus’ then I guess this could be subtitled ‘A Modern Frankenstein’! Since the blurb gives little away I will not go down the spoiler path intentionally but it’s going to be tough trying to avoid some fundamental themes within the book without letting something slip.

I read this within a 24 hour period. It was tempting not to try for sleep but I did. ’Unputdownable’, ‘page turner’ are all epithets we offer freely and glibly sometimes when we’re talking about books. But sometimes it is so true you have the red eyes to prove it. This is one of those books where it IS true! Your heart will feel like it’s on a trampoline it ends up in your mouth so many times. And if you have an Alexa you might not by the end of the book. 

If you’re a devotee of psychological thrillers you might be reminded of J P Delaney’s The Girl Before but that’s possibly a thematic comparison rather than a plot comparison. The emotional dynamic of 17 Church Row is broader and more explosive.

It’s an ambitiously plotted novel that sends the reader up many a garden path as you, along with the hapless Rhodes, trust and believe, at face value, what you see before you. But delve a little deeper and the seeds of unease start to take their grip until they won’t let you go. 

Nikki and Ethan Rhodes have suffered the ultimate loss, their child, Grace. But Grace was twin to Bella, who hasn’t spoken since her sister’s death.  Needing to try and move forward the Rhodes relocate from a house full of memories to the titular Church Row house designed by a whizz kid architect, Catriona Fisher, that has an advanced home security system that reduces Alexa to a charity shop bargain. 

I will not divulge any more. It’s a clever book and doesn’t deserve to have that shattered by a clumsy reviewer revealing the salient points although, my goodness, I sympathise because I would like to shout out and show you all the clever bits! 

Interestingly I thought, for a male writer, the female characters were very well drawn and the fewer male characters seemed weaker. But the majority of your empathy is reserved for Nikki and Bella as you will both of them to cope with their respective traumas. 

The narrative hurtles along at a compulsive pace with a chronological narrative for the most part interspersed with some italicised chapters that deal with a past, and some clues if we did but know it!!

The conclusion is open ended and quite chilling. It’s not a book that leaves you with that snugly warm, satisfied feeling of all ends being tied up. You’ll be looking over your shoulder and viewing life with suspicion for a while after reading, I reckon!

You can enjoy this story for what it is, a darn good thriller, or you can seek to delve beneath and extract a deeper meaning perhaps that has something to say about our contemporary, digital, techno world and its potential future. Or you can do both ! Like me!

My thanks to Reader’s First for a copy. 

Wakenhyrst - Michelle Paver

I’ve wanted to read this for the longest time so when I saw it on the library shelf, a spanking brand new paperback, I grabbed it quick and I did a silly, happy dance which only narrowly avoided the library staff phoning for assistance!

I read Thin Air, some years ago now it seems, and was impressed with it. I was also extremely happy to find that a quote from my review was used on Redhammer’s website! Here’s a link to that review for those who might be interested, 

https://bookphace.blogspot.com/2016/09/thin-air-michelle-paver.html

Paver has a talent for the atmospheric and she displays this to remarkable effect in Wakenhyrst. The word ‘gothic’ seems bandied about nowadays but not all stories accredited with that moniker truly seem to embody those aspects that really make a story ‘gothic’. Paver does. This is gothically gothic ! It is consummate story telling with its themes of sorcery, mysticism and superstition. Witches and devils, gargoyles and murder, the reader is trapped within the spell of the story desperate to know, to discover what really happened between Maud Stearn and her father, Edmund Stearn. The chilling, brooding mood is sustained to the very last full stop.

In true story telling tradition a journalist seeks out Maud, in the mid nineteen sixties, and her story is divulged and forms the meat of the book. The reader is sent hurtling back to a pre WWI English village, Wakenhyrst where the Stearns live in their house, Wake’s End. The relationship and dynamic between Maud and her father is tense, taut, you get the feeling that it could snap at any moment. Maud is coldly trapped within her gender and her father is unable to see her as she truly is. He only sees the stereotype of women of that era, and someone who he can put to good use. I do not wish to offer any spoilers except that sometimes I feel like I’m the last person to get around to reading this, so would it really matter? Nope, I won’t be persuaded other than to say that Edmund Stearn is an archetypal gothic character almost, a manic, deluded, controlling obsessive. A monster?!

For me one of the main characters in the book is devoid of all human characteristics; it is the swirling, misty Fen that seems to envelop Wake’s End, the big house occupied by the Stearns. Coupled with a sense of ‘Fennish’ folklore and murmurings of starlings,  it was as if everything and everyone were trapped within a deep claustraphobic prison. 

There’s plenty of scary stuff to keep you up at night but I defy you to put the book down! It is a treat to read a book such as this. The experience is one with that indefinable sense of being treated to something so satisfying and complete, so substantial. If you haven’t read it,read it,if you have,why,read it again!

The Flower Girls - Alice Clark-Platts

I won’t fib, I was totally up for another D.I. Erica Martin story when I heard that Alice Clark-Platts had written another novel. But conversely, being the contradictory little wotsit that I am, I also enjoy seeing a writer diversify. Yet Ms. Clark-Platts hasn’t strayed too far from her comfort zone with this mystery story that has a police and courtroom presence in it. The ‘cop’ this time is Lorna Hillier, astute, instinctive, tenacious and philosophical,

‘Hillier is certain that criminal impulses lurk unbidden in everyone. But it is only the people who act on those impulses that guilt can claim as its victims. The rest of us feel it but shake it off, thankful to God, or whatever it is that guides our moral compass, that we are able to control it.’

That not everyone can shake it off, certainly within the fertile imaginations of the crime novelist, is paradoxically a blessing for we wouldn’t have the stories we do if everyone behaved themselves!

The miscreants here seem to be sisters, Laurel and Rosie. When the novel begins one is behind bars, one isn’t. The greatest disservice I can do is offer any spoilers here because the novel pivots on the reader discovering, layer by layer, what happened then, and what is happening now. It did remind me of a case in the news over twenty five years ago but the author did reference that. It’s tight, taut and twisty. Dark, and possibly a little depressing, but it was never gonna be uplit now was it?! The characters are edgy, uneasy, you never quite get to trust any of them and then you start mistrusting yourself, your own instincts, for what really did happen with The Flower Girls? 

I often wonder, when you discover an author whose work you continue to enjoy, whether you subconsciously intuit their thought patterns and can see where the novel is headed? Certainly you have an affinity with their narrative style and characterisations but plots are nebulous things and vary greatly. I did surmise some of what was going on but I did not anticipate the final ‘Conclusion Blast’! It was a goody! And the poor reader is left open mouthed, possibly rereading because you can’t quite believe it and then as you process the implications you feel a cold chill travel down the length of your spine. Then you close the book. 

And in my case you return it to the library where someone else is desperately waiting to read it. 

Zero - a fragment

I wish I’d never fallen in love with Zero. The name means nothing to me now. It meant everything to me then but I should have taken heed. What’s in a name? Nothing and everything. But I was finding my way. Fresh out of college; away from the halls of residence and the refectories. Away from the privileged kids who didn’t receive grants because their daddies earned too much. No more tutorials and dissertations. No more lectures and seminars. No more set texts, I could read whatever I wanted to. And see, Zero, was kinda famous. He was a shit hot guitarist in a local band who always believed they were on the cusp of something big but they never were. They were never even on the cusp of something little, really, just locally famous. And I got a kick out of watching Zero, with his sunburst finish Les Paul, strutting across the various stages of all the dives and bars he and the band played in, strumming the blues and everyone watching like they couldn’t get enough. And I couldn’t get enough. 

Sunburst Finish by David Rain
Courtesy Flickr

Zero was smart but he was a bad ass at heart. His moral compass was questionable sometimes and he used people and cast them aside when he was done. I knew that after knowing him for a very short while. Not a criminal exactly but I remember the day he was in court for possession of amphetamine and I was scared, I mean really scared, that he was going to prison. He didn’t. He just turned up smiling with those goddamn cute little dimples he had that melted me whenever I saw him smile. One thing, though, my whole life I don’t think I ever talked with anyone the way I talked with Zero. We could sit up all night, just talking. Now I can’t hardly remember what we said but I do know that we both listened to  each other and I think he was one of the few people who really listened to me. He told me once that I was a real person, not like the others. and that made me feel real good. So I told him everything and he listened.

He liked to read. So did I. He liked to write. So did I. He kept a journal. So did I. He liked cats. So did I. And music? Well, we shared so much music. Music to dance to, music to sing to, music to fuck to, music to think to, music to listen to even. I can credit Zero with influencing my musical taste even now and some of my favourite books are those that he recommended, no, insist, I read. He just knew what I'd like instinctively.

But I think that being a local hero went to his head. It kinda goes with the territory that women of all ages were interested. Rock chicks. I was smart enough for him but not  pretty enough nor dangerous enough. I mean I smoked a little dope now and again but I  wasn’t into the whole speed thing which he loved. I liked that I wasn’t because it told me that I wasn’t just some infatuated groupie hanging on his every word. But plenty of women were. And he liked that.  

I tried to play it cool. I didn’t want to seem like I didn’t care but I figured the best way to lose him was to act all hurt and affronted. So I didn’t. He told me I was a star, a constellation!  I felt pleased. But star reminded me of the asterisks he put in his journal to show every time he screwed. I might be a a fucking constellation, but a constellation in a major galaxy it seemed. Then he wanted to borrow money. I guess it wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things but it was a lot as far as I was concerned. He wanted to cut a solo disc without the band. He had the songs. He had the musicians. And he had the backing singers. He just needed the backing. Yeah, I should have said no, but I didn’t. I gave him  the money. And you might be thinking that he never paid me back. But he did. With interest, But he wouldn’t let me sit in on the recording session. I was devastated. All my  encouragement and support for his music, and putting up the money, then this? And I  knew then that there was a fundamental change. Actually there were three fundamental changes; they were vocalists, all younger than me, all prettier than me. The oldest story in the book, huh?

So that was that. It dwindled as things do. And considering how much we talked when things were good it was ironic how little we spoke when things were bad. One of the last things he ever said to me was that I annoyed him and I got on his nerves. Ouch! Yet I don't think it was anything I did or said, it was that he no longer had a use for me. For him things had run their course. He was ready to move on. I could say I was heartbroken. And I was, but if I’m honest I knew deep down that it wasn’t a forever thing. He was never a forever person, it wasn’t his nature. I knew that. Maybe I wasn’t either. But it did affect my perception of relationships that has persisted to this day. Nothing is forever.

You might be wondering if he ever made it in the rock business? Was the record he cut a success? No, it wasn’t. But ironically one of the backing singers went on to become world famous. I won’t say her name because it wouldn’t be right. I went to see her perform once, she had a damn fine voice. And I felt kinda sorry for Zero that he didn’t make it because he was a damn fine guitarist. 

However I did meet up with him again many years later. He put a letter through my mum’s door. By then I had my own house and was fairly established professionally. He wasn’t to know that of course. In the letter he apologised for having hurt me which touched me because he showed no awareness of that at the time. The tone of the letter suggested something of a farewell. Alarm bells went off in my head because I knew his mother had committed suicide. And I didn't know if he had become fragile. I always felt  there was the potential. So I wrote straight back with my address and phone number. He called. Straight back. We talked on the phone  Hesitantly to begin with. But it didn't take long to realise he was the same old Zero. We agreed to meet for a drink. Actually we didn’t meet. He picked me up. In a beat up old Ford. Guess he wanted to see the house, how well I’d done for myself maybe.I was curious to see what time had done to him. It was dark in the car and I couldn't see him clearly. I didn't want to stare either. We didn't say much but it was like the hundreds of times we'd sat just like this in a car on the way to somewhere or maybe we were going nowhere. 

We went to the closest pub to my house. He parked up and we walked silently to the entrance. We sat across the table from each other. I got a clear look at him then. Age. I'd forgotten how much older he was than me. The difference didn't seem to matter when we were both younger. He admitted to needing spectacles some of the time. It was almost an apology!  Although he’d lost all his shock of unruly, curly blond hair the dimples were still there. As the alcohol dissolved and melted our time skins we fell almost into our old style of chatter, which felt good, and continued until the last orders bell sounded. There was an unspoken reluctance within both of us as we slowly made our way to the exit. He dropped me back at the house. There was no attempt at affection, not even a peck but I was okay with that. He drove off and out of my life. I never saw him again. And truthfully? I remember wondering what I had ever seen in him!  Zero. The name means Nothing to me. Should never have fallen in love.