JUNE
Book Two Many a Moon
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 3
Buy at:
Rogue
Phoenix Press,
Amazon,
Barnes and Noble
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
