!!!!!SPOILERS!!!!LEAVE!!!!SPOILERS!!!!YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE ANYWAY!!!SPOILERS!!!!LEAVE!!!!
Why am I reading this? I guess after the lugubrious plodding of The Golden, I was looking for something light and furious and cheeky. You know, as if B. E. Ellis wrote a vampire novel. Well, I got suckered, that's for sure. Ms. Billson maybe a wonderful film critic, but she knows little about establishing atmosphere or mood. She's got threatening dialogue down, though, but a tad weak when choosing descriptive and appropriate metaphors:
"For a horrible moment there, my paranoia had sprouted wings and been cleared for take-off."
And, like The Golden, this story is founded on a love interest. Oops, not "love". The sardonic 1st-person protag—Dora Rosamond Vale—is infatuated, mesmerized, languished around a photographer named Duncan, both being dragged down the Road to Success by the greed tornado of the late 1980s in England, as it creates "upwardly mobile young adults with disposable incomes"(p.4). Dora's gone from a "Stylist" to a "Creative Consultant" pushing poser image and life-style with no marrow. Besides work and Duncan, Dora shows her itchy bitchiness with leaving anonymous notes saying things like "burn in hell you vile Nazi bitch" to torture another woman who she believes stole an apartment away from her.
By novel's end, there is not much to remember—although the swaddling infant staking episode where Dora turns the "little nipper into shish-kabab"(p.297), seems to stick like plasma-flavored bubble gum. The plotline is too fragmented with ill-timed flashbacks and forwards, the characters appear as lobby cards harping hidden personalities somewhere, the vampires seem remote and strangely not scary, and the endgame feels like a Bloefeld world domination plan that—very unbelievably—actually works.
For a vampire/black comedy/sarcasm novel, try Fangland instead.