Dear Rosie Hughes: This is the most uplifting and emotional novel you will read in 2019!
Bluey
From: Gethyn Evans
To: Aggie
Date: 13 January
Dear, Agatha
My name is Gethyn Evans and I’m a doctor serving with the army in the Middle East. Rosie Hughes gave me your book But That’s Not What I Meant and asked if I would write an honest review. I usually keep my own counsel in such matters (I often find that when people ask for an honest opinion on something they don’t really mean it) but Rosie said you were made of sturdy stuff, so I decided to oblige. I am aware you ghost write for Isabella Gambini and please be assured your secret is safe with me. Here is the review:
I enjoyed the book as a pleasant read that passed a couple of hours during, what would have otherwise been, an uneventful afternoon. I don’t usually read romantic fiction, not because I allow myself to fall foul of gender predictable norms, but because romantic fiction follows the same formulaic lines of a romantic film and I prefer a read that delves deeper into the human condition - anger, regret, jealousy, fear, betrayal and, of course, love and familial relationships. Yes, your book ticks all the necessary boxes, and there were moments when you were almost there, but just when I thought you were getting into your groove, you resorted to humour rather than fleshing out the bones of the matter. Your one-liners were funny, but are you, perhaps, frightened to completely lose yourself in the power of your prose?
I can see that the novel would provide a very good read for its target audience, but have you considered breaking away from formula – is life formulaic? Does a love story always have to have a happy ending to be satisfying and does the happy ending have to show that the couple had, or are definitely about to have, sex? Would Romeo and Juliet have stood the test of time if they had wandered off into the sunset hand in hand? I fear not.
Perhaps the most powerful love story is one which ends unrequited. Take love songs. They rarely end well. You may have noticed that most romantic novels are written by women, while the romantic lyrics in songs, which provide, I believe, a deeper connection to the soul (found, not in the heart but in the gut by the way) are written mostly by men. Take it from a doctor who has treated a great many people suffering from emotional issues, the part of the body that carries the burden of our emotional state is not the heart but the gut, hence the phrases, ‘gut-reaction’, ‘I just knew in my gut’, ‘butterflies in the stomach’, ‘I was shitting my pants.’
To surmise, But That’s Not What I Meant is an enjoyable read that ticked all the boxes that the majority of women in their middle years would expect to be ticked. But I will leave you with this. Goodbyes hurt the most when the story is not yet finished. Isn’t this where a story of true love should end? Rosie tells me you’re having difficulty with your present manuscript. She also tells me you love to sing. Perhaps you could pour some of that deeper emotion you find in your voice into your next novel and you may find it will start to come together in quite an unexpected way.
I would appreciate your thoughts on my thoughts.
Kind regards,
Gethyn
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 14 January
Hi, Rosie
Unfortunately, I did not swim naked in a midnight triste with the Dalai Lama (his loss!). I was in Wales on a singles canoeing holiday and it was bloody freezing – that Timotei advert has a lot to answer for (my nipples have never fully recovered!). As for the Dalai Lama – OK, it might be an exaggeration to say I met him, but I’ve certainly seen him from a considerable distance and listened to him speak. It was in London a few years ago, when he was giving a motivational speech (inner peace, world peace etc. etc.). It was a life-changing experience. I soaked it all in and can honestly say that I turned into a really lovely person after that (for at least a week, anyway).
Speaking of peace, I see from the news that we’re edging closer towards war. I would hate to be in your shoes right now and to think, you volunteered too, you nutter. Regarding the bucket list, I’ll give it some thought, but you can’t get out of it that easily, Rosie Hughes. War zone or not, life is far too short to be lived vicariously through another. Use your imagination for goodness sake!
In other news, I spent the afternoon at Mum’s flat today. It was not a pleasant experience, but I had to put some facetime in just in case I go to Scotland, which, I realise, I haven’t told you about yet.
Basically, an old friend from uni (Casey) left Manchester a couple of years ago to run a café and smallholding in Appledart, which is a remote peninsula on the Scottish west coast. Out of the blue, Casey’s partner, Shep, was asked to be on standby to step into a reserve place on the British Expeditionary Force in Antarctica – he’s a geologist. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. The man who was scheduled to go has failed his medical and is waiting for the results of more tests. If Shep steps into the breach, Casey will go with him – next week! Casey wondered if I might like to go to Appledart and watch over the house for her for six months or even a year. I’m to feed the chickens, make shortbread, recite Burns to customers. Another lady who lives there is going to keep the café open for them and I would generally help out. I wasn’t sure at first, but now I think I should jump at the chance, which is why I’m sucking up to Mum (you know she can’t stand it when I go away but wants bugger all to do with me when I’m at home). She phoned last week to announce she was having a clear out and to see if there was anything I wanted. This is how the conversation went:
Me: You’re having a clear out? Why?
Mum: Bergerac has finished on Sky.
Me: Well, what sort of thing are you getting rid of?
Mum: Everything.
Me: Everything?
Mum: Everything.
Me: Even the ornaments I bought you when I was little?
Mum: Yes.
Me (incredulous): What? All of them? Even the clog?
Mum: Yes, why not? I’m sick of having a mantelpiece covered in crap.
Me: But Mum, I bought you that clog on that school trip to Holland in 1982. I spent all my pocket money on it. And please don’t tell me you’re getting rid of that blue and white statuette of the flower maid holding the water bowl?
Mum: Which statue? The one with an arm missing or the one with no head?
Me: The one with an arm missing.
Mum: They’re both going. Oh, I know you bought them for me darling, but the time has come for me to have ornaments on display that have all their limbs – is that too much to ask?
Me: But they do have all their limbs.
Mum: But not necessarily glued on in the right places. I’ve got a china doll that looks like Hamlet (she starts laughing – actually laughing – at this point), I’ve got corn-dollies with no heads, pot birds with no beaks and a cracked Old Mother Hubbard cup with no handle. It’s embarrassing when people come round (absolutely no one goes round). Anyway, don’t be so overly-dramatic. You’ll thank me when I’m dead and you’re not lumbered with it all.
And that was that.
It’s tragic. I’d have coped better if she’d said she was running off with the pop man (let’s face it, it wouldn’t be the first time). And what’s worse, I stormed round there to rescue my memorabilia and now it’s me who’s got a mantelpiece full of crap and she’s right – it looks like a TV set for the Hammer House of Horror. I bet your mum’s loft is full of your old stuff – school reports, crap art work and everything. My mother has absolutely nothing of mine. She’s an uncaring old trout AND (as I told her) she’s even starting to look like one.
Hope all is good with you?
Love,