2013, ISBN: 9781405054102

Taschenbuch, Gebundene Ausgabe

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 an… Mehr…

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, Bantam. Good. 5.2 x 0.9 x 7.9 inches. Paperback. 2013. 448 pages. Cover creased and worn.<br>In the spirit of Loving Fra nk and The Paris Wife, acclaimed novelist Melanie Benjamin pulls back the curtain on the marriage of one of America's most extraor dinary couples: Charles Lindbergh and Anne Morrow Lindbergh. The history [is] exhilarating. . . . The Aviator's Wife soars.--USA Today NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER When Anne Morrow, a shy college senior with hidden literary aspirations, travels to Mexico City to spend Christmas with her family, she meets Colonel Charles Lin dbergh, fresh off his celebrated 1927 solo flight across the Atla ntic. Enthralled by Charles's assurance and fame, Anne is certain the aviator has scarcely noticed her. But she is wrong. Charles sees in Anne a kindred spirit, a fellow adventurer, and her world will be changed forever. The two marry in a headline-making wedd ing. In the years that follow, Anne becomes the first licensed fe male glider pilot in the United States. But despite this and othe r major achievements, she is viewed merely as the aviator's wife. The fairy-tale life she once longed for will bring heartbreak an d hardships, ultimately pushing her to reconcile her need for lov e and her desire for independence, and to embrace, at last, life' s infinite possibilities for change and happiness. Look for spec ial features inside. Join the Random House Reader's Circle for au thor chats and more. Praise for The Aviator's Wife Remarkable . . . The Aviator's Wife succeeds [in] putting the reader inside A nne Lindbergh's life with her famous husband.--The Denver Post A nne Morrow Lindbergh narrates the story of the Lindberghs' troubl ed marriage in all its triumph and tragedy.--USA Today [This nov el] will fascinate history buffs and surprise those who know of h er only as 'the aviator's wife.' --People It's hard to quit read ing this intimate historical fiction.--The Dallas Morning News F ictional biography at its finest.--Booklist (starred review) Utt erly unforgettable.--Publishers Weekly (starred review) An intim ate examination of the life and emotional mettle of Anne Morrow.- -The Washington Post A story of both triumph and pain that will take your breath away.--Kate Alcott, author of The Dressmaker Ed itorial Reviews Review The history is exhilarating. . . . The Av iator's Wife soars. . . . Anne Morrow Lindbergh narrates the stor y of the Lindberghs' troubled marriage in all its triumph and tra gedy.--USA Today Remarkable . . . The Aviator's Wife succeeds [i n] putting the reader inside Anne Lindbergh's life with her famou s husband.--The Denver Post [This novel] will fascinate history buffs and surprise those who know of her only as 'the aviator's w ife.' --People It's hard to quit reading this intimate historica l fiction.--The Dallas Morning News Fictional biography at its f inest.--Booklist (starred review) Utterly unforgettable.--Publis hers Weekly (starred review) An intimate examination of the life and emotional mettle of Anne Morrow.--The Washington Post A sto ry of both triumph and pain that will take your breath away.--Kat e Alcott, author of The Dressmaker Melanie Benjamin inhabits Ann e Morrow Lindbergh completely, freeing her from the shadows of he r husband's stratospheric fame.--Isabel Wolff, author of A Vintag e Affair About the Author Melanie Benjamin is the New York Times bestselling author of The Children's Blizzard, Mistress of the R itz, The Girls in the Picture, The Swans of Fifth Avenue, The Avi ator's Wife, The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb, and Alice I Hav e Been. Benjamin lives in Chicago, Illinois, where she is at work on her next historical novel. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permissio n. All rights reserved. Benjamin / THE AVIATOR'S WIFE chapter 1 December 1927 Down to earth. I repeated the phrase to myself, whispering it in wonder. Down to earth. What a plodding expressio n, really, when you considered it--­I couldn't help but think of muddy fields and wheel ruts and worms--­yet people always meant i t as a compliment. 'Down to earth'--­did you hear that, Elisabe th? Can you believe Daddy would say that about an aviator, of all people? I doubt he even realized what he was saying, my sister murmured as she scribbled furiously on her lap desk, despite the rocking motion of the train. Now, Anne, dear, if you'd just let m e finish this letter . . . Of course he didn't, I persisted, ref using to be ignored. This was the third letter she'd written toda y! Daddy never does know what he's saying, which is why I love hi m. But honestly, that's what his letter said--­'I do hope you can meet Colonel Lindbergh. He's so down to earth!' Well, Daddy is quite taken with the colonel. . . . Oh, I know--­and I didn't m ean to criticize him! I was just thinking out loud. I wouldn't sa y anything like that in person. Suddenly my mood shifted, as it a lways seemed to do whenever I was with my family. Away from them, I could be confident, almost careless, with my words and ideas. Once, someone even called me vivacious (although to be honest, he was a college freshman intoxicated by bathtub gin and his first whiff of expensive perfume). Whenever my immediate family gather ed, however, it took me a while to relax, to reacquaint myself wi th the rhythm of speech and good-­natured joshing that they seeme d to fall into so readily. I imagined that they carried it with t hem, even when we were all scattered; I fancied each one of them humming the tune of this family symphony in their heads as they w ent about their busy lives. Like so many other family traits--­t he famous Morrow sense of humor, for instance--­the musical gene appeared to have skipped me. So it always took me longer to remem ber my part in this domestic song and dance. I'd been traveling w ith my sister and brother on this Mexican-­bound train for a week , and still I felt tongue-­tied and shy. Particularly around Dwig ht, now a senior at Groton; my brother had grown paler, prone to strange laughing fits, almost reverting to childhood at times, ev en as physically he was fast maturing into a carbon copy of our f ather. Elisabeth was the same as ever, and I was the same as eve r around her; no longer a confident college senior, I was diminis hed in her golden presence. In the stale air of the train car, I felt as limp and wrinkled as the sad linen dress I was wearing. W hile she looked as pressed and poised as a mannequin, not a wrink le or smudge on her smart silk suit, despite the red dust blowing in through the inadequate windows. Now, don't go brooding alrea dy, Anne, for heaven's sake! Of course you wouldn't criticize Dad dy to his face--­you, of all people! There! Elisabeth signed her letter with a flourish, folded it carefully, and tucked it in her pocket. I'll wait until later before I address it. Just think ho w grand it will look on the embassy stationery! Who are you writ ing this time? Connie? Elisabeth nodded brusquely; she wrote to Connie Chilton, her former roommate from Smith, so frequently the question hardly seemed worth acknowledging. Then I almost asked if she needed a stamp, before I remembered. We were dignitaries n ow. Daddy was ambassador to Mexico. We Morrows had no need for su ch common objects as stamps. All our letters would go in the spec ial government mail pouch, along with Daddy's memos and reports. It was rumored that Colonel Lindbergh himself would be taking a mail pouch back to Washington with him, when he flew away. At lea st, that's what Daddy had insinuated in his last let- ter, the on e I had received just before boarding the train in New York with Elisabeth and Dwight. We were in Mexico now; we'd crossed the bor der during the night. I couldn't stop marveling at the strange la ndscape as we'd chugged our way south; the flat, strangely light- ­filled plains of the Midwest; the dreary desert in Texas, the lo nely adobe houses or the occasional tin-­roofed shack underneath a bleached-­out, endless sky. Mexico, by contrast, was greener th an I had imagined, especially as we climbed toward Mexico City. Did you tell Connie that we saw Gloria Swanson with Mr. Kennedy? We'd caught a glimpse of the two, the movie star and the banker ( whom we knew socially), when they boarded the train in Texas. Bot h of them had their heads down and coat collars turned up. Joseph Kennedy was married, with a brood of Catholic children and a lov ely wife named Rose. Miss Swanson was married to a French marquis , according to the Photoplay I sometimes borrowed from my roommat e. I didn't. Daddy wouldn't approve. We do have to be more caref ul now that he's ambassador. That's true. But didn't she look so tiny in person! Much smaller than in the movies. Hardly taller t han me! I've heard that about movie stars. Elisabeth nodded thou ghtfully. They say Douglas Fairbanks isn't much taller than Mary Pickford. A colored porter knocked on the door to our compartmen t; he stuck his head inside. We'll be at the station momentarily, miss, he said to Elisabeth, who smiled graciously and nodded, he r blond curls tickling her forehead. Then he retreated. I can't wait to see Con, I said, my stomach dancing in anticipation. And Mother, of course. But mainly Con! I missed my little sister; mis sed and envied her, both. At fourteen, she was able to make the m ove to Mexico City with our parents and live the gay diplomatic l ife that I could glimpse only on holidays like this; my first sin ce Daddy had been appointed. I picked up my travel case and foll owed Elisabeth out of our private car and into the aisle, where w e were joined by Dwight, who was tugging at his tie. Is this tie d right, Anne? He frowned, looking so like Daddy that I almost la ughed; Daddy never could master the art of ty- ing a necktie, eit her. Daddy couldn't master the art of wearing clothes, period. Hi s pants were always too long and wrinkled, like elephants' knees. Yes, of course. But I gave it a good tug anyway. Then suddenly the train had stopped; we were on a platform swirling with excit ed passengers greeting their loved ones, in a soft, blanketing wa rmth that gently thawed my bones, still chilled from the Northamp ton winter I carried with me, literally, on my arm. I'd forgotten to pack my winter coat in my trunk. Anne! Elisabeth! Dwight! A chirping, a laugh, and then Con was there, her round little face brown from sun, her dark hair pulled back from her face with a ga y red ribbon. She was wearing a Mexican dress, all bright embroid ery and full skirt; she even had huaraches on her tiny feet. Oh, look at you! I hugged her, laughing. What a picture! A true seño rita! Darlings! Turning blindly, I found myself in my mother's embrace, and then too quickly released as she moved on to Elisabe th. Mother looked as ever, a sensible New England clubwoman plunk ed down in the middle of the tropics. Daddy, his pants swimming a s usual, his tie askew, was shaking Dwight's hand and kissing Eli sabeth on the cheek at the same time. Finally he turned to me; r ocking back on his heels, he looked me up and down and then nodde d solemnly, although his eyes twinkled. And there's Anne. Reliabl e Anne. You never change, my daughter. I blushed, not sure if th is was a compliment, choosing to think it might be. Then I ran to his open arms, and kissed his stubbly cheek. Merry Christmas, M r. Ambassador! Yes, yes--­a merry Christmas it will be! Now, hur ry up, hurry up, and you may be able to catch Colonel Lindbergh b efore he goes out. He's still here? I asked, as Mother marshaled us expertly into two waiting cars, both black and gleaming, oste ntatiously so. I was acutely aware of our luggage piling up on th e platform, matching and initialed and gleaming with comfortable wealth. I couldn't help but notice how many people were lugging s traw cases as they piled into donkey carts. Yes, Colonel Lindber gh is still here-- ­oh, my dear, you should have seen the crowds at the airfield when he arrived! Two hours late, but nobody minde d a bit. That plane, what's it called, the Ghost of St. Louis, is n't it--­ Con began to giggle helplessly, and I suppressed a smi le. It's the Spirit of St. Louis, I corrected her, and my mother met my gaze with a bemused expression in her downward-­slanted e yes. I felt myself blush, knowing what she was thinking. Anne? Sw ooning for the dashing young hero, just like all the other girls? Who could have imagined? Yes, of course, the Spirit of St. Loui s. And the colonel has agreed to spend the holidays with us in th e embassy. Your father is beside himself. Mr. Henry Ford has even sent a plane to fetch the colonel's mother, and she'll be here, as well. At dinner, Elisabeth will take special care of him--­oh, and you, too, dear, you must help. To tell the truth, I find the colonel to be rather shy. He's ridiculously shy, Con agreed, wi th another giggle. I don't think he's ever really talked to girls before! Con, now, please. The colonel's our guest. We must make him feel at home, Mother admonished. I listened in dismay as I followed her into the second car; Daddy, Dwight, and Elisabeth ro ared off in the first. The colonel--­a total stranger--­would be part of our family Christmas? I certainly hadn't bargained on tha t, and couldn't help but feel that it was rude of a stranger to i nsinuate himself in this way. Yet at the mere mention of his name my heart began to beat faster, my mind began to race with the im plications of this unexpected stroke of what the rest of the worl d would call enormous good luck. Oh, how the girls back at Smith would scream once they found out! How envious they all would be! Before I could sort out my tangled thoughts, we were being whisk ed away to the embassy at such a clip I didn't have time to take in the strange, exotic landscape of Mexico City. My only impressi on was a blur of multicolored lights in the gathering shadows of late afternoon, and bleached-­out buildings punctuated by violent shocks of color. So delightful to think that there were wildflow ers blooming in December! Is the colonel really as shy as all th at? It seemed impossible, that this extraordinary young man would suffer from such an ordinary affliction, just like me. Oh, yes. Talk to h, Bantam, 2013, 2.5, Macmillan. Good. 6.02 x 0.91 x 9.21 inches. Paperback. 2005. 352 pages. <br>A New York Times Bestselling Author In S Is for S ilence, Kinsey Millhone's nineteenth excursion into the world of suspense and misadventure, S is for surprises as Sue Grafton take s a whole new approach to telling the tale. And S is for superb: Kinsey and Grafton at their best. Simultaneous Publication with G. P. Putnam's Standard Print edition. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly Kinsey Millhone has kept her appeal by being di stinctive and sympathetic without craving center stage. While som e mysteries that provide the PI's shoe size or most despised food create a forced and intrusive intimacy, a master like Grafton ma kes the relationship relaxed and reassuring. Millhone's life is m odest and familiar, though her love life, now featuring police de tective Cheney Phillips, tends to be oddly remote. This 19th entr y (after 2004's R Is for Ricochet) adopts a new convention: Millh one's customary intelligent and occasionally self-deprecating fir st-person reportage is interrupted by vignettes from the days sur rounding the Fourth of July, 34 years earlier, when a hot-blooded young woman named Violet Sullivan disappeared. Violet's daughter , Daisy, who was seven at the time, hires Millhone to discover he r mother's true fate. Violet had toyed with every man in town at one time or another, so there's no shortage of scandalous secrets and possible suspects. Constant revelations concerning several a bsorbing characters allow a terrific tension to build. However, t he utterly illogical and oddly abrupt ending undermines what is o therwise one of the stronger offerings in this iconic series. One million first printing; Literary Guild, BOMC and Mystery Guild m ain selection. (Dec.) Copyright ® Reed Business Information, a d ivision of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text re fers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permissio n. All rights reserved. 1 LIZA Saturday, July 4, 1953 When Liza Mellincamp thinks about the last time she ever saw Violet Sulliv an, what comes most vividly to mind is the color of Violet's Japa nese silk kimono, a shade of blue that Liza later learned was cal led cerulean, a word that wasn't even in her vocabulary when she was fourteen years old. A dragon was embroidered in satin-stitch across the back, its strange dog-shaped face and arched body pick ed out in lime green and orange. Flames twisted from the dragon's mouth in curling ribbons of blood red. That last night, she'd a rrived at the Sullivans' house at 6:00. Violet was going out at 6 :15 and, as usual, she wasn't dressed and hadn't done her hair. T he front door was open and as Liza approached, Baby, Violet's thr ee-month-old buff-colored Pomeranian, started yapping in a shrill little doggy voice while she pawed at the screen, punching holes here and there. She had tiny black eyes and a black button nose and a small pink bow affixed to her forehead with stickum of some kind. Someone had given Violet the dog less than a month before, and she'd developed a fierce attachment to it, carrying the dog around in a big straw tote. Liza disliked Baby, and twice when Vi olet left the dog behind, Liza put her in the coat closet so she wouldn't have to listen to her bark. She'd gotten the idea from F oley, who disliked the dog even more than she did. Liza knocked on the door frame, a sound barely audible above the dog's yap-yap -yap. Violet called out, Come on in. I'm in the bedroom! Liza op ened the screen door, pushed the dog aside with her foot, and wal ked through the living room to the bedroom Violet and Foley share d. Liza knew for a fact that Foley often ended up sleeping on the couch, especially when he'd been drinking, which he did almost e very day, and even more especially after he'd busted Violet in th e chops and she'd stopped speaking to him for two days or however long it was. Foley hated it when she gave him the silent treatme nt, but by then he'd be sorry he'd slugged her and he wouldn't ha ve the nerve to protest. He told anyone who would listen that she brought it on herself. Anything bad that happened to Foley was s omeone else's fault. Baby pattered into the bedroom behind her, a fluff ball of nervous energy with a party favor of a tail. She was too small to jump up onto the bed, so Liza scooped her up and put her there. Violet's tow-headed daughter, Daisy, was lying on the bed reading the Little Lulu comic Liza had given her the las t time she sat, which was the night before last. Daisy was like a cat-always in the room with you but busy pretending to be doing something else. Liza took a seat on the only chair in the room. E arlier in the day when she'd stopped by, there had been two brown paper bags sitting on the chair. Violet said it was stuff going to the Goodwill, but Liza recognized a couple of Violet's favorit e things and thought it was odd that she'd give away her best clo thes. Now the brown bags were gone and Liza knew better than to m ention them. Violet didn't like questions. What she wanted you to know, she'd tell you outright, and the rest was none of your bus iness. Isn't she adorable? Violet said. She was talking about t he dog, not her seven-year-old child. Liza didn't comment. She w as wondering how long it would take to suffocate the Pomeranian w hile Violet was out. Violet was sitting on the bench at her makeu p table, wearing the bright blue kimono with the dragon across th e back. As Liza watched, Violet loosened the tie and shrugged the wrap aside so she could examine a bruise the size of Foley's fis t that sat above one breast. Liza could see three versions of the bruise reflected in the trifold mirror that rested on the vanity . Violet was small and her back was perfect, her spine straight, her skin flawless. Her buttocks were dimpled and ever so slightly splayed where they pressed down against the seat. Violet wasn't at all self-conscious about Liza seeing her undressed. Often whe n Liza came to sit, Violet would emerge from the bathroom naked, having dropped the towel so she could dab behind her knees with t he violet cologne she used. Liza would try to keep her gaze avert ed while Violet strolled around the bedroom, pausing to light an Old Gold that she'd leave on the lip of the ashtray. Liza's gaze was irresistibly drawn to the sight of Violet's body. No matter w here Violet went, eyes were drawn to her. Her waist was small and her breasts were plump, drooping slightly like sacks filled near ly to capacity with sand. Liza's boobs were barely sufficient for her AA brassiere, though Ty would close his eyes and start breat hing hard every time he felt her up. After they kissed for a whil e, even if she resisted, he'd find a way to unbutton her shirt, n udging aside her bra strap so he could cup a budding breast in hi s palm. Then he'd grab Liza's hand and press it between his legs, making a sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan. In her c hurch youth group, the pastor's wife often lectured the girls abo ut heavy petting, which was not recommended, as it was the quicke st road to sexual intercourse and other forms of loose behavior. Oh, well. Liza's best friend, Kathy, was currently taken up with the Moral Rearmament Movement, which preached Absolute Honesty, A bsolute Purity, Absolute Unselfishness, and Absolute Love. The la st was the one that appealed to Liza. She and Ty had started dati ng in April, though their contact was limited. He couldn't let hi s aunt hear about it because of things that happened at his last school. She'd never been kissed before, had never done any of the things Ty introduced her to in their times together. Of course, she'd drawn the line at going all the way, but she couldn't see t he harm in Ty fooling with her boobs if it made him feel good. Th is was exactly Violet's point of view. When Liza finally confesse d what was going on, Violet said, Oh please, Sweetie, what's it t o you? Let him have his fun. He's a good-looking boy, and if you don't give in to him some other girl will. Violet's hair was dye d an astonishing shade of red, more orange than red and not even intended to look real. Her eyes were a clear green, and the lipst ick she wore was a pinky rose shade. Violet's lips formed two wid e bands across her mouth, as flat as the selvage on a remnant of silk. Her pale skin had an undertone of gold, like fine paper in a book printed long ago. Liza's complexion was freckled, and she tended to break out at that time of the month. While Violet's hai r was as silky as an ad for Breck shampoo, Liza's ends were crink led and split from a miscalculation with the Toni Home Permanent Kathy'd given her the week before. Kathy had read the directions wrong and fried Liza's hair to a fare-thee-well. The strands stil l smelled like spoiled eggs from the lotions she'd applied. Viol et liked going out, and Liza babysat Daisy three and four times a week. Foley was gone most nights, drinking beer at the Blue Moon , which was the only bar in town. He worked construction, and at the end of the day, he needed to wet his whistle was how he put i t. He said he wasn't about to stay home babysitting Daisy, and Vi olet certainly had no intention of sitting around the house with her while Foley was out having fun. During the school year, Liza ended up doing her homework at the Sullivans' after Daisy was in bed. Sometimes Ty came to visit, or Kathy might spend the evening so the two could read movie magazines. True Confession magazine was preferable, but Kathy was worried about impure thoughts. Vio let smiled at Liza, their eyes connecting in the mirror until Liz a looked away. (Violet preferred to smile with her lips closed be cause one of her front teeth was chipped where Foley'd knocked he r sideways into a door.) Violet liked her. Liza knew this and it made her feel warm. Being favored by Violet was enough to make Li za trot around behind her like a stray pup. Breast inspection co mplete, Violet shrugged herself back into the kimono and tied it at the waist. She took a deep drag of her cigarette, then rested it in the ashtray so she could finish putting on her face. How's that boyfriend of yours? Fine. You be careful. You know he's no t supposed to date. I know. He told me and that is so unfair. U nfair or not, his aunt would have a fit if she knew he was going steady, especially with someone like you. Gee, thanks. What'd I do to her? She thinks you're a bad influence because your mother 's divorced. She told you that? More or less, Violet said. I ra n into her at the market and she tried to pump me for information . Someone saw you with Ty and ran blabbing straight to her. Don't ask who tattled because she was very tight-lipped. I told her sh e was nuts. I was polite about it, but I made sure she got the po int. In the first place, I said your mother wouldn't let you date at your age. You're barely fourteen...how ridiculous, I said. An d in the second place, you couldn't be seeing Ty because you spen t all your spare time with me. She seemed satisfied with that, th ough I'm sure she doesn't like me any better than she likes you. Guess we're not good enough for her or her precious nephew. She g ot all pruney around the mouth and went on to say that at his las t school, some girl got herself in trouble, if you get my drift. I know. He told me he felt sorry for her. So he did her the big favor of screwing her. Wasn't she the lucky one? Well, it's ove r now anyway. I'll say. Take it from me, you can't trust a guy w ho's hellbent on getting in your pants. Even if he loves you? E specially if he loves you, and worse if you love him. Violet pic ked up a wand of mascara and began to sweep her lashes, leaning i nto the mirror so she could see what she was doing. I've got Coke s for you in the fridge and a carton of vanilla ice cream if you and Daisy want some. Thanks. She recapped the wand and used a h and to fan her face, drying the dramatic fringe of black goo. She opened her jewelry box and selected six bracelets, thin silver c ircles that she slipped over her right hand one by one. She shook her wrist so they jingled together like tiny bells. On her left wrist she fastened her watch with its narrow black-cord band. Bar efoot, she got up and crossed to the closet. There was very litt le evidence of Foley in the room. He kept his clothes jammed in a pressed-board armoire shoved in one corner of Daisy's room, and as Violet was fond of saying, If he knows what's good for him, he better not complain. Liza watched while she hung the kimono on a hook on the inside of the closet door. She was wearing sheer whi te nylon underpants but hadn't bothered with a bra. She slipped h er feet into a pair of sandals and leaned down to fix the straps, her breasts bobbling as she did. Then she pulled on a lavender-a nd-white polka-dot sundress that zipped up the back. Liza had to help her with that. The dress fit snugly, and if Violet was aware that her nipples showed as flat as coins she made no remark. Liz a was self-conscious about her figure, which had begun developing when she was twelve. She wore loose cotton blouses-usually Ship' n Shore-mindful that her bra and slip straps sometimes showed thr ough the fabric. She found this embarrassing around the boys at s chool. Ty was seventeen and, having transferred from another scho ol, didn't act stupid the way the others did, with their mouth fa rts and rude gestures, fists pumping at the front of their pants. Liza said, What time are the fireworks? Violet reapplied her l ipstick and then rubbed her lips together to even out the color. She recapped the tube. Whenever it gets dark. I'm guessing nine, she said. She leaned forward, blotted her lipstick with a tissue, and then used an index finger to clean a line of color from her teeth. Are you and Foley coming home right afterward? Nah, we'l l probably stop by the Moon. Liza wasn't sure why she'd bothered to ask. It was always like that. They'd get home at 2:00 A.M. Li za, dazed and groggy, would collect her four dollars and then wal k home through the dark. Violet took the bulk of her hair, twist ed it, and held it high on her head, showing the effect. What do you think? Up or down? It's still hotter than blue blazes. Down' s better. Violet smiled. Vanity over comfort. Glad I taught you something. She dropped her hair, shaking it ou, Macmillan, 2005, 2.5<

2005, ISBN: 9781405054102

Gebundene Ausgabe

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 an… Mehr…

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, Macmillan. Good. 6.02 x 0.91 x 9.21 inches. Paperback. 2005. 352 pages. <br>A New York Times Bestselling Author In S Is for S ilence, Kinsey Millhone's nineteenth excursion into the world of suspense and misadventure, S is for surprises as Sue Grafton take s a whole new approach to telling the tale. And S is for superb: Kinsey and Grafton at their best. Simultaneous Publication with G. P. Putnam's Standard Print edition. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly Kinsey Millhone has kept her appeal by being di stinctive and sympathetic without craving center stage. While som e mysteries that provide the PI's shoe size or most despised food create a forced and intrusive intimacy, a master like Grafton ma kes the relationship relaxed and reassuring. Millhone's life is m odest and familiar, though her love life, now featuring police de tective Cheney Phillips, tends to be oddly remote. This 19th entr y (after 2004's R Is for Ricochet) adopts a new convention: Millh one's customary intelligent and occasionally self-deprecating fir st-person reportage is interrupted by vignettes from the days sur rounding the Fourth of July, 34 years earlier, when a hot-blooded young woman named Violet Sullivan disappeared. Violet's daughter , Daisy, who was seven at the time, hires Millhone to discover he r mother's true fate. Violet had toyed with every man in town at one time or another, so there's no shortage of scandalous secrets and possible suspects. Constant revelations concerning several a bsorbing characters allow a terrific tension to build. However, t he utterly illogical and oddly abrupt ending undermines what is o therwise one of the stronger offerings in this iconic series. One million first printing; Literary Guild, BOMC and Mystery Guild m ain selection. (Dec.) Copyright ® Reed Business Information, a d ivision of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text re fers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permissio n. All rights reserved. 1 LIZA Saturday, July 4, 1953 When Liza Mellincamp thinks about the last time she ever saw Violet Sulliv an, what comes most vividly to mind is the color of Violet's Japa nese silk kimono, a shade of blue that Liza later learned was cal led cerulean, a word that wasn't even in her vocabulary when she was fourteen years old. A dragon was embroidered in satin-stitch across the back, its strange dog-shaped face and arched body pick ed out in lime green and orange. Flames twisted from the dragon's mouth in curling ribbons of blood red. That last night, she'd a rrived at the Sullivans' house at 6:00. Violet was going out at 6 :15 and, as usual, she wasn't dressed and hadn't done her hair. T he front door was open and as Liza approached, Baby, Violet's thr ee-month-old buff-colored Pomeranian, started yapping in a shrill little doggy voice while she pawed at the screen, punching holes here and there. She had tiny black eyes and a black button nose and a small pink bow affixed to her forehead with stickum of some kind. Someone had given Violet the dog less than a month before, and she'd developed a fierce attachment to it, carrying the dog around in a big straw tote. Liza disliked Baby, and twice when Vi olet left the dog behind, Liza put her in the coat closet so she wouldn't have to listen to her bark. She'd gotten the idea from F oley, who disliked the dog even more than she did. Liza knocked on the door frame, a sound barely audible above the dog's yap-yap -yap. Violet called out, Come on in. I'm in the bedroom! Liza op ened the screen door, pushed the dog aside with her foot, and wal ked through the living room to the bedroom Violet and Foley share d. Liza knew for a fact that Foley often ended up sleeping on the couch, especially when he'd been drinking, which he did almost e very day, and even more especially after he'd busted Violet in th e chops and she'd stopped speaking to him for two days or however long it was. Foley hated it when she gave him the silent treatme nt, but by then he'd be sorry he'd slugged her and he wouldn't ha ve the nerve to protest. He told anyone who would listen that she brought it on herself. Anything bad that happened to Foley was s omeone else's fault. Baby pattered into the bedroom behind her, a fluff ball of nervous energy with a party favor of a tail. She was too small to jump up onto the bed, so Liza scooped her up and put her there. Violet's tow-headed daughter, Daisy, was lying on the bed reading the Little Lulu comic Liza had given her the las t time she sat, which was the night before last. Daisy was like a cat-always in the room with you but busy pretending to be doing something else. Liza took a seat on the only chair in the room. E arlier in the day when she'd stopped by, there had been two brown paper bags sitting on the chair. Violet said it was stuff going to the Goodwill, but Liza recognized a couple of Violet's favorit e things and thought it was odd that she'd give away her best clo thes. Now the brown bags were gone and Liza knew better than to m ention them. Violet didn't like questions. What she wanted you to know, she'd tell you outright, and the rest was none of your bus iness. Isn't she adorable? Violet said. She was talking about t he dog, not her seven-year-old child. Liza didn't comment. She w as wondering how long it would take to suffocate the Pomeranian w hile Violet was out. Violet was sitting on the bench at her makeu p table, wearing the bright blue kimono with the dragon across th e back. As Liza watched, Violet loosened the tie and shrugged the wrap aside so she could examine a bruise the size of Foley's fis t that sat above one breast. Liza could see three versions of the bruise reflected in the trifold mirror that rested on the vanity . Violet was small and her back was perfect, her spine straight, her skin flawless. Her buttocks were dimpled and ever so slightly splayed where they pressed down against the seat. Violet wasn't at all self-conscious about Liza seeing her undressed. Often whe n Liza came to sit, Violet would emerge from the bathroom naked, having dropped the towel so she could dab behind her knees with t he violet cologne she used. Liza would try to keep her gaze avert ed while Violet strolled around the bedroom, pausing to light an Old Gold that she'd leave on the lip of the ashtray. Liza's gaze was irresistibly drawn to the sight of Violet's body. No matter w here Violet went, eyes were drawn to her. Her waist was small and her breasts were plump, drooping slightly like sacks filled near ly to capacity with sand. Liza's boobs were barely sufficient for her AA brassiere, though Ty would close his eyes and start breat hing hard every time he felt her up. After they kissed for a whil e, even if she resisted, he'd find a way to unbutton her shirt, n udging aside her bra strap so he could cup a budding breast in hi s palm. Then he'd grab Liza's hand and press it between his legs, making a sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan. In her c hurch youth group, the pastor's wife often lectured the girls abo ut heavy petting, which was not recommended, as it was the quicke st road to sexual intercourse and other forms of loose behavior. Oh, well. Liza's best friend, Kathy, was currently taken up with the Moral Rearmament Movement, which preached Absolute Honesty, A bsolute Purity, Absolute Unselfishness, and Absolute Love. The la st was the one that appealed to Liza. She and Ty had started dati ng in April, though their contact was limited. He couldn't let hi s aunt hear about it because of things that happened at his last school. She'd never been kissed before, had never done any of the things Ty introduced her to in their times together. Of course, she'd drawn the line at going all the way, but she couldn't see t he harm in Ty fooling with her boobs if it made him feel good. Th is was exactly Violet's point of view. When Liza finally confesse d what was going on, Violet said, Oh please, Sweetie, what's it t o you? Let him have his fun. He's a good-looking boy, and if you don't give in to him some other girl will. Violet's hair was dye d an astonishing shade of red, more orange than red and not even intended to look real. Her eyes were a clear green, and the lipst ick she wore was a pinky rose shade. Violet's lips formed two wid e bands across her mouth, as flat as the selvage on a remnant of silk. Her pale skin had an undertone of gold, like fine paper in a book printed long ago. Liza's complexion was freckled, and she tended to break out at that time of the month. While Violet's hai r was as silky as an ad for Breck shampoo, Liza's ends were crink led and split from a miscalculation with the Toni Home Permanent Kathy'd given her the week before. Kathy had read the directions wrong and fried Liza's hair to a fare-thee-well. The strands stil l smelled like spoiled eggs from the lotions she'd applied. Viol et liked going out, and Liza babysat Daisy three and four times a week. Foley was gone most nights, drinking beer at the Blue Moon , which was the only bar in town. He worked construction, and at the end of the day, he needed to wet his whistle was how he put i t. He said he wasn't about to stay home babysitting Daisy, and Vi olet certainly had no intention of sitting around the house with her while Foley was out having fun. During the school year, Liza ended up doing her homework at the Sullivans' after Daisy was in bed. Sometimes Ty came to visit, or Kathy might spend the evening so the two could read movie magazines. True Confession magazine was preferable, but Kathy was worried about impure thoughts. Vio let smiled at Liza, their eyes connecting in the mirror until Liz a looked away. (Violet preferred to smile with her lips closed be cause one of her front teeth was chipped where Foley'd knocked he r sideways into a door.) Violet liked her. Liza knew this and it made her feel warm. Being favored by Violet was enough to make Li za trot around behind her like a stray pup. Breast inspection co mplete, Violet shrugged herself back into the kimono and tied it at the waist. She took a deep drag of her cigarette, then rested it in the ashtray so she could finish putting on her face. How's that boyfriend of yours? Fine. You be careful. You know he's no t supposed to date. I know. He told me and that is so unfair. U nfair or not, his aunt would have a fit if she knew he was going steady, especially with someone like you. Gee, thanks. What'd I do to her? She thinks you're a bad influence because your mother 's divorced. She told you that? More or less, Violet said. I ra n into her at the market and she tried to pump me for information . Someone saw you with Ty and ran blabbing straight to her. Don't ask who tattled because she was very tight-lipped. I told her sh e was nuts. I was polite about it, but I made sure she got the po int. In the first place, I said your mother wouldn't let you date at your age. You're barely fourteen...how ridiculous, I said. An d in the second place, you couldn't be seeing Ty because you spen t all your spare time with me. She seemed satisfied with that, th ough I'm sure she doesn't like me any better than she likes you. Guess we're not good enough for her or her precious nephew. She g ot all pruney around the mouth and went on to say that at his las t school, some girl got herself in trouble, if you get my drift. I know. He told me he felt sorry for her. So he did her the big favor of screwing her. Wasn't she the lucky one? Well, it's ove r now anyway. I'll say. Take it from me, you can't trust a guy w ho's hellbent on getting in your pants. Even if he loves you? E specially if he loves you, and worse if you love him. Violet pic ked up a wand of mascara and began to sweep her lashes, leaning i nto the mirror so she could see what she was doing. I've got Coke s for you in the fridge and a carton of vanilla ice cream if you and Daisy want some. Thanks. She recapped the wand and used a h and to fan her face, drying the dramatic fringe of black goo. She opened her jewelry box and selected six bracelets, thin silver c ircles that she slipped over her right hand one by one. She shook her wrist so they jingled together like tiny bells. On her left wrist she fastened her watch with its narrow black-cord band. Bar efoot, she got up and crossed to the closet. There was very litt le evidence of Foley in the room. He kept his clothes jammed in a pressed-board armoire shoved in one corner of Daisy's room, and as Violet was fond of saying, If he knows what's good for him, he better not complain. Liza watched while she hung the kimono on a hook on the inside of the closet door. She was wearing sheer whi te nylon underpants but hadn't bothered with a bra. She slipped h er feet into a pair of sandals and leaned down to fix the straps, her breasts bobbling as she did. Then she pulled on a lavender-a nd-white polka-dot sundress that zipped up the back. Liza had to help her with that. The dress fit snugly, and if Violet was aware that her nipples showed as flat as coins she made no remark. Liz a was self-conscious about her figure, which had begun developing when she was twelve. She wore loose cotton blouses-usually Ship' n Shore-mindful that her bra and slip straps sometimes showed thr ough the fabric. She found this embarrassing around the boys at s chool. Ty was seventeen and, having transferred from another scho ol, didn't act stupid the way the others did, with their mouth fa rts and rude gestures, fists pumping at the front of their pants. Liza said, What time are the fireworks? Violet reapplied her l ipstick and then rubbed her lips together to even out the color. She recapped the tube. Whenever it gets dark. I'm guessing nine, she said. She leaned forward, blotted her lipstick with a tissue, and then used an index finger to clean a line of color from her teeth. Are you and Foley coming home right afterward? Nah, we'l l probably stop by the Moon. Liza wasn't sure why she'd bothered to ask. It was always like that. They'd get home at 2:00 A.M. Li za, dazed and groggy, would collect her four dollars and then wal k home through the dark. Violet took the bulk of her hair, twist ed it, and held it high on her head, showing the effect. What do you think? Up or down? It's still hotter than blue blazes. Down' s better. Violet smiled. Vanity over comfort. Glad I taught you something. She dropped her hair, shaking it ou, Macmillan, 2005, 2.5<

2005, ISBN: 9781405054102

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ISBN: 1405054107

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2005, ISBN: 9781405054102

London: Macmillan, 2005. First Edition. . Large trade Paperback. Near Fine. Size: 8vo, Macmillan, 2005, 4