by Clare Taylor (Tue Jul 21, 2009)
Bunty took a long cool look at the dark and handsome beast in front of her. Bay was well formed, with a confident stride, and looked as if he'd never been tamed. She'd met his like before, and could tell just from his arrogant stare that he would be no push-over, but dammit, she was Bunty Barstowe, international spy and sportswoman; she'd tamed wilder than this before.
She turned and called over her shoulder 'Fred, close the door, will you? I think I'm going to have my work cut out getting this one to do as he's told.'
'Righto, Miss B. But you be careful now, mind, he looks like a nasty one!' came the answer.
She waited for the slam of the stable doors and then squared her slim shoulders and addressed those dark eyes. 'Let's take it slowly and see what you're made of, shall we?' Grasping hold of the saddle she was just about to swing herself up onto him when there was a crash behind her and a shout;
'Just what the hell do you think you're doing?'
Oh Christ. What's the point? We all know what's going to happen next, don't we?
Bunty Barstowe, Olympian, horse-whisperer, and sometime spy, is going to find herself entangled in a bittersweet love affair with the arrogant yet strangely attractive American owner of Bay, the virile stallion. There will be creaking leather, sweaty rides, confusion, misunderstandings, and quite possibly a plot to blow up an aging nuclear power station somewhere in Eastern Europe. Luckily for our heroine it will turn out that Bay's owner (who will be called something thrusting, like Dirk), in addition to being a superb horseman who is fantastic with his hands, also works part-time for the CIA. With his fire power and her feminine wiles they will halt the evil power of Kurt, the coldly handsome villain, and save the world from certain destruction.
It's all too yawn-making for words, and not at all what I had in mind when I decided that I could do so much better than a lot of the slightly shaming chick-lit I read as a matter of course. The sort of easy reads that, when you finish them, leave you feeling slightly, well, soiled (to borrow something Bunty might say).
It was all going to be so different when I finally got round to writing a book. Crisp and elegant prose was supposed to drip from my expensive fountain pen onto the page, delighting all who read it and resulting in rave reviews and, of course, funding a Country Homes lifestyle.
But. Back in the real world, when I put my fingers on the keyboard, what comes out? No clever comedy of manners, or edge of your seat thriller or detective story. No incisive study of life today and its hollow emptiness. Not even a charming children's story celebrating differences and acceptance of the individual (although, if any agents are reading this, I would like to announce that I have already written one of those and am open to discussion on the rights).
No. Instead, I find myself haemorrhaging ruddy Bunty. Bunty and her tales of between-the-wars life as a spy in the international jet-set. Bunty, with her flowing locks and straight back. Bunty, with her handy lipstick-sized hold-all (think ‘Mary Poppins with Jimmy Choos'). Bunty, whose adventures are entitled ‘Bunty Barstowe Rides Again', ‘Bunty Pulls it Orff' or ‘Bunty and the Stiff Finger.'
I bet Jane Austen never had this problem.
