This is the case with The Five-Year Engagement. In this new romantic comedy starring the always pitch-perfect Emily Blunt and Gen X’s funniest romantic leading man, Jason Segel (who also co-wrote the movie, along with Nicholas Stoller, his Forgetting Sarah Marshall director), we certainly feel this couple’s pain as their mutual journey takes them to all of love’s road stops–attraction, commitment, loss–until, finally, they come to the realization that love may not always be perfect, let alone perfectly timed.

A cute meet is expected: for these singletons—Tom is a sous chef at one of  San Francisco’s hot haute restaurants, and Violet is psychology major—it happens at a New Year’s Eve costume party. Of course there would be a love-at-first-sight connection between a chic Princess Diana look-alike and a giant fuzzy Super Bunny. The evening ends with his making her a scrumptious plate of eggs Benedict. A man who is sweet, funny and cooks? Yep, he’s a keeper.

(Now, if only he could keep his pants on in the kitchen. Really it would help if he kept his pants on everywhere. As much as we adore Segel as a comedian, full back-all is not a great look on him…)

It’s inevitable that this movie has its Happily Ever After. Within ten minutes (fast-forward a year, in movie time) he’s proposing to her, on the rooftop of his Bay Bridge-adjacent restaurant, just as the fireworks fill the sky. (Those of us who actually live here may snicker because usually it’s cold and drizzly—so we’re all dressed in Bubble Boy coats and open ‘brellies, searching for the rocket’s red glare somewhere within a whipped cream fog.) Stoller’s San Francisco is a love letter to the city, so trust me, I ain’t complaining. It’s why we put up with the high rents. That, and oh yes, the food…

Which brings us to the supposed conflict within the movie. Life is filled with Plan Bs. When Violet doesn’t get into UC Berkeley doctoral studies program in psychology, she initiates her back-up plan: taking a position in a similar program at the University of Michigan.

Of course, Tom agrees to go with her. Little does he know that Ann Arbor is the culinary version of a tumbleweed-strewn desert. Its only oasis is the (real and renowned) deli, Zingerman’s. (Hopefully the employees don’t partake in the after-hours shenanigans we saw in the film.)

This supposedly one-year commitment is enough reason to postpone the wedding, despite the fact that their own engagement party was the hookup moment for their besties: for Tom, his fellow chef Alex (Chris Pratt); for  Violet her sister, Suzie (Alison Brie). Another sign of a knock-it-out-of-the park comedy is that the supporting actors are just as engaging as the leads. This movie is filled with them (including comedic heavy sluggers Mindy Kaling and Rhys Ifals). Pratt and Brie in particular are on their game, thanks to a script that is filled with hilarious—and best yet, true to life—dialogue. Touché, Mssrs. Segel and Stoller.

This couple’s conundrum isn’t a timing issue, but it is a timeless one among couples: should one give up one’s own dreams in order to helped their partner accomplish his or hers? When Violet’s academic assignment is extended another two years, Tom’s descent into the culinary equivalent of the Seventh Circle of Hell—not to mention the backwoods of Michigan—may be funny, but it’s also grimmace-worthy. Violet’s commitment issues are what sends him there. We, the audience who loves them both, have no doubt that she will come to her senses. The questions is when.

About twenty minutes sooner would have been ideal. Still, as with any wedding reception you’ve been to, when it’s all over, the only thing you remember is the fun stuff.

If only that were true of all movies.

(See the trailer, below…)

_________________________________________

Josie Brown is Single Minded Women’s Relationships Editor. She is also the author of several novels, including The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook.

_________________________________________

ENTER SINGLE MINDED WOMEN’S
“FIVE-YEAR ENGAGEMENT” CONTEST

for a $100 Visa Cash Card, to spend at the movies!

You’ll also win a cosmetic bag filled with lip shine, nail files, eye mask, purse hanger, comb/mirror and faux engagement ring!

To enter,send Single Minded Women your funniest engagement or wedding story, to SMWContests@gmail.com.

Contest ends Monday, April 30, 2012, at Midnight PT.

Good luck!

Dead Flowers by Lori Armstrong
Cynical, bad girl PI Julie Collins isn’t the hearts and flowers type, especially not after she’s spent the last few weeks spying on cheating spouses. So when Julie suspects her man, Martinez, may be stepping out on her, she sees red and decides to take matters into her own hands. Let’s just hope Cupid’s Bow gets to Martinez  before Julie does.

Above Reproach by Allison Brennan
Sex crimes detective Selena Black knows high-powered government attorney Greg Keller is the River City Rapist; proving it is another matter. Keller enjoys the cat and mouse game with the blonde detective, and makes sure she knows she’s exactly his type. As every possible avenue of investigation is shut down by the courts or her boss, Selena realizes that if someone doesn’t do something to stop Keller, more women will suffer–and she may be next.

The Housewife Assassin’s Bloody Valentine by Josie Brown
What is CIA contract assassin Donna Stone’s idea of a Valentine’s Day getaway? Certainly not orchestrating a jailbreak out of a Mexican prison for a notorious drug lord. But because he has intel as to the whereabouts of an international terrorist organization planning a Valentine’s massacre, there will be no intimate dinner for two or couples massage for Donna and her ops leader, Jack Craig. Just plenty of sun, surf, submarines, sharks… oh yeah, and sex.

Bobbie Faye’s Whacked Out, No Good, Really Sucky, Hot Mess of a Wedding by Toni McGee Causey
Bobbie Faye Sumrall, Cajun Contraband Days Queen, gun expert, and ultimate professional in being in the wrong place at the wrong time, absolutely positively does not want to go through with the ridiculous wedding that Trevor’s forcing her to agree to, but she soon finds out she has more important things to worry about–like surviving the plot to make her disappear when she’s set up as a fall guy for the theft of a priceless religious icon. And that’s the good news.

Blood and Roses by Sylvia Day
When insurance investigator Anastasia Miller sets out to retrieve the rose-hued pink diamonds stolen in a recent heist, she finds herself working alongside former flame, deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Monroe — the man she loved enough to leave behind.

Nightfall by Laura Griffin
Stranded on an icy road as darkness falls, Holly Henriksen knows she is in trouble. A charming stranger stops to help and Holly decides to trust him, but soon finds out he is harboring a deadly secret.

King of Hearts (A Rough Rider Short Story) by Lorelei James
Deputy Cam McKay is devastated after dealing with a Valentine’s Day murder/suicide in his small county. Will allowing his family to see the dark past that haunts him, help heal him?

A Punishing Night by Sophie Littlefield
Detective Joe Bashir returns to his alma mater to investigate the stabbing death of a male college student. Rumors of date rape and fraternity hazing complicate a sensitive case as Joe tries to balance the demands of the investigation with caring for his elderly father. Help – and possibly romance – come from an unexpected source.

Pick Your Poison (A Bullet Catchers Novella) by Roxanne St. Claire
Benjamin Youngblood’s only chance to prove he’s worthy of being a Bullet Catcher is to find and stop an assassin.  On probation from the elite security force, Ben has to rely on instinct and brains…and one feisty flower farmer.  When Callie Parrish discovers her entire crop of rare black roses has been stolen, she’d partner with the devil himself to recoup her loss.  It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s done just that…and the road to hell is paved with poisonous petals and deadly kisses.

Rebel Rose  by Karin Tabke
For Detective Cash Cantrell, hunting down a University serial killer is as routine as strapping on his gun each morning.  Until he comes face to face with meddlesome coed, Rebel Yell Culpepper. He doesn’t know if he should arrest her or kiss her, but one thing Cash knows for sure, Rebel is key to finding the murderer, and the killer knows it too…

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

MurderSheWrites.com is a six-year-old blog of suspense and romance writers who collectively have more than 150 books published, nearly two years on the NYT best seller list, and are the recipients of several major awards, including the RITA, the Shamus, the Anthony, and the Daphne.

These never-before-published stories and novellas were penned by: Lori Armstrong, Allison Brennan, Josie Brown, Toni McGee Causey, Sylvia Day, Laura Griffin, Lorelei James, Sophie Littlefield, Roxanne St. Claire, and Karin Tabke.

Visit MurderSheWrites.com for more information about the authors.

Order Guns and Roses: A Murder She Writes Anthology today.

Want to be a SMW Book Reviewer? Click here.

Graves details how her husband’s illness affected her and their children, and the challenges and heartbreak they faced, in her memoir, Checking Out: An In-Depth Look At Losing Your Mind. Written from the caregiver’s perspective, the book gives voice to the confusion, guilt, and grief that come with a diagnosis and death of a family member from glioma. Written from the caregiver’s perspective, the book explores mistakes made and the impact they have, as well as how difficult it can be to find absolution.

In a book that is a must-read for anyone who has lost a loved one to a fatal disease, Graves openly shares the impact her husband’s illness and death initially had on her and their children, and how she was ultimately able to come to terms with the confusion, guilt, and grief that threatened to consume her.

Catherine Graves, a powerful and inspiring author and speaker, has the ability to share her experiences with loss in a way that resonate deeply with others. Her book, Checking Out: An In-Depth Look At Losing Your Mind chronicles her journey through extraordinarily challenging times to a place where healing and strength become possible.

When not sharing her insights, Graves contributes to the Phoenix community where she resides with her two children. Her volunteer efforts include work with the Phoenix Children’s Hospital Foundation, Florence Crittenton Center for Girls, Barrow Neurological Institute, and the Craniofacial Foundation of Arizona, among other organizations.

Buy CHECKING OUT: AN IN-DEPTH LOOK AT LOSING YOUR MIND by Catherine Graves today!

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Kate needs a job. Her husband has left her, she’s been fired from her job as a magazine editor, and the only place she wants to go is to her parents’ summer house, The Nutshell, in Michigan. Kate’s plan is to turn The Nutshell into a bed-and-breakfast. Problem is, she needs cash, and the only job she can land is less than savory.

Matt wants Kate to spy on his brewery employees. Someone has been sabotaging his company and Kate is just new enough in town to be able to insert herself into the business and snoop around for him. If Kate finds the culprit, Matt will pay her a $20,000 bonus. Needless to say, Kate is highly motivated. But several problems present themselves: Kate despises beer. No one seems to trust her. And she is falling hard for her boss.

Filled with humor, heart, and lovable characters, Love in a Nutshell is delicious fun.

FREE BOOK GIVEAWAY!

Tell us about your “nutty love” in the comments section below and you could win a free copy of the Love in a Nutshell audiobook.

About the Authors:

Janet Evanovich is the #1 bestselling author of the Stephanie Plum novels, Between the Numbers novels, Wicked Appetite, and How I Write. She lives in Florida. Visit her at www.evanovich.com

Dorien Kelly lives in Michigan with one or more of her three children, a couple of random and crazy rescue dogs, and a very spoiled West Highland White Terrier who is under the mistaken impression that he runs the whole pack. Please visit her at www.dorienkelly.com.

Buy Love in a Nutshell today!

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It’s not where you go, it’s what you take back with you…

On her 30th birthday, Gwendolyn Reese receives and unexpected present from her widowed Aunt Bea: a grand tour of Europe in the company of Bea’s Sudoku and Mahjongg Club. The prospect isn’t entirely appealing. But when the gift she is expecting — an engagement ring from her boyfriend — doesn’t materialize, Gwen decides to go. At first, she approaches the trip as if it’s the math homework she assigns her students, diligently checking monuments off her must-see list. But amid the bougainvillea and beauty of southern Italy, something changes. Gwen begins to live in the moment — skipping down stone staircases in Capri, running her fingers over a glacier in view of the Matterhorn, racing through the Louvre and taste-testing pastries, wine and gelato. Reveling in every new experience — especially her attraction to a charismatic British physics professor — Gwen discovers that the ancient wonders around her are nothing compared to the renaissance unfolding within.

From Chapter One:
An Unexpected Turn of Events

“Swear to the sweet Lord child, I’m gonna wrap your head up in an Akan kente cloth, Davis, and twist until your neck snaps!” Zenia hollered, raising her voice with practiced theatrics and standing up to add that extra element of menace.

Zenia Bronson, age sixty-two, was no stranger to emoting. She’d been a local stage actress back in the seventies and was now “A Fiber Artist of the Highest Caliber,” or so said the business cards for her shop—Loominous. The current focus of her wrath was white-haired Davis Whitney because he had the misfortune of being their Mah-jongg dealer or leader or something (they called him “East” for a reason Gwen didn’t understand) in a fierce game against the formidable Youngs.

Alex and Connie Sue Young were a married couple, ages seventy-two and sixty-nine, respectively, who’d both honed their math and gaming skills—and padded their retirement funds—by playing the riverboat casino circuit. One might say that no one won easily against either Alex or Connie Sue. One might also say that Zenia did not accept defeat in any arena without finger-pointing, mild profanity and an onslaught of creative threats.

“You may have won a measly $126,000 on ‘Wheel of Fortune’ once, but until you learn how to pick and discard the damn tiles, you’re as worthless as a pair of circular needles on a jack loom,” Zenia spouted, tugging on a couple of her long braids—dyed strands of jet-black and burgundy, entwined—in a show of agitation and disgust.

Gwen was barely conversant in the rules of Mah-jongg, but she was pretty sure Zenia wasn’t happy with her thirteen-tile hand and wanted to “pick ahead.” Davis, a retired calculus teacher, had apparently thwarted her by citing some rule specific to the version they were playing and dared to call her on cheating for “wanting to look at her future”—whatever that meant. So, the tall, imposing woman huffed, puffed and stabbed her silver-and-purple-glittered index fingernail in the general direction of Davis’s heart, but he just yawned, refusing to budge on the issue. The Youngs ignored her rant and waved Gwen deeper inside the den.

“Your auntie is in the kitchen,” Connie Sue said helpfully. “You go put that tray down and come back and talk to me, you hear?

“Sure,” Gwen said.

Alex patted his wife’s arm affectionately and said to Gwen, “And we wouldn’t be opposed to you bringin’ us a coupla Hester’s lemon squares since you’re headed that-a way.” He shot Zenia a devilish look. “‘Course, the game’ll probably be over soon, and we’ll be able to get up and grab ‘em ourselves.”

Zenia crossed her arms, sat herself back down and glared at Alex. “You got a winning hand already?”

He examined his rack of tiles and the current year’s Mah-jongg card that listed every possible winning combination. “Nope,” he said with a smirk.

“Then you shut your fool mouth and play.”

Connie Sue and Alex laughed, and even Davis broke into a grin. Gwen slid away from the foursome and escaped into the kitchen.

“Gwennie!” her aunt cried when she spotted her. “You got here just in time.” Aunt Beatrice, who’d been chatting with Miss Hester Greenwald over vodka-spiked glasses of Fresca (her aunt’s favorite drink), broke off her conversation and wrapped her slender but wiry arms around her niece. Despite being a head shorter than Gwen and about forty pounds lighter, Beatrice still managed to crush her with the embrace. It was all Gwen could do to keep breathing and to not drop the fruit kabobs.

“Hi, Aunt Bea,” Gwen rasped, sucking in a lungful of air when her aunt let go. “Where would you like me to put these?”

“Oooh, I’ll take ‘em for you,” Hester said, yanking the tray out of Gwen’s hands. “What’cha got in here?” Hester, the oldest member of the group at age ninety, a “lifelong bachelorette,” as she’d say, and a former schoolteacher “from back in the days of wooly mammoths and real liberals,” never hesitated to take charge if she felt leadership was needed.

She ripped the foil off the platter and studied the kabobs. “Very…colorful, Gwendolyn,” Hester pronounced. “And I like the way you worked in all that spatial geometry, too.” She gingerly held up a kabob, studying the watermelon spheres and the cantaloupe cubes.

“Ovals, cylinders and trapezoids, oh, my!” Aunt Bea contributed, making note of the green grapes, banana chunks and pineapple wedges as well. “Very thoughtful of you to go to all this trouble, dear, but it’s your birthday. We’re here to treat you.”

Gwen was about to protest that she didn’t need any special treatment when Hester broke in.

“How was your big birthday lunch with that boyfriend of yours?” The old woman leaned forward. “He get’cha anything good?”

Gwen noticed that, even though her aunt was making a show of arranging the kabobs, she was listening. Attentively.

“Yes,” Gwen told Hester. “A very nice pair of pearl earrings.” She smiled warmly at her and tried to sound very upbeat about it.

Nevertheless, Hester blinked her paper-thin eyelids and took a step back. “What?” The elderly lady snorted. “After all this time together, just some li’l pearl earrings? Not even diamonds? Humph.”

Aunt Bea frowned. “No, uh, other jewelry?”

Gwen shook her head and saw her aunt and Hester exchange a pointed glance. Quickly, Gwen added, “But the earrings are really lovely,” hoping to diffuse her aunt’s silent condemnation and defend an absent Richard from Hester’s obvious disapproval, too. She’d made the mistake of bringing him to an S&M gathering once, and Richard had hated every second of it. Although he was unfailingly courteous while in her aunt’s home, once he was out of it, he let it be known to her that “the chaos, disorder and unnatural degree of impulsivity” of the club members made him uncomfortable. While Gwen often felt the same way about them herself, her discomfort was frequently, although far from entirely, tempered by her understanding that they were well intentioned. Even when they were being intrusive and embarrassingly immature.

For example, at that very moment, Hester, who’d crossed her arms like a petulant teen, pursed her lips into a credible sneer, hitched her hip to one side and huffed, “Well, we’ll show him.

Don’t you worry, dearie. We got you a good gift.”

Before Gwen could so much as open her mouth to reply, Dr. Louie, wearing one of his S&M t-shirts and an absurdly festooned sombrero, strode into the room with a massive pan in his hands and announced, “Who wants some smoked-barbeque spare ribs?”

Matilda Riesling, trailing him as usual, carrying a ginormous platter and wearing her rival S&M t-shirt and several bright strands of Mardi Gras beads around her neck, said “Smashed potato pie, people!”

At that, the Mah-jongg players in the other room immediately abandoned their tiles and pushed their way into the kitchen to claim sturdy paper plates for sampling the vast array of rich and tasty dishes decorating her aunt’s table and counters. Only Connie Sue and Davis were adventurous enough to try “one of them healthy fruit kabobs” and, in Davis’s case, it was only because he wanted to show Alex how to construct a model of a water molecule. The melon balls and grapes proved rather helpful.

]]> http://singlemindedwomen.com/women-relationships/a-summer-in-europe-by-marilyn-brant/feed/ 0 http://singlemindedwomen.com/women-relationships/tips-for-nanowrimo-creative-writing/ http://singlemindedwomen.com/women-relationships/tips-for-nanowrimo-creative-writing/#comments Sun, 13 Nov 2011 19:33:45 +0000 Josie Brown http://singlemindedwomen.com/?p=49539 Yes, you can write a novel.

All it takes is time, effort, and skill.

Not to mention engaging characters, a great plot, and a satisfying ending.

Oh, and did I mention a grab-readers-by-the-seat-of-the-pants opening line, on a killer first page, within a can’t-put-down first chapter?

Easy, right?

You won’t know until you try.

I’m going to help. During all thirty days of National Novel Writing Month, I’ve been posting creative a tip each day.

Should you have any question about these points, feel free to email me. In fact, all comments I receive between November 1st and November 30th (midnight PT) on any of my NaNoWriMo Tips will be entered into a contest to receive all three of these novels: The Baby Planner, Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives, and Impossibly Tongue-Tied.

Extra point if you friend me on Twitter (http://twitter.com/JosieBrownCA)

Extra point if you friend my on Facebook (http:www.facebook.com/JosieBrownAuthor) 

Extra point if you re-Tweet my posts (1 per post) or share it via Facebook.

Happy National Novel Writing Month! Good luck, and enjoy the process!

– Josie

 Buy
THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN’S HANDBOOK
Today, on

Meanwhile Bobby is dealing with shady Russian investors, while his girlfriend – smart and independent Denver Jones, is becoming a Deputy D.A. in the L.A. drug unit. And Max, Bobby’s seventeen-year-old sister, is busy embarking on a forbidden affair with a sexy young movie star. An affair they have to keep on the down-low lest Lucky finds out.

The word is that “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” and what happens in Goddess of Vengeance will blow your mind!

The winner is announced in the comments section below and won a free copy of Goddess of Vengeance.

About Jackie Collins
From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of the power brokers — Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out.

Jackie Collins has been called a “raunchy moralist” by the late director Louis Malle and “Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust” by Vanity Fair magazine. With over 400 million copies of her books sold in more than 40 countries, and with some twenty-seven New York Times bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins is one of the world’s top-selling novelists. She is known for giving her readers an unrivaled insiders’ knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous! “I write about real people in disguise,” she says. “If anything, my characters are toned down — the truth is much more bizarre.”

Ms. Collins lives in Los Angeles, California. Her hobbies are soul music, taking photographs and driving to exotic locations so that she can write about them later. She is currently working on her 29^th novel, The Power Trip.  And she is also writing a play, Jackie Collins Hollywood Lies.

Buy GODDESS OF VENGEANCE by JACKIE COLLINS today!

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The women of Freesia Court are convinced that there is nothing good coffee, delectable desserts, and a strong shoulder can’t fix. Laughter is the glue that holds them together—the foundation of a book group they call AHEB (Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons), an unofficial “club” that becomes much more. It becomes a lifeline. Holding on through forty eventful years, there’s Faith, a lonely mother of twins who harbors a terrible secret that has condemned her to living a lie; big, beautiful Audrey, the resident sex queen who knows that with good posture and an attitude you can get away with anything; Merit, the shy doctor’s wife with the face of an angel and the private hell of an abusive husband; Kari, a wise woman with a wonderful laugh who knows the greatest gifts appear after life’s fiercest storms; and finally, Slip, a tiny spitfire of a woman who isn’t afraid to look trouble straight in the eye.

This stalwart group of friends depicts a special slice of American life, of stay-at-home days and new careers, of children and grandchildren, of bold beginnings and second chances, in which the power of forgiveness, understanding, and the perfectly timed giggle fit is the CPR that mends broken hearts and shattered dreams.

Buy a copy of Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons today!

Here’s what SMW’s Book Bloggers are saying about Angry Housewives Eating Bon-Bons:

I immensely enjoyed this book because Lorna Landvik creates funny, slightly caricatured yet completely engaging strong female characters in Angry Housewives Eating Bon-Bons. — Shawndra Russell

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Go to Page 2 to read a free excerpt.

Be careful what you wish for. Cora makes a dazzling impression on English society—followed by a brilliant match—but finds that the chill in the air of magnificent ancestral homes comes from more than the lack of central heating. As she gradually learns that old-world aristocrats are governed by obscure codes of conduct and loyalty that can betray even the most charming, accomplished outsider, Cora must grow from a spoiled young rich girl into a woman of substance.

Click here to read Chapter 1 of The American Heiress

About DAISY GOODWIN

DAISY GOODWIN, a Harkness scholar who attended Columbia University’s film school after earning a degree in history at Cambridge University, is a leading television producer in the U.K. Her poetry anthologies, including 101 Poems That Could Save Your Life, have introduced many new readers to the pleasures of poetry, and she was Chair of the judging panel of the 2010 Orange Prize for Fiction. She and her husband, an ABC TV executive, have two daughters and live in London. The American Heiress is her first novel.

Buy THE AMERICAN HEIRESS by Daisy Goodwin today!

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Read about The American Heiress and author Daisy Goodwin.

Chapter 1

The Hummingbird Man

Newport, Rhode Island, August 1893

THE VISITING HOUR WAS ALMOST OVER, SO the hummingbird man encountered only the occasional carriage as he pushed his cart along the narrow strip of road between the mansions of Newport and the Atlantic Ocean. The ladies of Newport had left their cards early that afternoon, some to prepare for the last and most important ball of the season, others so they could at least appear to do so. The usual clatter and bustle of Bellevue Avenue had faded away as the Four Hundred rested in anticipation of the evening ahead, leaving behind only the steady beat of the waves breaking on the rocks below. The light was beginning to go, but the heat of the day still shimmered from the white limestone façades of the great houses that clustered along the cliffs like a collection of wedding cakes, each one vying with its neighbour to be the most gorgeous confection. But the hummingbird man, who wore a dusty tailcoat and a battered grey bowler in some shabby approximation of evening dress, did not stop to admire the verandah at the Breakers, or the turrets of Beaulieu, or the Rhinelander fountains that could be glimpsed through the yew hedges and gilded gates. He continued along the road, whistling and clicking to his charges in their black shrouded cages, so that they should hear a familiar noise on their last journey. His destination was the French chateau just before the point, the largest and most elaborate creation on a street of superlatives, Sans Souci, the summer cottage of the Cash family. The Union flag was flying from one tower, the Cash family emblem from the other.

He stopped at the gatehouse and the porter pointed him to the stable entrance half a mile away. As he walked to the other side of the grounds, orange lights were beginning to puncture the twilight; footmen were walking through the house and the grounds lighting Chinese lanterns in amber silk shades. Just as he turned past the terrace, he was dazzled by a low shaft of light from the dying sun refracted by the long windows of the ballroom.

In the Hall of Mirrors, which visitors who had been to Versailles pronounced even more spectacular than the original, Mrs Cash, who had sent out eight hundred invitations for the ball that night, was looking at herself reflected into infinity. She tapped her foot, waiting impatiently for the sun to disappear so that she could see the full effect of her costume. Mr Rhinehart stood by, sweat dripping from his brow, perhaps more sweat than the heat warranted.

‘So I just press this rubber valve and the whole thing will illuminate?’

‘Yes indeed, Mrs Cash, you just grasp the bulb firmly and all the lights will sparkle with a truly celestial effect. If I could just remind you that the moment must be short-lived. The batteries are cumbersome and I have only put as many on the gown as is compatible with fluid movement.’

‘How long have I got, Mr Rhinehart?’

‘Very hard to say, but probably no more than five minutes. Any longer and I cannot guarantee your safety.’

But Mrs Cash was not listening. Limits were of no interest to her. The pink evening glow was fading into darkness. It was time. She gripped the rubber bulb with her left hand and heard a slight crackle as light tripped through the one hundred and twenty light bulbs on her dress and the fifty in her diadem. It was as if a firework had been set off in the mirrored ballroom.

As she turned round slowly she was reminded of the yachts in Newport harbour illuminated for the recent visit of the German Emperor. The back view was quite as splendid as the front; the train that fell from her shoulders looked like a swathe of the night sky. She gave a glittering nod of satisfaction and released the bulb.

The room went dark until a footman came forward to light the chandeliers.

‘It is exactly the effect I had hoped for. You may send in your account.’

The electrician wiped his brow with a handkerchief that was less than clean, jerked his head in an approximation of a bow and turned to leave.

‘Mr Rhinehart!’ The man froze on the glossy parquet. ‘I trust you have been as discreet as I instructed.’ It was not a question.

‘Oh yes, Mrs Cash. I did it all myself, that’s why I couldn’t deliver it till today. Worked on it every evening in the workshop when all the apprentices had gone home.’

‘Good.’ A dismissal. Mrs Cash turned and walked to the other end of the Hall of Mirrors where two footmen waited to open the door. Mr Rhinehart walked down the marble staircase, his hand leaving a damp smear on the cold balustrade.

*****

In the Blue Room, Cora Cash was trying to concentrate on her book. Cora found most novels hard to sympathise with – all those plain governesses – but this one had much to recommend it. The heroine was ‘handsome, clever and rich’, rather like Cora herself. Cora knew she was handsome – wasn’t she always referred to in the papers as ‘the divine Miss Cash’? She was clever – she could speak three languages and could handle calculus. And as to rich, well, she was undoubtedly that. Emma Woodhouse was not rich in the way that she, Cora Cash, was rich. Emma Woodhouse did not lie on a lit à la polonaise once owned by Madame du Barry in a room which was, but for the lingering smell of paint, an exact replica of Marie Antoinette’s bedchamber at le petit Trianon. Emma Woodhouse went to dances at the Assembly Rooms, not fancy dress spectaculars in specially built ballrooms. But Emma Woodhouse was motherless which meant, thought Cora, that she was handsome, clever, rich and free. That could not be said of Cora, who at that moment was holding the book straight out in front of her because there was a steel rod strapped to her spine. Cora’s arms ached and she longed to lie down on Madame du Barry’s bed but her mother believed that spending two hours a day strapped to the spine improver would give Cora the posture and carriage of a princess, albeit an American one, and for now at least Cora had no choice but to read her book in extreme discomfort.

At this moment her mother, Cora knew, would be checking the placement for the dinner she was holding before the ball, tweaking it so that her forty odd guests knew exactly how brightly they sparkled in Mrs Cash’s social firmament. To be invited to Mrs Cash’s fancy dress ball was an honour, to be invited to the dinner beforehand a privilege, but to be seated within touching distance of Mrs Cash herself was a true mark of distinction, and was not to be bestowed lightly. Mrs Cash liked to sit opposite her husband at dinner ever since she had discovered that the Prince and Princess of Wales always faced each other across the width not the length of the table. Cora knew that she would be placed at one end sandwiched between two suitable bachelors with whom she would be expected to flirt just enough to confirm her reputation as the belle of the season but not so much that she compromised her mother’s stratagems for her future. Mrs Cash was throwing this ball to display Cora like a costly gem to be admired but not touched.

This diamond was destined for a coronet, at least.

Directly after the ball the Cashes were leaving for Europe on their yacht the SS Aspen. Mrs Cash had done nothing so vulgar as to suggest that they were going there to find Cora a title; she did not, like some other ladies in Newport, subscribe to Titled Americans, a quarterly periodical which gave details of blue-blooded but impecunious young men from Europe who were looking for a rich American bride, but Cora knew that her mother’s ambitions were limitless.

Cora put the novel down and shifted uncomfortably in the spine harness. Surely it was time for Bertha to come and unbuckle her. The strap across her forehead was digging in; she would look ridiculous at the ball tonight with a great red welt on her brow. She wouldn’t mind in the least discomfiting her mother but she had her own reasons for wanting to look her best. Tonight was her last chance with Teddy before she had to leave for Europe. Yesterday at the picnic they had come so close, she was sure that

Teddy had been about to kiss her, but her mother had found them before anything could happen. Cora smiled a little at the thought of her mother sweating as she pedalled to catch up with them. Mrs Cash had dismissed bicycles as hoydenish, until she realized that her daughter could use them to evade her, and then she had learnt to ride one in an afternoon. She might be the richest girl in America but surely she was also the most persecuted. Tonight was her coming-out party and here she was strapped into this instrument of torture. It was time she was released. In one stiff movement she rose and rang the bell.

***

The Blue Room bell rang. One of the maids came out of the kitchen and shouted, ‘That’s the second time Miss Cora’s bell’s gone, you had better get up there, Bertha.’

Bertha jumped. ‘I have to go now. I’ll come and find you later, once the ball gets going. Don’t go until I see you.’ She tried to conceal her relief at the interruption with the vehemence of her tone.

The bell jangled again. Bertha walked as fast as she dared up the servants’ staircase. Running was forbidden. One of the housemaids had been dismissed for going down the marble staircase two at a time. Disrespectful, Mr Simmons the butler had called it.

She knocked on the Blue Room door and went in. Cora was almost crying with frustration. ‘Where have you been, Bertha? I must have rung three times. Get me out of this infernal thing.’

She was tugging at the leather bands encircling her body. The spine straightener, which had been made to Mrs Cash’s special design, had all the buckles at the back and so was impossible to remove without help.

Bertha tried to appease her. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Cora, the man with the hummingbirds had news from home, I guess I didn’t hear the bell.’

Cora snorted. ‘It’s hardly an excuse that you were listening to gossip while I was trussed up here like a chicken.’

Bertha said nothing but fumbled at the buckles. She could feel her mistress twitching with impatience. As soon as she was free of the harness, Cora shook herself like a dog trying to get dry, then she spun round and grabbed Bertha by the shoulders. Bertha braced herself for a telling off, but to her surprise Cora smiled.

‘I need you to tell me how to kiss a man. I know you know how, I saw you with the Vandemeyers’ groom after their ball.’

Cora’s eyes were glittering with urgency. Bertha drew back from her mistress.

‘I don’t think kissing is something you can tell,’ she said slowly, playing for time. Was Miss Cora going to let Mrs Cash know about her and Amos?

‘Show me then. I have to get this right,’ Cora said fiercely and leant towards Bertha. As she did so, a low shaft of light from the setting sun hit her conker-coloured hair, setting it ablaze.

Bertha tried not to shrink away. ‘You really want me to kiss you the way I would a man?’ Surely Miss Cora was not serious.

‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Cora tossed her head. The red mark from the harness was still visible on her forehead.

‘But Miss Cora, it ain’t natural two women kissing. If anyone were to see us I’d lose my place.’

‘Oh, don’t be so squeamish, Bertha. What if I were to give you fifty dollars?’ Cora smiled enticingly as if offering a child a sweet.

Bertha considered this. Fifty dollars was two months’ salary. But kissing another woman was still not right.

‘I don’t think you should be asking me this, Miss Cora, it just ain’t fitting.’ Bertha tried to sound as much like the Madam as she could; she knew that Mrs Cash was the only person in the world that Cora was frightened of. But Cora was not to be put off.

‘Do you imagine that I actually want to kiss you? But I must practise. There is someone I need to kiss tonight and I have to do it right.’ Cora shook with determination.

‘Well . . .’ Still Bertha hesitated.

‘Seventy-five dollars.’ Cora was wheedling now; Bertha knew she wouldn’t be able to hold out for very long when her mistress wanted something that badly. Cora would just persist until she got her own way. Only Mrs Cash could say no to her daughter. Bertha decided to make the best of the situation.

‘All right, Miss Cora, I will show you how to kiss a man, but I would like the seventy-five dollars now if you don’t mind.’ Bertha knew quite well that Mrs Cash did not give Cora an allowance, so she had every reason to ask to see the money. Miss Cora was a great one for making promises she couldn’t keep. But to Bertha’s surprise, Cora produced a purse from under her pillow and counted out the dollars.

‘Can you set aside your scruples now?’ she said, holding out the bills.

The maid hesitated for a second and then took the money and tucked it away in her bodice. Seventy-five dollars should stop the hummingbird man looking at her like that. Taking a deep breath, she took Cora’s flushed cheeks gingerly in her hands and bent her head towards her mistress. She pressed her lips against hers with a modest pressure and drew back as quickly as she could. Cora broke away impatiently. ‘No, I want you to do it properly. I saw you with that man. You looked as if, well,’ she paused, trying to find the right phrase, ‘as if you were eating each other.’ This time she put her hands on the maid’s shoulders and pulled Bertha’s face towards hers and pushed her lips to Bertha’s, pressing as hard as she could.

Reluctantly Bertha pushed her mistress’s lips open with her tongue and ran it lightly around the other woman’s mouth. She felt her go stiff for a moment with shock and then Cora began to kiss her back, pushing her tongue between her teeth. Bertha was the first to pull away. It was not unpleasant kissing Cora, it was certainly the most sweet-tasting kiss she had ever had. Better than Amos, who stank of chewing tobacco.

‘You taste quite . . . piquant,’ said Cora, wiping her mouth with a lace handkerchief. ‘Is that all you have to do? You haven’t left anything out? I have to do this correctly.’ She looked earnestly at Bertha.

Not for the first time, Bertha wondered how anyone could be as educated as Cora and yet so ignorant. It was all Mrs Cash’s fault of course. She had raised Cora like a beautiful doll. She wouldn’t mind having Miss Cora’s money or her face, but she sure as hell wouldn’t want to have Miss Cora’s mother.

‘If it’s just kissing you’re having in mind, Miss Cora, then I reckon that’s all you will require,’ Bertha said firmly.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me who it is?’ Cora said.

‘Begging your pardon, Miss Cora, but I don’t want to know. If the Madam was to find out what you’re about . . .’

‘She won’t, or rather, she will but by the time she does it will be too late. Everything will be different after tonight.’ She looked at the maid sideways as if challenging Bertha to ask her more. But Bertha was not to be drawn. So long as she didn’t ask questions, she couldn’t be made to answer them. She made her face go slack.

Cora, however, had lost interest in her. She was looking at herself in the long gilt cheval glass. Once they had kissed, she was sure that everything else would fall into place. They would announce their engagement and she would be a married woman by Christmas.

‘You’d better get my costume ready, Bertha. Mother will be here in a minute, checking that I have followed her instructions à la lettre. I can’t believe I have to wear something so perfectly hideous. Still, Martha Van Der Leyden told me that her mother is making her dress like a Puritan maid so I suppose it could be worse.’

Cora’s dress had been copied from a Velázquez painting of a Spanish infanta that Mrs Cash had bought because she had heard Mrs Astor admire it.

As Bertha took the elaborate hooped skirt from the closet, she wondered if the Madam had chosen her daughter’s costume as much for the way it restricted the wearer’s movement as for any artistic considerations. No gentleman would be able to get within three feet of Miss Cora. The kissing lesson would have been in vain.

She helped Cora out of her tea gown and into the farthingale. Cora had to step into it and Bertha had to fasten the harness like shutting a gate. The silk brocade of the skirt and bodice had been specially woven in Lyons; the fabric was heavy and dense. Cora swayed slightly as the weight of it settled on the frame. It would only take the slightest pressure to make her lose her balance entirely.

The dress was three feet wide so Cora would have to go through all doorways sideways. Waltzing in such a dress would be impossible.

Bertha knelt and helped Cora into the brocade shoes with Louis heels and upturned toes. Cora began to wobble.

‘I can’t wear these, Bertha, I will fall over. Get the bronze slippers instead.’

‘If you’re sure, Miss Cora . . .’ Bertha said cautiously.

‘My mother is expecting eight hundred people tonight,’ Cora said. ‘I doubt she will have time to inspect my feet. Get the slippers.’ But Cora’s words were braver than she felt; both girls knew that the Madam never missed anything.

Mrs Cash was making one last survey of her costume. Her neck and ears were still bare, not through austerity on her part but because she knew that any minute her husband would come in with a ‘little something’ which would have to be put on and admired. Winthrop had been spending a lot of time in the city lately, which meant that a ‘little something’ was due. Some of her contempor – aries had used their husband’s infidelities as a way of purchasing their freedom, but Mrs Cash, having spent the last five years shaking Cash’s Finest Flour from her skirts, had no desire to tarnish her hard-won reputation as the most elegant hostess in Newport and Fifth Avenue by something as shabby as divorce. So long as Winthrop was discreet, she was prepared to pretend that she knew nothing of his passion for the opera.

There had been a time once, though, when she had not been so sanguine. In the early days of their marriage she could not bear to let him out of her sight, for fear that he would bestow that same confiding smile on someone else. In those days she would have thought jewels no substitute for Winthrop’s unclouded gaze. But now she had her daughter, her houses and she was the Mrs Cash. She hoped that Winthrop would bring her diamonds this time. They would go well with her costume.

There was a tap at the door and Winthrop Rutherford II came in wearing the satin breeches, brocade waistcoat and powdered wig of Louis XV; the father might have started life as a stable boy but the son was a convincing Bourbon king. Mrs Cash thought with satisfaction that he looked quite distinguished in his costume, not many men could carry off silk stockings; they would be a handsome couple.

Her husband cleared his throat a little nervously. ‘You look quite magnificent tonight, my dear, no one would think this was the last ball of the season. May I be permitted to add a little something to perfection?’

Mrs Cash moved her head forward as if readying herself for the axe. Winthrop pulled the diamond collar from his pocket and fastened it round her neck.

‘You anticipate me, as always. It is indeed a necklace,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Winthrop. Always such taste. I shall wear the earrings you gave me last summer; I think they will make a perfect match.’ She reached without a moment’s hesitation for one of the morocco leather boxes on the dressing table, leaving Winthrop to wonder, not for the first time, if his wife could read his mind.

The opening bars of the Radetsky March floated up from the terrace. Mrs Cash stood and took her husband’s proffered arm. ‘You know, Winthrop, I would like this evening to be remembered.’ Cash knew better than to ask what she wanted the evening to be remembered for. She was only interested in one thing: perfection.

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