Bad British Humour? In Loving Hate by Lynette Sofras

Picture this: an attractive and rather vulnerable young woman has left her selfish husband, turned her back on her cruel and unhappy marriage and embarked on a long and solitary journey across part of Europe to return to her family home.  That's a home to which she has no idea whether or not she will be welcome, incidentally, but that's an ordeal for the future. 

Instead of hopping on a plane and getting the ordeal over with in three or four hours, Lyssa has boldly chosen to drive herself from Greece via Italy, Switzerland, France and across TheChannel into England.  The first leg of her journey entails a slow ferry crossing from Patras in Greece to Ancona in Italy.  These two day ferry crossings are only made tolerable if one travels first class and Lyssa feels she owes herself that little luxury. 

On the ferry boat she meets a good-looking stranger, an English surgeon, who is very plainly attracted to her.  He makes an easy and pleasant travelling companion - a great listener - and Lyssa finds herself pouring out her sad history to his interested ears.  When he hears she will need to find work back in London, he offers her a job as his secretary - an impulsive act of kindness but not taken very seriously by either of them.  Nevertheless, there is definite chemistry between them and David makes the inevitable move on her.  He offers her a fling, therapeutic sex if you wish, and could anyone really blame Lyssa if she accepted?  She doesn't, of course, because David is married and makes no attempt to hide that fact (when he could very easily do so).  Here's a snippet of the conversation between them the following day before they part and go their separate ways:

“Meet me in Milan,” he said suddenly.

She looked into his face quickly. “You do believe in living dangerously, don’t you?”  She remembered he would be meeting his wife in Milan.

“For lunch,” he argued.  “To discuss the job.”

“And then what?”

He gave her a mischievous grin.  “References, perhaps?”

Lyssa’s gaze wandered abstractedly around the lounge where small groups of people gathered together, anxiously checking passports and hand-luggage as the boat lumbered inexorably northward.

“How many times have you cheated on your wife?”  Try as she might, she could not expel the natural tremor from her voice.

“Thirty six,” he answered immediately, looking pained.  “Give or take a few dozen.  I can assure you I don’t make a habit of this.  I’m not exactly collecting material for a clinical trial.”

Now it was never my intention to suggest that David had seriously had thirty six affairs!  His immediate answer and pained expression should have indicated that his answer was ironic.  He's impatient at her question and is beginning to feel a sense of urgency about whether he'll see her again. The almost unreal two-day interlude on the boat has led them to forge a bond that neither of them quite understands, and which both feel a certain reluctance to end completely.  

However, several readers so far have failed to understand the joke and were shocked by David's flippant answer, not realising he had simply plucked a number from the top of his head as a sarcastic response to a silly question. The disservice to my character was my fault, not his.  I didn't intend to suggest that David was an outrageous womaniser!

Of course he shouldn't be contemplating cheating on his wife in the first place, but no man is perfect when faced with a pretty and available woman and, if the opportunity arises, what red-blooded man won't attempt to seize it?  Come to that, what red-blooded woman might not also at least consider it?

What does concern me, however, is that British humour doesn't always translate well and that my characters suffer bad press as a result.  We Brits so often base our humour on irony or sarcasm  that it's second nature to us.  It's all too easy to forget that the rest of the world may take our words literally and naturally misinterpret our intention.  

So, apologies to my readers and to any of my characters who've been affected by bad British humour that has failed to translate.  There is a helpline available at the end of this blog...oops, sorry!  Will try harder in future to tone it down or make it clearer! 

Wednesday's Writer - Nicola Trwst

Having written my own first romantic suspense, I'm ashamed to say it's not a genre I read very often.  To rectify that, I chose to read The Belvedere Club by the very talented Nicola Trwst and this is what I'm reviewing this week.

The Belvedere Club

Excited readers sometimes talk about good books as being 'unputdownable' but sadly not every book we read falls into that category.  The Belvedere Club, however, is definitely one that does!  From the first page the story romps along one unpredictable path after another abounding with humour, with pathos and often gripping suspense. It's a well-paced and beautifully-crafted story.

The heroine, Briana is a likeable young Irish woman who has had more than her fair share of slings and arrows hurled at her, yet still manages to hold onto her sanity and her sense of humour.  "Everyone I love dies," she tells Dusty midway through the story after hitting one of her low points.  "I'm like an Irish plague on two legs."  I found it impossible not to feel sympathy for this woman once I saw beneath the bright and sometimes brittle front she puts on to keep her pain at bay.

As a photojournalist, Briana is called out by her colleague and best friend, Haylee, to Marin County where the more senior reporter has stumbled upon a story of 'Pulitzer' proportions involving the Belvedere Club.  This is a rather quaint ladies' country club with closely observed rules and traditions.   Unfortunately, by the time Briana arrives, Haylee has been murdered (at the club) and Briana, with the help and sometimes hindrance of the quirky and aloof sheriff, Dusty, a practising Buddhist, sets out to unravel the curious leads left by Haylee to discover the story and identify the killer.

Nicola Trwst is an accomplished storyteller, leading the reader through the investigation process through Briana's eyes so that it unfolds before us as it does before her.  The clever twists and turns the story takes is exactly what make it 'unputdownable'.  There is no superfluity in this story.  It is beautifully and vividly told and the reader is kept guessing and working throughout.  And that's just as a great story should be.  On top of the gripping mystery is the heart-warming friendship that gradually unfolds between Briana and Dusty.  It isn't a simple romance - it's something rather more satisfying (although I've already played out the sequel in my head so I know what happens between them - and, believe me, that is romantic!)

When I downloaded this story, I hoped I would like it, but I never expected to enjoy it quite as much as I did.  A thoroughly good read and one I would highly recommend.  It's totally worthy of my full five cute kitties award.

The Blurb

Marin County California, one of the wealthiest counties in the country, boasts home to The Belvedere Club, an exclusive woman’s club that makes Augusta National Golf Club look like a community center. High on a hill overlooking the majestic San Francisco Bay, Old World charm mingles with New World money while perfumed doyennes hide secrets and share tasty gossip. Tree-sitters need not apply. Haylee Macklin, journalist with Washington DC’s District Dispatch, interviews the club’s Chanel clad president and other society page matrons for a tell-all exposé.

But Haylee turns up dead. Her dearest friend, Briana Kaleigh, photojournalist for the same daily, dashes across the country braving a snowstorm, a high-strung poodle, and the cultural divide to find the killer. When Briana uncovers an internet porno ring, she leads the police astray, almost closing the homicide investigation for good. Briana first alienates the Buddhist sheriff working the case, but gradually wins him over with her Irish charm. After many dead-ends and a second murder, the only hope to find the killer is a blind bag lady spouting clichés.

About the Author

Nicola Trwst has a gypsy heart. She currently resides in California, but has lived in Virginia, Georgia, France, and Canada. She loves languages and speaks several, including Pig Latin. Due to an overactive imagination, her stories thread many genres such as mystery, thriller, paranormal, and contemporary. Her short stories have appeared in several anthologies.

Discover Nicola’s work at www.nicolatrwst.com.  

Tie be, or not tie be - that is the question

Drive through any urban area between three and four pm when the schools are disgorging students faster than the speed of light, and you will notice the radically different ways kids from different schools wear (or sometimes don’t wear) their school ties. This got me wondering whether tie fashions reflect the way students feel about their ties or about their schools.

As a former teacher, I know how important the school uniform is to a school and in most secondary schools, the senior management team will try to ensure that children leave the school premises looking smart. After all they represent the school to the local community. But somewhere between the school gate and the nearest bus stop, that uniform – and the tie in particular – undergoes a radical makeover.

If students resent wearing ties so much, shouldn’t we be listening to them? What real function to ties serve anyway? The blazer colour and badge identify the school perfectly well, so as a means of advertising the school the tie is pretty well redundant. The majority of students leaving school will probably only wear a tie on very rare occasions. For boys, these will be their first interview, their wedding and perhaps if attending a funeral. But what about the girls? Unless they join the forces, they will probably never again wear a tie in their lives. So why inflict this unwanted accessory on them for eleven of their most formative years?

I began noticing ties more and more over the last few weeks – or perhaps I should say I began noticing their absence. On a trip to London during the rush hour, I noticed the majority of commuters were men and in my carriage only a small percentage were wearing ties. On the TV, whilst Tim Henman seemed to sport his tie with pride, another famous commentator, Boris Becker, looked far more relaxed without one; and on Question Time, last week, I noticed Hugh Grant was the only male panellist not to wear a tie – but that certainly had no adverse effect his eloquence, wit and credibility. The audience was solidly behind him (and I only noticed one tie amongst them). Conversely, Stephen Fry was the only tie-wearing member of the all-male team on QI and while his tie may have looked like an esplanade of multi-coloured pebbles snaking a beach of fuchsia-tinted sand, it definitely did not dim his dazzling repartee.

Nevertheless, it seems being on TV (even the BBC) is no longer up there with weddings and funerals as meriting formal attire. Is this a silent rebellion against the noose-like symbol of subservience to one’s company? Are ties gradually disappearing in the same way as cuff links which might be seen as jewels in the manacles of servitude?

Politicians, when they do wear them, seem to pick them as an afterthought to bring out the colour their rosettes when they are out and about, slumming it with Joe or Jo public; whilst in hospitals they are no longer considered de rigueur by the medical profession.

So why do men wear ties? And what’s more, why do women seem to get so much pleasure out of choosing and buying them for their men? Are ties really smart attire, or are they simply outdated throwbacks to some sort of institutionalised servitude, which women, in some sinister fashion, endorse?