Title: June
Author: Alicia Stone
ISBN: 978-1-62420-316-9
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 3
REVIEW:
June
By Alicia
Stone
A review by
Jeffrey Ross
5 Stars
This is a
world-class piece of literature—a finely crafted book that combines several
genres successfully. On one level, June functions as an academic or campus
novel—much of the text revolves around the detailed, complicated, scholarly
world of Professor Perry’s anthropological research and love affair
machinations. It also has robust elements of a detective story when
super-sleuth David outs a cheating husband. But June most significantly and boldly
illuminates a woman’s “sensual” coming of age (somewhat like Kate Chopin’s
novel The Awakening) as heroine Cassie begins to unshackle herself from a life
of emotional servitude and learns to love again. As a writer, I was humbled by
the workmanship and power of this novel. Read June—you will never forget the
story.
TAGLINE
Living a lie in a web of
deceit, Cassandra finds the courage to challenge her controlling husband.
BLURB
Living a lie in a
web of deceit, Cassandra finds the courage to challenge her controlling
husband. She sets in motion a tragic chain of events that leads her across
Europe from the medieval city of Tallinn to the showboating glamour of Nice. Cast aside and
the victim of cruel revenge, Cassandra fights for her future and discovers she
is not alone. Her new-found strength is tested to its limits, for where love is
concerned there is often a reckoning.
EXCERPT
Women's toilets,
a curious place for confidences. Strangers become acquainted in the queue for
the loo. Teenage girls discuss conquests as they hog mirrors, applying make-up.
Cassandra had once seen a laughing group of Japanese women roll their trousers
to their knees, fastidious in their preparation for a Western bathroom
experience. She would have given much to understand their chatter. Quite
extraordinary what she overheard about people's lives in toilets, but this was gossip, and the gossip was about
her. She knew these voices, Malory Jacque and Miranda Pym.
"Of course
Cassandra's very nice. Oh, Lord. No paper. For heaven's sake. A hotel of
this repute. I shall speak to the manager. Andrew knows him from cricket."
"Hang on.
I'll pass some under the door. Lord, this reminds me of school."
Cassandra heard
scuffles and giggles.
"She's
pleasant…easy-going in that reserved sort of way. Good for dinner
parties."
"Thanks. Oh
yes. Marvellous. Pop her next to anyone. She's sort of…you know…"
"Neutral? A
foil?"
"That's it.
Rather beige."
Cassandra froze
in her cubicle. The toilets flushed and the voices moved over to the wash-hand
basins.
"Oh, no.
Would you look at that? They've changed the hand cream. I always liked the wild
heather. This won't do."
A blast from the
hand driers drowned any further eavesdropping. The door swung open; there was a
clack of heels…
"But when
you consider the husband…"
The door closed.
Cassandra waited
for a moment before waving her hand at the automatic flush and coming out.
Standing before the mirror, she remembered what Perry had said at breakfast.
"Sweetheart.
Do you think that shade of blue suits you? Book club today isn't it? You've
never worn the cashmere I brought you from Cairo. I found it in your closet the
other day."
She had poured
his coffee, put another round of toast in the retro Italian toaster, and
slipped into their bedroom. The unopened duty-free bag stood upright in the
bottom of the 'hers' wardrobe. Shrugging off the blouse chosen earlier, she
removed the ribbon tag from her gift and pulled the soft jumper over her head,
making for the kitchen.
"Pussy-cat,
lovely. Want to stroke you." He didn't. Instead, Perry was out of his seat
even as she offered more toast.
"Carbs,
Cassandra, carbs. Got to look after the waistline." He held his stomach in
and blew her a routine kiss, but she was already moving towards the sink.
Would the puff
of air reach the cupboard housing the seldom-used twelve-place dinner service,
or would the vapour simply dissipate mid kitchen, she wondered.
"Late
tonight, some of the faculty…a little do. Back on the Nine o'clock. Have fun
with the ladies."
Cassandra had
dropped the toast into the bin and stared out of the window. Next-door's cat
had emerged from a clump of daisies and shuddered, the tail bolt upright.
Cassandra loathed cats, especially when they treated her garden as their
personal litter tray. He, for the cat was a Tom, was the same shade of grey as
her jumper.
Now she was
staring at the reflection in the mirror. Her face lost, framed by the heavy
ornate coving and flock-wallpaper of the Victorian hotel. She had often
pondered what people would say about her. They might use affable or
good-natured if a little shy. What they didn't see was that she was bored;
Cassandra was bored to her very core. Not languid though, never that. There was
so much that people did not see. Cassandra composed herself, took a breath, and
fixed her smile as she hurried to re-join the discussion about a book she had
no wish to discuss.
~ * ~
A creature of
routine, she went shopping after Book Club. Every trip to the supermarket was
at best an exhausting in-your-face reality experience, at worst a sensory
assault. From the seductive smell of the in-store baked bread and the sweet
blowsy lilies in pretty buy-me cellophane wrappers to the whole gamut of
riotous colour, compelling fonts and unashamed branding the weekly shop
was a marketing horror to be endured. Enthusiastic staff spoke of must-buys or
operational matters over the public address system interrupting the bland music
and the periodic wails of infants distressed or seeking attention. Employees
wearing uniform fleece offered tiny plastic pots as if shoppers were at some
impromptu cocktail party or were institutionalised, standing in line to take
their medication before bedtime.
"Can I
tempt you to try a French cheese on offer today? Our own-brand mayonnaise has
been voted Britain's favourite. Would you like to see if you can taste the
difference?"
There were
endless choices, from the selection of three types of trolley at the entrance
to the alternative methods of checkout at the exit. Early on in their
relationship during a trip to the supermarket, Perry asked that Cassandra take
on the responsibility.
"Sweetheart,
shopping is ghastly. You are so much better at all this pointless busyness than I. Look about you,"
he glowered. "Eighty percent of the people here are women. You are among
your own kind; you know what to do; you have the time. Lucky, lucky girl,
whereas poor old me, cash rich; time poor."
Money wasn't a
problem. Perry urged her to spend what she liked. They could afford to live
well on his salary and his grandfather's trust fund. Bunty and Reg, his
parents, bought the couple's house as a wedding gift. Early on in their
relationship, Bunty had trumpeted aloud at Cassandra's modest choice of food retailer
and her student habit of shopping around for bargains.
"My dear, a
housewife is judged by her table. Top end for groceries, always. It's what
Perry's used to."
Cassandra did
the shopping, coasting in neutral following a set path. Her face assumed a forced
smile. She manoeuvred the trolley around slow mannerly pensioners, avoiding the
child, skidding to a halt in the detergent aisle. She read labels comparing
saturated fat and salt levels, catering for Perry's current preferences and
tastes. He was most particular. Cassandra willed herself not to judge the large
woman with the trolley stacked high with snack and convenience food or to think
too uncharitably of the salad afterthought perched on top of the high-fat,
sugar-laden mountain. She rejected the self-checkout points, aware of her need
for human interaction, chatting at the till, agreeing that the weather was
shocking and that the three-for-two offer on the Imperial Leather soap was
excellent value.
"My husband
won't try any other. His mother uses the same brand…you know, a family
thing." Cassandra despised the words and herself for the weakness that was
her norm.
The cashier
listened with her head to one side. Was there a fleeting edge of solidarity or
sympathy in the amber eyes? Perhaps it was the magnifying effect of the
tortoiseshell glasses. Cassandra felt odd and lightheaded but conscious of a
moment of female kinship and understanding with a woman she'd never met before.
"Are you
alright dear?" The amber was almost orange, owlish, and wild.
Cassandra
considered the question as she used her credit card. The first attempt failed
as she tapped in the wrong number. Concentrating, she began the process again
until she met with success. She stopped in the act of lifting the bag of
shopping into her trolley.
"I think…I
am."
The cashier
reappraised her as she handed over the receipt.
"Changes
take time to work their way through, don't you find? The trick is to make the
right choices. Take care now."
There was no one
behind her in the queue. The adjacent cashier was busy. No one else had
overheard. What a curious exchange; not at all the usual bland pleasantries
between staff and customers. Cassandra wheeled her trolley away, leaning
against the metal frame. Glancing back at the checkout, the grey-haired woman
was changing her till roll and did not look up.
Driving home
through the rain, Cassandra thought about the book club. Perry had suggested
she join. One evening at dinner, he announced that everything was arranged. The
wife of Perry's occasional golf partner would introduce her to the club and
pick Cassandra up, taking her to the first meeting.
Debbie, in a red
sports car with a mane of tawny hair, tanned, wearing a lime green trouser
suit, pulled up outside sounding three long beeps. Cassandra rushed out of the
house, flustered with a wave of greeting. This went unobserved as Debbie shot
into her driveway, executing a three-point-turn, which halted two inches from
the next-door's spotless and regimented recycling bins.
"Hop in.
Running late. A cul-de-sac in Westmead," she surveyed the immaculate
new-builds, "bad luck. My book choice this month so they can't start
without me. Got the top down…nice day…about time. Awful summer, you'd never
think we lived in the south of England for pity's sake."
Cassandra held
out her hand to no avail as the car sped forward.
"Belt
up."
The recollection
of that first meeting made Cassandra grimace and smile. She couldn't recall the
name of the first book, the plot, or the characters, only that awful new girl
paralysis, all the other women staring, appraising, and judging. Fighting an
overwhelming instinct to run away, she defaulted to a learned behaviour; she
smiled, crossed and uncrossed her legs, agreed and disagreed, nodded and
listened, wholly intent on blending in. That was three years ago. Members came
and went, but the core remained the same. Perry liked to ask her about the
group, wives of cronies in his wider circle, so she stayed. Debbie stayed the
course too, catching Cassandra's eye at the more outrageous comments, winking
with mirth at the absurd.
Perry wanted to
know who was bright. Who led the group? Who did most of the talking? That was
in the early days. Of late, he had not asked much about the reading group, but
Debbie had become a friend. An unlikely pairing perhaps, but, as the first
meeting finished and they walked towards the waiting Mercedes, Deborah
Gore-Hamilton said,
"I've got
your number, Cassy Bishop. If you need an ally, I've got your back."
That was how
their friendship started. Cassandra was no longer alone.
REVIEW:
Title: June
(Many a Moon Series, Book 2)
Author: Alicia
Stone
Rating: 4
Reviewed by:
Gillespie Lamb
Cassandra
Bishop is an upper-class English woman in her mid-30s who has voluntarily
subordinated herself to a controlling husband (and his mother). Why would she
volunteer? “I was young,” she sighs. Her pushy best bud brusquely
dismisses that as a whiny excuse and lovingly prods her to
reassert herself. In reluctant response, an emotionally deconstructed “Cassy”
begins to reassemble her natural lively spirit.
Her
quicksilver transformation into a strong, independent woman loosens the
constraints in her marriage relationship, with liberating and tragic
consequences.
Author Alicia
Stone’s forte is creating a believable slice of upper-crust British society
within which her characters grow into people we care about. Her illuminating
descriptions of the knick-knackery of the gentry lifestyle are fascinating in
themselves. Cassandra comes across as an introspective, sensible, and nervy
woman. It turns out her husband is multi-dimensional, too.
Testimonial: I
am male. This is a woman’s book, PG-rated, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
AUTHOR BIO:
Alicia has
recently returned to the UK. She is enjoying the south coast and exploring
rural villages using back roads and public footpaths. The great thing about
English villages is that they have amazing old churches full of history and
stories often with a pub next door. Find out more about Alicia, or contact her
on her blog: aliciastoneauthor.blogspot.co.uk
Website URL: N/A
Blog URL: aliciastoneauthor.blogspot.co.uk
Facebook page: N/A
Twitter handle: @Alicia_author
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