The fad for contemporary thrillers with “Girl” in the title seems unstoppable. As these have proved to be about females who are either too immature and/or psychologically-disturbed to be called women, when I was given the opportunity to read and review this latest offering I decided to see whether the genre had anything new or more positive to offer.
 
There are two parallel female narrators. Emma, who was Then, and Jane, who is Now. A useful device that distinguishes these two is that Emma can’t be bothered with quotation marks but Jane is more grammar-conscious (might be a subtle clue once the plot starts to unfold).
 
At different times, the women take out a lease on the unique house at One Folgate Street. Designed and owned by a minimalist perfectionist architect who imposes a vast number of conditions on his tenants from not permitting books, rugs or cushions to not leaving cups in the sink or allowing clothes to lie on the bedroom floor, it is a technology fanatic’s dream as the house is fully computer-controlled and attends to your every need. A bangle on your wrist operates the locks, the lights and tells the shower how hot you like it.
 
For Emma, who is recovering from the effects of a violent burglary, it is a sanctuary of safety for her and boyfriend Simon. For Jane, struggling with the grief of a stillbirth, it is a place of calm and reflection. But both women increasingly come under the malign influence of its owner, Edward Monkford, who controls not only the house but also its occupants.
 
The writing is fast-paced and through its progressive twists and turns you have to decide which narrator is the more “unreliable” (another fad much beloved of modern contemporary thrillers) and which other benign character is going to give you a shock. With a minimal cast as well, there are only so many ways this can possibly end although I must admit to Jane’s final words giving me the biggest surprise.
 
Although of course he’s a fiction, Edward’s character reflects another cliché in that handsome, wealthy leading men will treat such women as objects to be pitied or abused; that they will use their charisma to manipulate them into willing participation in violent sex. His fondness for Japanese precision that includes eating live food and his clinical obsessiveness about his buildings ought to send any self-respecting and rational woman running for the hills, but the message here is that Emma and Jane may both be damaged and irrational and therefore they are bound to invite their victimisation. Not a pleasant implication even if it has some truth in real psychology. (As an aside, I couldn’t help wondering why anyone with Monkford’s extreme monkish fastidiousness could even deal with the messiness of sex!)
 
Like One Folgate Street itself with its pristine callous angles that either protects or imprisons its tenants, this book will either appeal to you or completely repel you. I appreciated its snappy pace and often cleverly twisting narrative, but ultimately it is yet another “Girl” book with too many dark layers that I'd prefer to forget. Three stars (with reservations).

​(Many thanks to NetGalley and Hachette Australia for the ARC.)

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Booktopia

Twenty-one year old Eleanor Brennan has recently arrived in London from Australia and is living with her Uncle Ian, Aunt Susan and their two young daughters.

Susan is the CEO of Parker & Lane, a major publishing house, and she gets Eleanor a temp job there working for Nathan Lane, the obnoxious husband of the "elegant, graceful" Arabella, a marketing and publicity executive whose "laugh can make you smile even when you haven't heard the conversation."
 
On the morning after the firm’s Christmas party, Arabella’s body is found floating in the Thames near Waterloo Bridge. Eleanor is horrified when she realises she may have witnessed what happened to her. Only she can’t remember a thing, other than being vaguely aware she had spent some time with Arabella the evening before and that Arabella may have spiked her drink. When Eleanor later discovers Arabella’s ring in her bag she is even more distraught, but terrified to go to the police in case they suspect her.
 
This is a novel full of psychological twists and turns. Initially, it is about the murder of Arabella then progressively includes flashbacks to Eleanor’s childhood in the Australian bush and a time when her once-secure family began to crack at the seams before finally breaking apart.
 
The plotting is excellent and it keeps you guessing as suspicions ebb and flow. Although some of the characters are self-serving and unpleasant, it is well-balanced with others who are far more likeable. Unlike other thrillers, there are no truly evil people here, just those whose foolishness or uncontrolled passions push them into actions from which there is no escape. As one character observes, it is not hate, but love, that "is part of the problem".
 
There are times when Eleanor’s reluctance to reveal all to the police while trusting others makes you feel like giving her a good shake but as her past is slowly unravelled and you realise where she is coming from, you have to feel more compassionate towards her. The ending feels just a bit rushed with a few questions unanswered, but overall this is a most satisfying read and it genuinely did keep me up reading into the small hours.

4 1/2 stars.
 
With many thanks to Simon & Schuster Australia and NetGalley for the ARC.

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Booktopia

​The Tichborne Case occupied thousands of column inches in newspapers around the world from the mid-19th Century onwards when an obese, slovenly butcher (Tom Castro aka Arthur Orton) from Wagga Wagga claimed he was really the English Baronet Roger Tichborne miraculously risen from the dead and who travelled to England to claim his rightful inheritance.
 
His case wouldn’t have got far if the missing Baronet’s grieving mother hadn’t embraced him as her son without question. It set in motion some of the most extraordinary events in English jurisprudence. Hundreds of witnesses swore the butcher was definitely the refined and aristocratic Roger Tichborne and just as many swore he definitely wasn’t, but an illiterate crook and charlatan.
 
Everything about the Claimant was analysed and discussed: his differing height, dodgy memories, his tattoos, the mystery contents of a secret packet, a mystic signature code and even shortcomings with his private parts (which didn’t stop him having upwards of 8 children). In the days before a DNA test would have put paid to the claim quick-smart, the public was enthralled. Everyone had an opinion. Was he or wasn’t he?
 
There’s a maniacal frenzy about the whole affair (including characters already in the lunatic asylum). The obsequious former servants or acquaintances being bribed to remember things, the members of the ruling classes bamboozled into giving the Claimant money to live the life to which a blue blood must be accustomed, the completely out-of-control defence barrister (Edward Kenealy) who ranted for days and abused his client and the judge in the process. You couldn’t invent many of these characters and the scenarios because no-one would believe you.  
 
Then there was the support he had from the common folk who saw his campaign as some kind of banner to follow in their struggles against privilege and the aristocracy. On his first release from prison, rather than being pilloried, the Claimant became a people’s champion and crowds lined the road to wave to him as he made a progress about the country waving from “a wagonette drawn by four fine bay horses decorated with Tichborne-blue rosettes and carrying footmen in scarlet silk jackets.” It is incredible to think that there was even a movement to have Orton/Castro/Tichborne become a member of parliament which in a way disturbingly reflects recent happenings when a whole country was in denial, willing to believe lies and support a man even though he has been proved to be a crook.
 
But it’s difficult to really get a handle on Orton/Castro/Tichborne. At one stage he confessed it was all a put-up job and then retracted. Perhaps he came to believe his own myth. After he served his time in gaol, he turned into a side-show freak, often impecunious and living on the margins of society in both the USA and England. One has to have some sympathy for him, in particular suffering the loss of four infant children with his second “wife”. Although by the time he died in 1898 the majority had come to accept he was a fraud, his coffin still bore the name of the man whose identity he usurped.
 
Every few years someone re-examines the fascinating story of the Tichborne Claimant and this latest offering by journalist Paul Terry presents it in an entertaining and in-depth fashion. A downside is that the book lacks an index although there is a list of some of the principal characters at the front. One name omitted from that list is the man who briefly acted as the Claimant’s secretary, a certain Mr Truth Butts. Not even Gilbert & Sullivan at their peak could have come up with a more agreeable name to reflect this bizarre but true comic opera.

3.5 stars.

Booktopia

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