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Alison Wonderland Paperback – January 1, 2012
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Only occasionally does a piece of fiction leap out and demand immediate cult status.Alison Wonderland is one . . . Smith is at the very least a minor phenomenon.Times(UK)
After Alison Temple discovers that her husband is cheating on her, she does what any jilted woman would doshe spray paints a nasty message for him on her wedding dress and takes a job with the detective firm that found him out. Being a researcher at the all-female Fitzgeralds Bureau of Investigation in London is certainly a change of pace from her previous life, especially considering the characters Alison meets in the line of duty. There is her boss, the estimable Mrs. Fitzgerald; Taron, Alisons eccentric best friend, who claims her mother is a witch; Jeff, her love-struck, poetry-writing neighbor; and last, but not least, her psychic postman.
Clever, quirky, and infused with just a hint of magic, Alison Wonderland is a literary novel about a memorable heroine coping with the everyday complexities of modern life.
A fantastical Thelma and Louise meets Agatha Christie adventure story. The dialogue is smart and the deadpan humor is perfectly judged.The List (UK)
- Print length200 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherMariner Books
- Publication dateJanuary 1, 2012
- Dimensions5.51 x 0.46 x 8.27 inches
- ISBN-10054784803X
- ISBN-13978-0547848037
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Editorial Reviews
From the Author
The story begins with a nod to noir fiction: a fascinating female client, Taron, hires Alison for a crazy job that she's less-than-truthful about, and turns Alison's life upside down. But Alison Wonderland is not really detective genre; it's an offbeat comedy that sees Alison going on a road trip with Taron, who becomes her best friend.
Alison Wonderland will appeal to readers who enjoy British humor and want to spend time chasing around London and the English countryside with Alison, Taron, and the assembled cast who are all loosely-connected, in one way or another, with Mrs Fitzgerald's mysterious Project Brown Dog. The book contains some bad language, some drug references, some terrible poems and some funny lines. Though there are meditations on London life and love that may make you stop and think, it's not to be taken too seriously. If you read it, I hope you enjoy it.
From the Back Cover
After Alison Temple discovers that her husband is cheating on her, she does what any jilted woman would do she spray paints a nasty message for him on her wedding dress and takes a job with the detective firm that found him out. Being a researcher at the all-female Fitzgerald s Bureau of Investigation in London is certainly a change of pace from her previous life, especially considering the characters Alison meets in the line of duty. There is her boss, the estimable Mrs. Fitzgerald; Taron, Alison s eccentric best friend, who claims her mother is a witch; Jeff, her love-struck, poetry-writing neighbor; and last, but not least, her psychic postman.
Clever, quirky, and infused with just a hint of magic, Alison Wonderland is a literary novel about a memorable heroine coping with the everyday complexities of modern life.
A fantastical Thelma and Louise meets Agatha Christie adventure story. The dialogue is smart and the deadpan humor is perfectly judged. The List (UK)
HELEN SMITH is a member of the Society of Authors and the Writers Guild of Great Britain. She writes novels, children s books, poetry, plays, and screenplays, and was the recipient of an Arts Council England grant.
About the Author
Her work has been reviewed in The Times, the Guardian, The Independent, Time Out and the Times Literary Supplement. Her books have reached number one in the bestseller lists in the Kindle store on both sides of the Atlantic. The Times called her 'a minor phenomenon.'
Helen Smith is the author of bestselling cult novels Alison Wonderland, Being Light, The Miracle Inspector and the Emily Castles Mystery Series.
She blogs at: emperorsclothes.co.uk. Sign up here for an email alert when a new book is published: bit.ly/U5KAF0
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I was married once, for a while. I thought my husband was cheating on me. Sometimes he was late home and I’d stand at the bedroom window and watch the street. I’d lean against the window frame and press my forehead against the window in despair and I’d wonder, Who do you love more than me? In darkness, in silence, I’d wait until I saw him turn the corner on his way home. Then I’d go and lie in bed— waxwork, expressionless features; heavy, bloodless limbs. It was like one of those hospital nightmares where you have enough anaesthetic to stop you moving or screaming, but not enough to stop you feeling pain. I would just lie there, closing my eyes to stop the giddy feeling that I supposed was anger but was really relief that he was home at all. I was never sure which of us I hated more. Nothing tied me to him—not money, children, or even much of a shared history. Just a sunny day and a white dress. I stayed because I didn’t want to leave, but I hated him for not loving me more than anyone else. I stood at the window and I wondered, Who do you love more than me? I never asked the question out loud.
I thought if I knew he was seeing someone else, then I’d have to leave. I wouldn’t need to lie there anymore, waiting until he was asleep to touch his skin to see if it felt different, if someone else had touched it. I was twenty-four and I felt debilitated loving someone who didn’t love me enough. I didn’t want to leave him over a suspicion, but I didn’t want to stay. I waited for a sign, something that would settle the matter for me.
One morning as I looked through a local paper while I was waiting for the kettle to boil to make myself a cup of coffee, I saw an advert for a female detective agency, and that’s how I found this place: ‘Fitzgerald’s Bureau of Investigation. Discretion assured.’
I hired someone to follow my husband for two weeks, and I felt comfortable that a woman was doing it; I thought she’d understand. Was he unfaithful? I suppose I knew the answer in my heart a long time before it reached my head. I didn’t hire the agency to prove that he was cheating; I wanted them to show me I was wrong. Yes, he was unfaithful.
The woman who had him followed was called Mrs. Fitzgerald. A tidy, authoritative woman in her late forties, she has slightly curling hair, cut severely short at the back in an old-fashioned crop. She calls her glasses spectacles. They’re on a chain that she never puts round her neck. She waves them around or sets them down on the desk in front of her. Mrs. Fitzgerald has small, dainty feet and a large bosom and bottom. If you overheard a conversation about her in a butcher’s shop, you’d catch a note of admiration when the men behind the counter called her a ‘big woman.’
She handed me a colour photo that answered the question I’d never dared ask out loud.
‘Do you really think he loves her more than me?’ I peered at the photo in Mrs. Fitzgerald’s office. From my experience of detective movies I’d expected it to be in blackand- white, but of course it’s much cheaper and quicker to use colour film and get it developed in Boots.
‘No, I don’t suppose so, she looks rather bony and ordinary to me.’
That settled things for me. I just packed up and left him. I could have clung to him and wept, charmed him, fought with him, tried to hurt him or save him, if he’d been captivated by a bewitching, superior beauty. Perhaps the photo didn’t do her justice, but I was rather disappointed in this thin girl he was fiddling about with in the evenings. Apart from a fleeting impulse—which I resisted—to call his girlfriend with some hair and makeup tips, I chose to ignore them both and faded spectacularly out of my husband’s life.
That’s not the whole story, of course. I wanted to get a can of red spray paint and write, ‘You ruined my life, you bony bitch’ all over the walls of her house and the place where she worked. I wanted to shred his clothes and castrate him. I wanted to call the police and get him into trouble. I mean, I really wanted someone to tell him off so he’d be sorry. I walked round and round town crying with shock and self-pity while I considered these options. In the end I compromised. I took half the money from our bank account, I bought a can of red spray paint and I went home. I packed everything I wanted from the house (not necessarily the things that were mine, just the things that I wanted, like his records), and then I put my wedding dress on the bed and I sprayed red paint on the bodice and I left a note by it: ‘You broke my heart, you cunt.’ He’s never approved of women swearing. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me, I wanted him to be angry. Then I faded out of his life.
I work at the agency now. I’ve stopped waiting for Mr. Wonderland. I don’t need him anymore.
One of my first jobs was for a woman who was worried that her husband was having an affair. They’d been married for years and they loved each other but they started having money troubles. He’d become withdrawn and secretive, going out in the evenings without telling her where he was going or who he was meeting. He’d come home late at night smelling of a brand of soap she didn’t recognize. She thought he must be having sex with another woman and showering at her house before he came home.
I followed him to Clapham Common one night and tracked him as he sneaked through the men who gather there after nightfall in the hope of meeting a stranger, in spite of or perhaps because of the danger. They, like me, were warned as children never to talk to strange men, and now they want to meet them on the common and suck their cocks. They shot me furtive, guilty glances as I passed them, but I wouldn’t meet their eyes in case they thought I was judging them.
I hung back in the trees as the unfaithful husband met a younger man he appeared to know. They greeted each other brusquely and moved away from the cruising area towards the pond. An island in the middle of the water is dedicated to the preservation of wildlife. There’s a heron in Battersea Park, but the most exotic bird I’ve ever seen in Clapham Common is a Canada goose, which I believe is classified as a pest, along with grey squirrels.
The water is surrounded by concrete. There’s a paved lip from which parents with toddlers persevere in throwing stale bread, even though they must know it will choke and constipate any delicate-stomached ducks that might stop here en route to more glamorous locations. I’m not sure what the alternative is to feeding them bread. You’re supposed to give hedgehogs dog food, but I can’t see it working for wildfowl. Perhaps sunflower seeds, or perhaps, as the notice in the pond advises, you should leave them alone.
As far as romantic locations go, I’ve seen better. Swirls of greenish goose shit decorate the concrete surround of the pond. Ugly fish breed in the black water. Crayfish whose parents were plucked from a tank in an upmarket restaurant and released into a downmarket freedom here, where there is little else to do except feed and multiply, sit on the mud and open their mouths to let the plankton trickle in, oblivious to the sexual charge in the nearby cruising area.
The unfaithful husband and his boyfriend strode towards the ponds. Intrigued, I stood behind a tree and watched as they crouched at the water’s edge. The foliage that hid me masked their activity but the urgency of their movements was unmistakable, so I moved closer. They were removing crayfish to return them to restaurants in the West End at market price. They worked quickly, stacking them in baskets in a dark blue van parked on the public road that runs through the Common along the edge of the pond. They need a permit to do this, and they didn’t have one, which is why they met in secret. The husband washed the traces of pond and crustacea from his body at his friend’s house before he went home to his wife so she wouldn’t know the shameful things he’d been doing to make ends meet. As I was new to the detective game I found the story quite touching, and I didn’t charge the wife for the time I spent following him, although she insisted I take the £7.99 it cost to get the photos developed. I still keep a picture of a crayfish in my wallet as a reminder that not everything is what it seems.
Product details
- Publisher : Mariner Books; Reprint edition (January 1, 2012)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 200 pages
- ISBN-10 : 054784803X
- ISBN-13 : 978-0547848037
- Item Weight : 7.2 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.51 x 0.46 x 8.27 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #8,540,593 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #38,266 in Fiction Satire
- #100,112 in Contemporary Literature & Fiction
- #185,615 in Women's Literature & Fiction
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Helen Smith is a novelist and playwright who lives in London. Her books have reached number one on Amazon's bestseller lists in the US, UK, Canada and Germany. They have been praised in The Times, The Times Literary Supplement, the Guardian, Time Out and Wired.com and appeared on "best of the year" lists in For Books' Sake, The Cult Den, The Independent and the Guardian. Her books have been optioned by the BBC.
Helen Smith travelled the world when her daughter was small, doing all sorts of strange jobs to support them both - from cleaning motels to working as a magician's assistant - before returning to live in London where she wrote her first novel. Since then, she has read at literary events and festivals in London and New York and points in between - including, most recently, a cruise ship en route to California via the Suez Canal. Her work has been read or performed at the National Theatre, The Royal Festival Hall, the Victoria and Albert Museum of Childhood, Amnesty International's Headquarters, The Edinburgh Festival and The University of London. She's a Literary Death Match champion and the recipient of an Arts Council of England award.
Helen Smith is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, The Crime Writers' Association and English PEN.
"Smith is gin-and-tonic funny." Booklist
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In Showstoppers Helen Smith's main character, Emily Castles is a young-engaging, single-woman who is not very successful in life but finds a talent in solving mysteries. I was drawn to the character right away and enjoyed the story. I remember thinking as I read, `There is great potential for this character and I can see a whole series of books with her in them.' Helen Smith obviously could tell a great story and write believable and engaging characters that readers could care about.
Alison Wonderland features a female lead detective who is also in her mid-twenties and the story is likewise set in London. Alison Temple, who becomes Alison `Wonderland' by her own choice, is a marvelous invention of Helen Smith. Smith shows her talent as a writer because the tone of the book and the creativity of how her protagonist, Alison Wonderland, is drawn, is so very different yet just as engaging as Emily Castle in Showstoppers. Alison is a quirky person in a quirky world and just when you think one thing is about to happen, the book takes an unexpected twist or turn. There is subtle humor throughout the book and the characters are very memorable, as are the comments and turns of phrase that Smith delights in using and having her characters say.
Alison Wonderland reinvents herself after she uses a female staffed detective agency and discovers her spouse is unfaithful to her. Alison goes to work at this very odd agency and while on the one hand she is a confident, professional private investigator, she is simultaneously a slightly damaged single girl inhabiting London where she would like to discover love and a meaningful life.
Besides Alison, the book is populated by great characters such as her best friend Taron, a Belinda-Carlisle-type (Think Go Gos) club goer who is also a romantic, off-kilter but strangely spiritual woman. Taron has drawn Alison into a search to find an abandoned infant to give her mother -- a witch who sends psychic post-cards instead of using actual ones. One of the best scenes in the book involves Alison and Taron in a Weymouth nightclub.
The book has a very stream-of consciousness feel, but that is one of the things I enjoyed about it. That feeling and tone was what I imagined Alison was experiencing and it was fun to get inside of her head for a bit and live in her skin. Finally, while this book might not be for everyone because of the shifts in POV and the layered-indirect plotline, I found it to be very well done and thoroughly enjoyable. I am very excited to see what else Helen Smith comes up with in the future and will give anything she pens a chance.
Smith seemed to be comfortable in her own skin as she writes. Her phrasing and the occasional use of slang made it conversational, which was a relief to read at the end of a long day. The dialogue flowed easily, adding depth to the characters and substance to the story.
Unfortunately, I felt as if too many characters were being explored at once. While it's wonderful for each of them to have their own unique background, a longer piece would make it easier to explore them all. The point of view frequently shifted between characters and an omniscient third party, and I was confused - or at the very least, unsettled - whenever this occurred. The changes are abrupt, making it difficult to follow along and to invest emotionally in the protagonists. Oftentimes, it took a minute or two to realize that Alison was no longer the one speaking. The spirit realm came to act like a deus ex machina, and I still can't quite determine whether or not it's supposed to be real or simply a string of coincidences within the context of the story. All of these things interrupted the process by which I build faith in characters and the world in which they live
Additionally, the sequence of events was a bit hard to understand. It reminded me of Waiting for Godot , where all these things happened, but it was as if nothing had happened at all. With the initial set-up, I was expecting more intricate intrigue than what was presented. The story never actually reached a climax as the lives of the various characters continued onward at the same steady pace in which they had moved throughout the novel. I kept waiting for the turning point that never came.
Overall, this was a fun read. Comedy was mixed in with the randomness, and the combination was sprinkled with comments and the occasional sentence that are both refreshingly truthful and deep. With that being said, a less confusing method of shifting points of view, as well as more varied pacing, would have been appreciated.
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Top reviews from other countries
Oh yea, and a happy end with a cute baby is also provided at no additional charge....
Now for the rest- this book is a mixture of lots of ideas and it feels a bit jarring, in particular some chapters just feel like character profiles with a tiny bit of ridiculous plot sneaked in. Other problems were that although some pop culture references in the book were good and made the characters a bit more believable they were all over explained. Also when the narrative was voiced by Alison it seemed to have a much older persons phrasing as she is supposed to be 30.
The biggest problem I had though, in particular in the first few chapters, stemmed from the fact in creative writing lectures for fiction I'm always being told about the balance between telling your audience something about the characters and showing them through their actions. This book just tells you all the characters traits leaving you no room to draw your own conclusions.
This book wasn't terrible in fact I think most of the problems of it would be solved if this became a series as the character traits would not need to be explained again and the focus could be more on plot, however I won't be rushing out to read another.