2009, ISBN: 9780349100883

Pocket Books. Very Good. 111 x 178mm. Paperback. 1998. 352 pages. <br>Mutually delighted by the idea to swap houses for the summer, the British Callahans and the American McCarthys… Plus…

Pocket Books. Very Good. 111 x 178mm. Paperback. 1998. 352 pages. <br>Mutually delighted by the idea to swap houses for the summer, the British Callahans and the American McCarthys begi n holidays that soon test their marital limits and secret desires . Lit Guild Alt. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly The c atalyst: an ad, impulsively placed with the Worldwide Home Exchan ge Club by British journalists Maggie and Oliver Callahan of Broc khampton House in Wiltshire. The next step: an impulsive reply fr om Christy and Gabe McCarthy of Oak Ridge, an almost plantation-s ized house in rural North Carolina. The result: a seemingly innoc ent eight-week house swap that will end in the destruction of bot h marriages. The Callahans know something is amiss in their marri age?Oliver is a compulsive liar with a habit of adultery, and Mag gie loathes the fact that her chauvinistic husband has begun to c onsider her just a housewife. When, on the eve of their departure for America, Oliver disappears to London, Maggie retaliates by s leeping with their closest friend, antique auctioneer Edward Arab in. Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, attorney Gabe M cCarthy adores his wife and young son but fears that Christy some times finds him boring. A justifiable suspicion, for Christy arri ves in England in search of an emotion that will be dangerous and awful. When she stumbles upon an unfinished novel, A Sad Affair, in Oliver's study, Christy is certain she's found the man who ca n fulfill the fantasy. Then, a freak combination of a stray cat, a milk bottle, and a prank doorbell ringer brings Oliver back to London and into Christy's waiting dreams. British-American writer Mead's bright and engaging novel of love, manners and temptation succeeds in being sensual without relying on gratuitous sex, and finishes with a surprising epilogue that promises a real shock f or the obsessed Christy when the true authorship of A Sad Affair is revealed. Literary Guild alternate. Copyright 1996 Reed Busin ess Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or un available edition of this title. From Library Journal Christy an d Gabe McCarthy appear to be the perfect couple. They live in Oak Ridge, an antebellum North Carolina residence; maintain a beach home; dote upon their only child; and live the upscale life that is featured in Southern Living. Maggie and Oliver Callahan live i n a 19th-century family manse in Wiltshire, England, have two chi ldren, and fight often due to Oliver's infidelities and Maggie's unfulfilled career aspirations. When the two families switch home s for summer vacations, their lives become entangled, and the fau lt lines in the two marriages widen. Christy falls for Oliver, Ma ggie has an intimate liaison with friend and neighbor Edward, and Gabe is stunned and aghast. In her debut American novel, Mead sm artly explores the saga of modern relationships gone astray but p rovides a neat and tidy finish for those who love happy endings. For popular fiction collections.?Mary Ellen Elsbernd, Northern Ke ntucky Univ. Lib., Highland Heights Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavai lable edition of this title. ., Pocket Books, 1998, 3, Allison & Busby. Good. 4.4 x 1.7 x 7.0 Inches. Paperback. 2009. 509 pages. Cover worn<br>1907. William Moon's heart swells with p ride at the achievements of his daughter, Maddy. When, at eleven, she won the talent contest held by the Pierrots on Scarborough b each, William knew it wouldn't be long before she asked to join t heir touring company. Now that day has come; his talented young d aughter has grown into a fine young woman - beautiful, and with a voice so pure it would make angels weep. And William isn't the o nly man to notice. As Maddy journeys around the north of England with Morgan's Melody Makers, she makes new friends everywhere she goes. Now seventeen, she is eager to take her first steps along the road to love. But, as she is to discover, the course of true love never did run smooth, and her heart is taken on a bumpy ride as she experiences the highs and lows, the rapture and the heart ache, of falling in love for the first time. Will her dreams of r omance and happy ever after come true? ., Allison & Busby, 2009, 2.5, Anchor Books. Very Good. 19 x 13cm. Paperback. 2003. 353 pages. <br>NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER ? NATIONAL BESTSELLER ? An astonishing novel that traces the lives of a Scottish family over a decade as they confront the joys and longings, fulfillment s and betrayals of love in all its guises. In June of 1989 Paul McLeod, a newspaper publisher and recent widower, travels to Gre ece, where he falls for a young American artist and reflects on t he complicated truth about his marriage.... Six years later, ag ain in June, Paul's death draws his three grown sons and their fa milies back to their ancestral home. Fenno, the eldest, a wry, in trospective gay man, narrates the events of this unforeseen reuni on. Far from his straitlaced expatriate life as a bookseller in G reenwich Village, Fenno is stunned by a series of revelations tha t threaten his carefully crafted defenses.... Four years farther on, in yet another June, a chance meeting on the Long Island sho re brings Fenno together with Fern Olitsky, the artist who once c aptivated his father. Now pregnant, Fern must weigh her guilt abo ut the past against her wishes for the future and decide what fam ily means to her. In prose rich with compassion and wit, Three Junes paints a haunting portrait of love's redemptive powers. Ed itorial Reviews From The New Yorker This enormously accomplished début novel is a triptych that spans three summers, across a dec ade, in the disparate lives of the McLeod family. The widowed fat her, a newspaper publisher who maintains the family manse in Scot land, is chary, dogged, and deceptively mild. Fenno, the eldest s on, runs an upscale bookshop in the West Village, and his most in timate relationship--aside from almost anonymous grapplings with a career house-sitter named Tony--is with a parrot called Felicit y. One of Fenno's younger brothers is a Paris chef whose wife tur ns out pretty daughters like so many brioches; the other is a vet erinarian whose wife wants Fenno to help them have a baby. Glass is interested in how risky love is for some people, and she write s so well that what might seem like farce is rich, absorbing, and full of life. Copyright ® 2005 The New Yorker Review Enormous ly accomplished....rich, absorbing, and full of life. -The New Yo rker A warm, wise debut. . . . Three Junes marks a blessed event for readers of literary fiction everywhere.-San Francisco Chroni cle Julia Glass's talent sends chills up my spine; Three Junes i s a marvel.-Richard Russo, author of Empire Falls Three Junes al most threatens to burst with all the life it contains. Glass's ab ility to illuminate and deepen the mysteries of her characters' l ives is extraordinary. - Michael Cunningham, author of The Hours 'Three Junes' brilliantly rescues, then refurbishes, the traditi onal plot-driven novel. . . Glass has written a generous book abo ut family expectations-but also about happiness. - The New York T imes Book Review Gorgeous. . .'Three Junes' goes after the big i ssues without a trace of fustiness and gives us a memorable hero. - Los Angeles Times Book Review 'Three Junes' is a novel that b ursts with the lives of its characters. They move into our hearts , taking up permanent residence, the newest members of the reader 's family of choice.-Times-Picayune Fiercely realized. . .luxuri ant in its emotional comprehension and the idea, or promise, that anything might happen.-Boston Globe Radiant...an intimate liter ary triptych of lives pulled together and torn apart.-Chicago Tri bune Sophisticated . . . Engrossing . . . Catches the surprisin g twists and turns in family relationships, amid love, loss, hope and regret.-Seattle Post-Intelligencer The sort of sparkling d ebut that marks a writer as one to watch. -Daily News The fluid , evolving nature of family history is at the heart of this assur ed first novel.-Time Out New York This first novel treats family ties, erotic longing, small children and prolonged deaths from A IDS and cancer with a subtlety that grows from scrupulous unsenti mentality.-Newsday Formidable. . . The traditional novel of soci al relations is very much alive in Three Junes. Virginia Woolf an d Elizabeth Bowen, among other exemplars, would surely approve.-K irkus Reviews Brimming with a marvelous cast of intricate charac ters set in an assortment of scintillating backdrops, Glass's phi losophically introspective novel is highly intelligent and well-w ritten.-Booklist Review Enormously accomplished....rich, absorbi ng, and full of life. -The New Yorker A warm, wise debut. . . . Three Junes marks a blessed event for readers of literary fiction everywhere.-San Francisco Chronicle Julia Glass's talent sends chills up my spine; Three Junes is a marvel.-Richard Russo, autho r of Empire Falls Three Junes almost threatens to burst with all the life it contains. Glass's ability to illuminate and deepen t he mysteries of her characters' lives is extraordinary. - Michael Cunningham, author of The Hours 'Three Junes' brilliantly rescu es, then refurbishes, the traditional plot-driven novel. . . Glas s has written a generous book about family expectations-but also about happiness. - The New York Times Book Review Gorgeous. . .' Three Junes' goes after the big issues without a trace of fustine ss and gives us a memorable hero. - Los Angeles Times Book Review 'Three Junes' is a novel that bursts with the lives of its char acters. They move into our hearts, taking up permanent residence, the newest members of the reader's family of choice.-Times-Picay une Fiercely realized. . .luxuriant in its emotional comprehensi on and the idea, or promise, that anything might happen.-Boston G lobe Radiant...an intimate literary triptych of lives pulled tog ether and torn apart.-Chicago Tribune Sophisticated . . . Engro ssing . . . Catches the surprising twists and turns in family rel ationships, amid love, loss, hope and regret.-Seattle Post-Intell igencer The sort of sparkling debut that marks a writer as one to watch. -Daily News The fluid, evolving nature of family hist ory is at the heart of this assured first novel.-Time Out New Yor k This first novel treats family ties, erotic longing, small chi ldren and prolonged deaths from AIDS and cancer with a subtlety t hat grows from scrupulous unsentimentality.-Newsday Formidable. . . The traditional novel of social relations is very much alive in Three Junes. Virginia Woolf and Elizabeth Bowen, among other e xemplars, would surely approve.-Kirkus Reviews Brimming with a m arvelous cast of intricate characters set in an assortment of sci ntillating backdrops, Glass's philosophically introspective novel is highly intelligent and well-written.-Booklist From the Insid e Flap An astonishing first novel that traces the lives of a Scot tish family over a decade as they confront the joys and longings, fulfillments and betrayals of love in all its guises. In June of 1989 Paul McLeod, a newspaper publisher and recent widower, tr avels to Greece, where he falls for a young American artist and r eflects on the complicated truth about his marriage. . ..Six year s later, again in June, Paul?s death draws his three grown sons a nd their families back to their ancestral home. Fenno, the eldest , a wry, introspective gay man, narrates the events of this unfor eseen reunion. Far from his straitlaced expatriate life as a book seller in Greenwich Village, Fenno is stunned by a series of reve lations that threaten his carefully crafted defenses. . .. Four y ears farther on, in yet another June, a chance meeting on the Lon g Island shore brings Fenno together with Fern Olitsky, the artis t who once captivated his father. Now pregnant, Fern must weigh h er guilt about the past against her wishes for the future and dec ide what family means to her. In prose rich with compassion and w it,Three Junes paints a haunting portrait of love?s redemptive po wers. From the Back Cover An astonishing first novel that traces the lives of a Scottish family over a decade as they confront th e joys and longings, fulfillments and betrayals of love in all it s guises. In June of 1989 Paul McLeod, a newspaper publisher and recent widower, travels to Greece, where he falls for a young Am erican artist and reflects on the complicated truth about his mar riage. . ..Six years later, again in June, Paul's death draws his three grown sons and their families back to their ancestral home . Fenno, the eldest, a wry, introspective gay man, narrates the e vents of this unforeseen reunion. Far from his straitlaced expatr iate life as a bookseller in Greenwich Village, Fenno is stunned by a series of revelations that threaten his carefully crafted de fenses. . .. Four years farther on, in yet another June, a chance meeting on the Long Island shore brings Fenno together with Fern Olitsky, the artist who once captivated his father. Now pregnant , Fern must weigh her guilt about the past against her wishes for the future and decide what family means to her. In prose rich wi th compassion and wit, Three Junes paints a haunting portrait of love's redemptive powers. About the Author Julia Glass is the a uthor of the best-selling Three Junes, winner of the 2002 Nationa l Book Award for Fiction; her previous novels include, most recen tly, And the Dark Sacred Night and The Widower's Tale. A teacher of fiction and a recipient of fellowships from the National Endow ment for the Arts, the New York Foundation for the Arts, and the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study, Glass lives with her fami ly in Marblehead, Massachusetts. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permis sion. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Paul chose greece for its p redictable whiteness: the blanching heat by day, the rush of star s at night, the glint of the lime-washed houses crowding its coas t. Blinding, searing, somnolent, fossilized Greece. Joining a to ur-that was the gamble, because Paul is not a gregarious sort. He dreads fund-raisers and drinks parties, all occasions at which h e must give an account of himself to people he will never see aga in. Yet there are advantages to the company of strangers. You can tell them whatever you please: no lies perhaps, but no affecting truths. Paul does not fabricate well (though once, foolishly, he believed that he could), and the single truth he's offered these random companions-that recently he lost his wife-brought down a flurry of theatrical condolence. (A hand on his at the breakfast table in Athens, the very first day: Time, time, and more time. L et Monsignor Time do his tedious, devious work. Marjorie, a breat hy schoolmistress from Devon.) Not counting Jack, they are ten. Paul is one of three men; the other two, Ray and Solly, are appen ded to wives. And then, besides Marjorie, there are two pairs of women traveling together, in their seventies at least: a surprisi ngly spry quartet who carry oversize binoculars with which they o gle everything and everyone, at appallingly close range. Seeing t he sights, they wear identical, brand-new hiking boots; to the gr oup's communal dinners, cork-soled sandals with white crocheted t ops. Paul thinks of them as the quadruplets. In the beginning, t here was an all-around well-mannered effort to mingle, but then, sure as sedimentation, the two married couples fell together and the quadruplets reverted more or less to themselves. Only Marjori e, trained by profession to dole out affection equally, continues to treat everyone like a new friend, and with her as their muse, the women coddle Paul like an infant. His room always has the be st view, his seat on the boat is always in shade; the women alway s insist. The husbands treat him as though he were vaguely leprou s. Jack finds the whole thing amusing: Delightful, watching you c ringe. Jack is their guide: young and irreverent, thank God. Reve rence would send Paul over the edge. Even this far from home the re are reminders, like camera flashes or shooting pains. On the s treets, in the plazas, on the open-decked ferries, he is constant ly sighting Maureen: any tall lively blonde, any sunstruck girl w ith a touch of the brazen. German or Swedish or Dutch, there she is, again and again. Today she happens to be an American, one of two girls at a nearby table. Jack has noticed them too, Paul can tell, though both men pretend to read their shared paper-day befo re yesterday's Times. By no means beautiful, this girl, but she h as a garish spirit, a laugh she makes no effort to stifle. She we ars an eccentrically wide-brimmed hat, tied under her chin with a feathery scarf. (Miss Forties Nostalgic, Maureen would have pegg ed her. These gals think they missed some grand swinging party.) Little good the hat seems to have done her, though: she is sunbur nt geranium pink, her arms crazed with freckles. The second girl is the beauty, with perfect pale skin and thick cocoa-colored hai r; Jack will have an eye on that one. The girls talk too loudly, but Paul enjoys listening. In their midtwenties, he guesses, ten years younger than his sons. Heaven. I am telling you exquisite, says the dark-haired girl in a husky, all-knowing voice. A sensua l sort of coup de foudre. You go up on donkeys? Where? the blond e answers eagerly. This dishy farmer rents them. He looks like G iancarlo Giannini. Those soulful sad-dog eyes alone are worth the price of admission. He rides alongside and whacks them with a st ick when they get ornery. Whacks them? Oh just prods them a lit tle, for God's sake. Nothing inhumane. Listen-I'm sure the ones t hat hump olives all day really get whacked. By donkey standards, these guys live like royalty. She rattles through a large canvas satchel and pulls out a map, which she opens across the table. Th e girls lean together. Valley of the Butterflies! The blonde poi nts. Jack snorts quietly from behind his section of the Times. D on't tell the dears, but it's moths. Paul folds his section and lays it on the table. He is the owner and publisher of the Yeoman , the Dumfries-Galloway paper. When he left, he promised to call in every other day. He has called once in ten and felt grateful n ot to be needed. Paging through the news from afar, he finds hims elf tired of it all. Tired of Maggie Thatcher, her hedgehog eyes, her vacuous hair, her cotton-mouthed edicts on jobs, on taxes, o n terrorist acts. Tired of bickering over the Chunnel, over untap ped oil off the Isle of Mull. Tired of rainy foggy pewtered skies . Here, too, there are clouds, but they are inconsequential, each one benign as a bridal veil. And wind, but the wind is warm, mak ing a cheerful fuss of the awning over the tables, carrying loose napkins like birds to th, Anchor Books, 2003, 3, Ebury Press. Good. 5 x 0.82 x 7.6 inches. Paperback. 2004. 301 pages. Cover worn.<br>After an idyllic provincial 70s childho od, the 80s took Andrew Collins to London, art school and the cla ssic student experience. Crimping his hair, casting aside his soc ks and sporting fingerless gloves, he became Andy Kollins purveyo r of awful poetry, disciple of moany music and wannabe political activist. What follows is a universal tale of trainee hedonism, g irl trouble, wasted grants and begging letters to parents. Edit orial Reviews From the Inside Flap After an idyllic 70s childhoo d, the 80s took the author to art school. He crimps his hair, spo rts fingerless gloves, and becomes Andy Kollins purveyor of awful poetry, disciple of moany music, and wannabe political activist. About the Author Andrew Collins began his journalistic career a t the NME and went on to edit Q magazine. He has written for Sele ct, The Observer, GQ, New Statesman and is now Radio Times Film E ditor. He has hosted Radio 4's Back Row, won a Sony Gold award fo r Collins & Maconie's Hit Parade on Radio 1 with Stuart Maconie a nd presents Teatime on BBC 6 Music. He was an EastEnders scriptwr iter and his first sitcom, Grass, co-written with Simon Day, prem iered on BBC in 2003. Author of Still Suitable For Miners, offici al biography of Billy Bragg, and Friends Reunited, he co-wrote an d performed Lloyd Cole Knew My Father on stage and for radio. Ex cerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. ONE The L ong Way ROCKERS ARE GETTING COOL FEET If you want to look like a rock star this summer, fellas, throw your socks away. Most of Du ran Duran seem to favour the sockless look. Even Echo and the Bun nymen's moody Ian McCulloch has chucked away his socks. I was so impressed that I tried it over the weekend and all I can say is t hat it has to be the most uncomfortable fashion yet invented! Jo hn Blake's Bizarre column, The Sun, 28 July 1983 'Dave Griffiths doesn't go out looking like that!' Mum snipes, slamming the cutl ery drawer to underline her point. We're having one of our free and frank exchanges of views, becoming ever more frequent as my n eed for fumbled self-expression increases. I'm on my way out to c ollect Sally for tonight's big party. Why does she always wait un til I'm on my way out to challenge me? Why do all mums do that? I n the old house at Winsford Way you could get from the stairs to the front door without passing the kitchen ('I'm off out, won't b e late, bye!' slam). Not at Kestrel Close. The kitchen's between the stairs and the door, like a sentry box. 'I don't want to loo k like Dave Griffiths,' I protest. Dave Griffiths is my ultra-str aight friend who is leaving sixth form not for university but the RAF. Where's Dad when you need him to arbitrate? He usually drie s as she washes. 'I sometimes wish you were Dave Griffiths,' she shouts. Ah good, she's strayed into fantasy. I give her an eye-r olling look of derision and reach for the door handle. The argume nt is over. I have won the battle, and so, in her mind, has Mum. 'Won't be late, bye!' slam. I was, to be fair to Mum, beginning to put my head above the parapet in fashion terms that year. I w ore my hair increasingly blow-dried and lacquered, in deference t o Ian McCulloch and Robert Smith and other pop peacocks whose aro matic, dark music I'd fallen in love with on Switch or The Tube. Boots on the Market Square did brisk business with their gender-u nspecific green hair gel that year. Black pumps were de rigueur, even when it got too chilly to wear them sensibly sans chausette. October was the reluctant start of the sock season, by which tim e I'd be off. There is something about me in plentiful Truprint photos from the time that suggests I am not content merely to be part of a group that stands out from the crowd. Either my jeans a re rolled higher than everybody else's, or I am wearing my hair s pikier, or the sleeves have been more roughly hacked from my T-sh irt for that Bono soldier-of-fortune effect. And no one else seem s to be wearing fingerless gloves. You couldn't play the drums i n fingerless gloves, more's the pity. The local band I drummed fo r and gigged with had risen from the ashes of a previous band, Ab solute Heroes. We were called, with no hint of embarrassment, Ske tch For Dawn, after a Durutti Column track that bassist Craig and I particularly loved. All four of us in the band backcombed our hair to varying degrees, as did the knot of kids who came to see us play at the Black Lion in town. In fact, only Dave Griffiths s tayed completely square, as if he were perhaps in the pay of my m um. It was a Northampton thing. Provincial, Middle English, subu rban, it was fertile soil for the sombre flowering of a generatio n too young to have experienced punk first-hand and too far away from the nearest city to affect New Romanticism. A tartan cape an d jodhpur ensemble would have got you kicked in down town, and pe rhaps rightly so. It was all right for the actual New Romantics - they lived in London and got taxis. Their look and lifestyle was never going to translate to Northampton. But second-hand overcoa ts, check shirts and cheap hair gel? Bring them on. You needed n othing much to do and nowhere much to go in order to get a fix on this moody new music's A-level-friendly ennui. Minor chords and wailing vocals, it was a custom-made soundtrack for our wannabe d isaffected, misunderstood years. The movement's Beatles and Stone s, The Cure and Echo & the Bunnymen, were in the process of going awkwardly overground in 1983 - fixtures suddenly of Top of the P ops and Smash Hits - but their sartorial influence was, it seems, much more heavily felt outside London. Macs, multiple T-shirts a nd heavy fringes were anything but the uniform of an ostracised c ult in Northampton. They were everywhere, or seemed to be. Though big hair and outdoor slippers were not welcome at the town's onl y notable nightclub, Cinderellas, we successfully colonised selec t pubs and newly minted wine bars and kept our overcoats on, howe ver hot it got. Cinderellas - or Cinderella Rockefellers, to use its full, disagreeably aspirational title - remained off-limits. Until, that is, it opened its doors to the great unsocked by adv ertising its first ever Alternative Night. This meant no door pol icy, and Northampton's raincoat brigade jumped at the chance actu ally to see inside the place. They were playing 'Mad World' by Te ars For Fears- an approved record- as we pushed through about the third set of silver-laminated double-doors, but the mythical Cin derellas was no better than a hotel disco really. And no bigger e ither- once you'd taken into account the ubiquitous mirrored surf aces. It was not a wild success. The dance floor was too keen and obvious and needy, with its pulsing floor and flashing lights an d remained forbiddingly empty for much of the night. On reflectio n, we preferred the dour ambience of the Masonic Hall. Northampt on's more conservative soul boys, who were legion, might have con sidered us avant garde- actually, poofy's more accurate- but desp ite an isolated attack on Richie Ford at a house party after a De ntist Chair gig, violence rarely broke out. If you wore a tie you were, in our parlance, a 'rugby player': you went to Cinderellas and lived out the unfolding Eighties dream of chrome and money; if you wore the ripped-off hem of a T-shirt wrapped round your wr ist as a kind of bangle-cum-bandage, you went to a house party in one of the terraced streets near the Racecourse and feigned exis tential doom. Nobody got hurt. One member of our big-haired circ le, John Lewis, had made a premature break for it at Weston Favel l. Mistaking the relative laissez faire of sixth form for real fr eedom, he turned up to school one morning with his hair intricate ly beaded into plaits, like some Vivienne Westwood clone out of T he Face. He looked a bit silly- he looked bloody stupid - but the rest of us would have defended to the death his right to do so. He was promptly sent home by Mr Cole to reconsider his position. I now realise that what we were doing that summer was pretending to be students. Which, apart from Squadron Leader Griffiths, is what most of us were about to be. If by throwing away our socks w e were trying to look like rock stars, then it was the type of ro ck star who looked like a student! Why? Because student life, wit h all its imagined freedoms and possibilities and subsidy, is as aspirational to fifth- and sixth-formers as Cinderellas is to rug by players. It meant leaving home, wearing second-hand clothes an d attempting to become an interesting but sensitive individual - another Eighties dream for some of us. The Metro is neatly parke d outside and Sally and I quietly decorate the dark shallows of t he Masonic Hall. I don't know if it's the weight of expectation, but tonight it's just not working. Too many interchangeable sixth -form parties have been held here, each with the same, almost Mas onic codes and practices, the same cliques and sarcastic catchphr ases, the same dash for the dance floor when 'our' music comes on . The evening seems destined to be fogged with the same mood of a nticlimax as the informal buffet. Celebration brought down with t he anxiety of major change. A tyre exploded in Bert Tilsley's fa ce on Coronation Street tonight. He might die. But nobody's talki ng about it- we're too cool for that. The talk is of Ian McCulloc h on Top of the Pops and Richie Ford getting beaten up for trying to look a bit like Ian McCulloch. I might have been at that ill- fated house party if me and Sally hadn't been babysitting my sist er. I might have had my head kicked in. I lean towards Sally as ' Billie Jean' starts to fade out. 'You OK? Let me know when you w ant to make a move,' I ask in the quiet voice reserved for talkin g to your girlfriend amid a larger group. Of late, it's increasi ngly me who wants to make a move, and Sally who wants to stay. T he sixth form marked the start of what we view as 'serious relati onships'- Craig went out with Jo, I went out with Jo, Neil went o ut with Liz, Mick went out with Lynsey, Craig went out with Lynse y, Craig went out with Jo's sister, I went out with Jo's sister, Pete always looked like he'd go out with Het but never actually d id. We've grown used to couples becoming the prime unit within ou r gang. That's cool, as long as they don't interfere with our cat chphrases. We drink cider or Fosters or Britvic for the drivers a nd dance to whatever approved records the DJ has. Tonight's bash is called the Hello Goodbye Party, in that it sees off one year of maroon blazers and welcomes another. I'm ready to say goodbye. Sally wants to say hello for a bit longer. Our conversation is curtailed when we hear the frenetic opening guitar on 'The Back o f Love'. Our siren call, we all rise reflexively and head to the floor for the allotted three minutes of elbows-out raincoat danci ng. It ends with that sustained chord. We repair to the edges of the hall. It's back to Shalamar. I return to pretending I'm havi ng a good time and manage to sustain it for another half-hour bef ore subtly renewing my theme. 'Ready to go?' My Great Escape mo od is hardly alleviated by the fact that it seems I'm the only on e who's spotted a couple of blokes from the gang who reportedly j umped Richie. They're not in the sixth form, nor are they about t o be (it is, after all, for poofs), but they got in to the party somehow, skulking in their white shirts and Sta-Prest trousers. M y desire to go is heightened. 'Why do you want to go so early?' Sally looks at me slightly pityingly. 'It's your party.' I retur n to my previous tactic, made a little more nervous by the scent of imminent violence. Eventually Sally will give in and I'll dri ve us both home 'the long way' in Mum's Metro - putting the clock back to nought to conceal the extra miles. A detour for snatched , self-educating sex, seats reclined on an unlit lane near Billin g Aquadrome in sniffing distance of the sewage farm. Meanwhile, u ntil then, the party grinds informally on, unapproved records boo ming out in the main hall as we suck our drinks to make them last . 'Shall we go?' 'OK.' While today is supposed to be the first day of the rest of my life, tomorrow is the first day of the res t of Sally's. She turns sixteen. Which means that after seven mon ths of going out- four of those taking 'the long way'- she'll be legal. She's been a tender but mature fifteen, so mature in fact that we never really considered what we were doing on a fairly re gular basis as illegal. I was simply her biggest thrill, and she was mine. We first got off with each other at the fag end of a h ouse party at the end of 1982. I had no reason to believe that th e girl underneath me on the floor of Alan's flat would turn out t o be my first proper girlfriend. Sally seemed, on the face of it, to be like the others: a doll-eyed, big-skirted schoolgirl with whom I could wetly snog and fitfully grope until we tired of writ ing each other's initials on our exercise books. And our relation ship was textbook term-time training-bra love, the kind I'd grown to know. Barely thought through, it was in truth more that we ha d the right look and listened to the same music than any real kis met. But the weeks went by. And the months. Sally and I started m arking anniversaries. It was a sweet-natured, well-meant, mutuall y rewarding, highly decorative relationship, the first for both o f us with any staying power, and certainly our first with anythin g even approaching sex. Trading Young Ones catchphrases and Bauh aus lyrics like a couple of boys and sharing a penchant for big h air and espadrilles and latterly, each other's bones, Sally and I were working out fine; 1983 had our name on it. We were a founda tion course in young love. Then comfort set in. Comfort and conf ormity. I hadn't expected staying in to become so attractive so s oon in my life, having spent most of puberty trying to get out, b ut romantic security- and a warm body on tap- tend to keep you in doors. This is the great irony of teenage love: when you're singl e you go out in order to find somebody to go out with and then, w hen you have, you stay in with them. So take away the homework, the curfew and the fact that sex could only last as long as we da red and it was like a marriage. SCENES FRO, Ebury Press, 2004, 2.5, Ballantine Books. Very Good. 4.25 x 1.25 x 7 inches. Paperback. 2004. 432 pages. Cover worn<br>Seducing readers with her scorching sens uality and searing romance, bestselling author Nicole Jordan weav es her most tantalizing love story yet. . . . A legendary lover and spymaster, the darkly sensual Earl of Wycliff eludes matrimon y until a brush with death makes him yearn for a son to carry on his name. The moment Lucian spies the alluring Brynn Caldwell on a Cornish beach, he knows he has found the woman he wants for his bride. Brynn believes the notorious rake's fascination with he r is driven by a centuries-old curse that dooms the women of her family to tempt men-only to lead those they love to their death. Compelled by dire circumstances to marry Lucian, Brynn surrenders her body to his caresses but dares not give him her heart. Loc ked in a battle of wills with his bewitching wife, Lucian begins to suspect that Brynn is a traitor. Before long he finds himself lured into a web of danger and betrayal, where the price of winni ng his bride's elusive heart may be his own life. Editorial Revi ews Review Jordan writes highly charged erotic historical romanc es. --Publishers Weekly A vibrantly sensual novel. A journey of awakening... intensely robust and romantic. --The Romance Journa l A seductive tale with all the fire and conflict expected from this talented author. --BookBrowser An emotional storm. --Ren dezvous From the Inside Flap Seducing readers with her scorching sensuality and searing romance, bestselling author Nicole Jordan weaves her most tantalizing love story yet. . . . A legendary l over and spymaster, the darkly sensual Earl of Wycliff eludes mat rimony until a brush with death makes him yearn for a son to carr y on his name. The moment Lucian spies the alluring Brynn Caldwel l on a Cornish beach, he knows he has found the woman he wants fo r his bride. Brynn believes the notorious rakeÂ's fascination w ith her is driven by a centuries-old curse that dooms the women o f her family to tempt men?only to lead those they love to their d eath. Compelled by dire circumstances to marry Lucian, Brynn surr enders her body to his caresses but dares not give him her heart. Locked in a battle of wills with his bewitching wife, Lucian b egins to suspect that Brynn is a traitor. Before long he finds hi mself lured into a web of danger and betrayal, where the price of winning his brideÂ's elusive heart may be his own life. About t he Author Nicole Jordan is the nationally bestselling author of n umerous historical romances. She recently moved with her real-lif e hero to the Rocky Mountains of Utah, where she is at work on he r next sizzling tale of dangerous rakes and bold adventurers duri ng the Regency era. You can e-mail her via her website at www.Nic oleJordanAuthor. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rig hts reserved. Chapter One The Cornish Coast, three months earlie r . . . It was not one of her better days. Brynn Caldwell dove be neath the warm surf, trying to drown her simmering anger in the d eep tidal pool. Her frustration with her oldest brother Grayson h ad reached the limits of her endurance. With a muttered oath, sh e surfaced and rolled onto her back, willing herself to calm. Thi s was not the first time she had futilely argued with Gray and so ught refuge in the secluded cove below their house. The inlet was flanked on two sides by jagged boulders and behind by a low clif f that shielded the natural rock pool from prying eyes. She came here whenever she could, or whenever she felt a need for peace, a s now. Here she could be free of the confining restrictions she imposed on herself. Here she could forget the troubles that const antly worried her: how to make ends meet for her impoverished fam ily, how to protect her youngest brother, Theodore, from Gray's d angerous notions of upbringing. The afternoon July sun was warm on her face as Brynn floated, the salty seawater soothing her fra yed temper. Yet she had never felt so helpless. Gray intended to take Theo out on a midnight smuggling excursion tonight, and desp ite arguing herself hoarse, she could do nothing to stop him. De vil take him! she murmured, an imprecation she used frequently of late toward her oldest brother. Grayson was very dear to her, bu t dragging a mere child into their illicit activities was utterly criminal. It galled her to feel so powerless. She had raised Th eo from a baby-ever since their mother had died in childbirth twe lve years before-and she was desperate to spare him the danger th at had ensnared her four other brothers and herself as well. Smu ggling was a way of life on the Cornish coast. Having grown up he re, she accepted the illegal means to which the local folk resort ed simply to survive, trafficking goods such as brandy and silk p ast government revenuers to avoid crushing taxes. But Free Tradi ng was so very perilous. Her father had perished in a storm sever al years ago while trying to elude a revenue cutter. And so had n umerous other men of the district, leaving behind widows and youn g children with no means of support. And now Grayson meant to in volve Theo in an upcoming brandy-smuggling foray so he could lear n to pull his weight and help relieve the oppressive debts their father had amassed. It was enough to make Brynn want to do violen ce. She made herself float awhile longer, then swam some more, t rying to burn off her frustration-to no avail. She was physically spent by the time she turned toward shore, but her feelings of g uilt and anger and helplessness were just as strong as she clambe red onto the ledge of the rocky pool. For a moment she stood dri pping wet in her shift, wringing out her long hair. The sea breez e would dry it quickly, for this stretch of Cornish coast boasted one of the warmest climes in England. When she started to reach for the towel she had left lying on the ground, however, she rea lized it was gone. Her gaze lifted, searching, then fell upon the intruder in her private sanctuary. Brynn froze, her heart thuddi ng in her chest. He was leaning casually against a boulder, watc hing her from the afternoon shadows. He was dressed informally as well in breeches and gleaming topboots and a white cambric shirt with no cravat. Yet there was nothing casual in his look as his measuring gaze slowly raked her. Alarmed, she took a backward st ep. How had he found his way to the rocky stretch of beach below the cliff? Had he discovered the cave below the house with its se cret tunnel? He didn't look like a revenuer, but government men s ometimes roamed these shores, searching for contraband. Who are you? she demanded in a breathless voice. How did you get here? I climbed down, he replied, gesturing with his head at the rocks a bove him. You didn't answer my first question. He was tall and lithely built, she noted, with dark, curling hair worn a trifle l onger than fashionable. When he stepped out of the shadows, her g aze riveted on his face. His lean, aristocratic features were str ikingly handsome, barely saved from arrogance by a sensual mouth. His heavily lashed eyes were a startling hue, the deep blue of t he ocean on a brilliant summer day, and they held her transfixed. I'm Wycliff, he said simply, as if she should be duly impressed . She was, in truth. She recognized the name of the rich and pow erful Earl of Wycliff. By reputation, he was a notorious rake and a leader of the infamous Hellfire League, an exclusive club of w icked noblemen dedicated to pleasure and debauchery. Brynn was su ddenly keenly aware of a different kind of danger. Simply being a lone with him could taint her reputation. That does not explain what you are doing here, she replied tartly. I am visiting a fri end. Do you realize you are trespassing? His mouth curved in a charming half smile. I couldn't resist the pleasure of watching a sea nymph cavort in her kingdom. I wasn't even certain you were real. He held out her towel to her, but Brynn warily backed up a nother step, every instinct she possessed warning her to flee. Sh e wanted to retreat farther, yet with the pool directly behind he r, there was nowhere to go but into the water. You needn't fear me, he remarked soothingly. I'm not in the habit of ravishing bea utiful women, no matter how scantily clad. That is not what I he ar- Brynn began, then looked down at herself and nearly gasped. T he shift she wore had turned transparent, showing her breasts wit h their puckered rosy nipples and the thatch of auburn hair at th e vee of her thighs. Flustered, she crossed to him and snatched t he towel from his grasp, then wrapped it around her body, shieldi ng her charms from his interested gaze. I won't assault you. I a m a gentleman, after all. Are you? she asked skeptically. A gent leman would go away at once and allow me to dress in private. A lazy smile filled his blue eyes, but he made no move to accommoda te her wishes. Annoyed by his arrogance, Brynn brushed past him a nd stalked barefooted across the shingle toward the rock where sh e had left her gown and slippers. She had barely taken four steps , however, when a stinging pain in her left sole made her draw a sharp breath. Halting abruptly, she stood on one leg, cursing her clumsiness. She had cut the pad of her foot on a shell or rock. You're bleeding, a concerned voice said be- hind her. I am fine . When she tried to hobble toward her clothing, though, she sudd enly felt herself being swept up in a pair of strong arms. Brynn gasped in shock. How dare you . . . Put me down! she demanded, and tried to break free, but her struggles were in vain. Not only was Wycliff tall and lithe but surprisingly muscular as well-and altogether too domineering for her taste, both in manner and ton e of voice. Be still, he ordered. I only want to see to your wou nd. He carried her as if she weighed no more than thistledown an d lifted her up onto a boulder so that she sat facing him, her kn ees level with his broad chest. Brynn glared repressingly at him , but he only flashed her a wicked smile. When his gaze flickered over her bosom, she realized that her towel had come loose and c lutched at it wildly, covering her indecently exposed breasts. Th ere was nothing she could do, however, to hide her legs, which we re bare to the knees. At last he turned his attention to her lef t foot. He cradled it gently in his elegant hands, turning it sli ghtly to inspect the bloody cut on the underside. His touch was c areful as he brushed away sand and probed the wound with his thum b. It doesn't appear to be too deep, he murmured. I told you, m y lord, I am perfectly all right. And I don't appreciate you acco sting me. Instead of answering, Lord Wycliff began pulling the h em of his shirt from the waistband of his breeches. Brynn's eyes widened in alarm. What are you doing? Tearing a strip off my sh irt to bind your wound. I haven't any bandages with me at present , or even a handkerchief. It was a costly shirt, made of the fin est cambric, she noted, the price of which would have fed a commo ner's family for weeks. But the Earl of Wycliff was reportedly we althy enough to destroy a dozen such garments without thinking tw ice. You will ruin your shirt, Brynn protested weakly. That cha rming half smile flashed again. But my sacrifice is for a good ca use. He ripped the fabric at the bottom and tore off part of the hem, then began to bandage her foot. Biting her lip, Brynn star ed down at his dark head as he bent over her. His nearness was af fecting her strangely, making her senses swim and her heartbeat q uicken ridiculously. His thick, curling hair was deepest brown, t he rich color of dark chocolate, and she could smell his clean ma sculine scent over the pungent brine from the sea. He seemed int imately aware of her as well, for his touch was lingering and pro vocative as he bound her foot. After he tied a neat knot over her arch, he went still. When he looked up suddenly, his sapphire ey es had darkened. Brynn froze. Sweet heaven. She had seen that lo ok before in men's eyes. Want, need, primitive male lust. She was sitting there, wet and bedraggled as a drowned cat, and yet this handsome stranger was looking at her as if she was the most bewi tching woman he had ever encountered. It was the Gypsy's ... ., Ballantine Books, 2004, 3, John Murray. Very Good. 4.57 x 0.75 x 6.97 inches. Paperback. 2008. 288 pages.<br>In this robust, insightful and hitherto only privat ely available handbook, Parisian wife and mother Hortense de Monp laisir shares with us the secrets of her survival amongst the Eng lish. Exiled to London for the sake of her husband's career, pion eer Hortense delves into the many aspects of la perfide Albion th at have long puzzled its closest neighbour and oldest enemy. No o ne and nothing is safe from Hortense's penetrating eye as she dis cusses a diverse range of topics from the inability of the Englis h to speak their mind, their bizarre love of rituals such as the stag party and the country fete and their passion for long muddy walks, to their obsession with World War II, estate agents and in comprehensible fondness for the traditional English pantomime. Th e result is a double-edged comedy: here are the foibles of the En glish, seen through the jaundiced gaze of a sophisticated Parisie nne. Hortense's confident interpretations of some of our best-lov ed national habits (jam with meat, anyone?) will only confirm our long-held view that the French are, indeed, very different. ., John Murray, 2008, 3, Gardners Books. Good. 24 cm. Paperback. 2004. 346 pages. Cover creased.<br>By a freak chance John Kelly, once a reporter, always a maverick, becomes embroiled in the mystery su rrounding a series of disturbing deaths at a tough Dartmoor army training camp. Several young men and women stationed at the bleak ly remote Hangridge have died suddenly and tragically, mostly fro m gunshot wounds that the army claim have been self-inflicted. Th e army has a plausible explanation for each death individually, b ut when put together these explanations look very suspicious inde ed-Kelly takes his concerns to his old friend Detective Superinte ndent Karen Meadows and together they attempt to break through th e wall of secrecy which the army has erected. Their involvement i n what they come to believe is a major conspiracy, coupled with u pheaval and tragedy in their own personal lives, brings them clos er together then ever before. But their past histories threaten t o jeopardise any possibility of a real relationship between them and Karen, still fighting to move on from her traumatic love affa ir with a married detective sergeant, buries herself in her work, whilst Kelly pursues the truth at considerable risk to himself. When powerful men in high places try to silence the ex-journalist in a shocking and unexpected manner this threatens to be the inv estigation which could finally finishes John Kelly - ., Gardners Books, 2004, 2.5, Abacus Little, Brown. Good. 198mm / 129mm. Paperback. 1991. 233 pages. Text tanned<br>In 1914, when Nicandra is eight, all is well in the grand Irish estate, Deer Forest. Maman is beautiful and adored. Dada, silent and small, mooches contendedly around th e stables. Aunt Tossie, of the giant heart and bosom, is widowed but looks splendid in weeds. The butler, the groom, the landstewa rd, the maids, the men - each as a place and knows it. Then, asto nishingly, the perfect surface is shattered; Maman does something too dreadful ever to be spoken of. 'What next? Who to love?' ask s Nicaranda. And through her growing up and marriage her answer i s to swamp those around her with kindness - while gradually the g reat house crumbles under a weight of manners and misunderstandin g. Editorial Reviews Review Molly Keane is astonishing ... LOVI NG AND GIVING is perhaps her richest work yet, an exquisitely wri tten black comedy with a shock ending. The language is eloquent a nd original, the descriptions divine-GUARDIAN This novel is a ra re treat-IRISH TIMES Quite the best book she has written-DAILY T ELEGRAPH --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edi tion of this title. About the Author Born in Ireland in 1904 int o a 'rather serious Hunting and Fishing Church-going family' who gave her little education at the hands of governesses, Molly's in terests were 'hunting & horses & having a good time'; she began w riting only to supplement her dress allowance. She died in 1996. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of t his title. ., Abacus Little, Brown, 1991, 2.5<

1996, ISBN: 9780349100883

Abacus Little, Brown. Good. 198mm / 129mm. Paperback. 1991. 233 pages. Text tanned<br>In 1914, when Nicandra is eight, all is well in the grand Irish estate, Deer Forest. Maman is … Plus…

Abacus Little, Brown. Good. 198mm / 129mm. Paperback. 1991. 233 pages. Text tanned<br>In 1914, when Nicandra is eight, all is well in the grand Irish estate, Deer Forest. Maman is beautiful and adored. Dada, silent and small, mooches contendedly around th e stables. Aunt Tossie, of the giant heart and bosom, is widowed but looks splendid in weeds. The butler, the groom, the landstewa rd, the maids, the men - each as a place and knows it. Then, asto nishingly, the perfect surface is shattered; Maman does something too dreadful ever to be spoken of. 'What next? Who to love?' ask s Nicaranda. And through her growing up and marriage her answer i s to swamp those around her with kindness - while gradually the g reat house crumbles under a weight of manners and misunderstandin g. Editorial Reviews Review Molly Keane is astonishing ... LOVI NG AND GIVING is perhaps her richest work yet, an exquisitely wri tten black comedy with a shock ending. The language is eloquent a nd original, the descriptions divine-GUARDIAN This novel is a ra re treat-IRISH TIMES Quite the best book she has written-DAILY T ELEGRAPH --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edi tion of this title. About the Author Born in Ireland in 1904 int o a 'rather serious Hunting and Fishing Church-going family' who gave her little education at the hands of governesses, Molly's in terests were 'hunting & horses & having a good time'; she began w riting only to supplement her dress allowance. She died in 1996. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of t his title. ., Abacus Little, Brown, 1991, 2.5<

1991, ISBN: 0349100888

[EAN: 9780349100883], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Abacus Little, Brown], CONTEMPORARY FICTION,CLASSIC BOOKS & NOVELS, 233 pages. Text tannedIn 1914, when Nicandra is eight, all is well… Plus…

[EAN: 9780349100883], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Abacus Little, Brown], CONTEMPORARY FICTION,CLASSIC BOOKS & NOVELS, 233 pages. Text tannedIn 1914, when Nicandra is eight, all is well in the grand Irish estate, Deer Forest. Maman is beautiful and adored. Dada, silent and small, mooches contendedly around th e stables. Aunt Tossie, of the giant heart and bosom, is widowed but looks splendid in weeds. The butler, the groom, the landstewa rd, the maids, the men - each as a place and knows it. Then, asto nishingly, the perfect surface is shattered; Maman does something too dreadful ever to be spoken of. 'What next? Who to love?' ask s Nicaranda. And through her growing up and marriage her answer i s to swamp those around her with kindness - while gradually the g reat house crumbles under a weight of manners and misunderstandin g. Editorial Reviews Review Molly Keane is astonishing . LOVI NG AND GIVING is perhaps her richest work yet, an exquisitely wri tten black comedy with a shock ending. The language is eloquent a nd original, the descriptions divine-GUARDIAN This novel is a ra re treat-IRISH TIMES Quite the best book she has written-DAILY T ELEGRAPH --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edi tion of this title. About the Author Born in Ireland in 1904 int o a 'rather serious Hunting and Fishing Church-going family' who gave her little education at the hands of governesses, Molly's in terests were 'hunting & horses & having a good time'; she began w riting only to supplement her dress allowance. She died in 1996. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of t his title., Books<

1989, ISBN: 0349100888

[EAN: 9780349100883], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [SC: 2.6], [PU: Abacus], KLASSIKER / POPULÄRE BELLETRISTIK, Broschur Exemplar mit Gebrauchsspuren (das kann heißen: das Buch KANN norm… Plus…

[EAN: 9780349100883], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [SC: 2.6], [PU: Abacus], KLASSIKER / POPULÄRE BELLETRISTIK, Broschur Exemplar mit Gebrauchsspuren (das kann heißen: das Buch KANN normale Leseverformung wie Knicke am Buchrücken, oder leichte Nachdunklung o. ä. haben oder auch, obwohl unbeschädigt, als Mängelexemplar gekennzeichnet sein, ferner können auch Notizen oder Unterstreichungen im Text vorhanden sein. Alles dies zählt zur Kategorie des GUT ERHALTENEN). In jedem Falle aber dem Preis und der Zustandsnote entsprechend GUT ERHALTEN. und ACHTUNG: Die Covers können vom abgebildeten Cover und die Auflagen können von den genannten abweichen AUSSER bei meinen eigenen Bildern (die mit den aufrechtstehenden Büchern vor schwarzem Hintergrund, wie auf einer Bühne) MEINE EIGENEN BILDER SIND MASSGEBEND FÜR AUFLAGE, AUSGABE UND COVER w-100f-0322 KEIN VERSANDKOSTENRABATT !!! Sprache: Englisch Gewicht in Gramm: 450, Books<