Promoted as "the most shocking thriller you'll read this year", Maestra is certainly shocking, as in shockingly poor! Whilst I had no intention of buying this one I came across it in a bargain bin and thought I would see what I was missing.
Judith Rashleigh is a bullied and patronised assistant in one of the two major auction houses in London, busily seeking a passport to the realms of the upper classes that she seems to almost sycophantically admire. When Judith comes across an attempt by her employers to pull of an art fraud she is promptly fired and left seething for revenge. Luckily Judith has a second job to fall back on as a glamorous hostess in a champagne bar in St. James's. When one of her regular clients invites her on a weekend trip to the South of France and a minor mishap sends her hightailing it to Italy, a chance occurrence sees her come across a painting she knows rather too well. Embittered following her dismissal this situation provides Judith with an ideal opportunity to exact some revenge and perhaps set herself up as a bona fide member of the social elite she so admires.
Maestra tests the definition of crime thriller to the very limit as large parts of it read more like a cross between chick-lit and soft porn. Maestra is largely about a young woman as she seeks to elevate herself into the upper echelons of society, leaving behind her Liverpool roots and as she so succinctly terms it:
"All the things I knew it was indecent to despise, because they were just the fabric of most people's lives, yet my contempt for which kept me flinty clean inside."
Much of the sexual content is graphic, with frequent use of the word "cunt" throughout and as is so often the case the repetition blunts the impact it is obviously intended to have. It certainly didn't take me too long to become inured to what reads at time as pure soft porn. Some of the most erotic and sensual writing comes about when alluding to an act rather than graphically detailing it in such an inept way that I might as well have been reading from a biology textbook. Other attempts as mildly titillating are more cringeworthy and raised serious questions about the writing prowess of L.S. Hilton:
"I could feel the lips of my pussy swell against the tight cloth of my panties,"
Maestra is a crass attempt to shock with a storyline that started with potential and descended into utterly puerile. Maestra stretches the definition of crime fiction to the extreme and whilst admittedly the starting plot had the makings of a classy thriller this floundered and turned into a romp around Europe detailing the lives of the wealthy and socially affluent. I did not want name-dropping of every designer and hotel or the lavish descriptions of how the privileged classes dine; that means nothing to me and quickly became very tiring, hence my comparisons with the chick-lit genre. This reads like a lesson in social climbing and the attitude of Judith is haughty as she seeks to eschew every sign of her Liverpool upbringing. Often I found this offensive, conceited and at times downright arrogant:
"..it occurred to me that one feels less guilty about murdering a man who reads Jeffrey Archer for pleasure."
Whilst this may not be the attitude of the author herself the continued preoccupation with her lead character of leaving the life of the more lowly classes behind did make me wonder about her own opinions on social affluence and class.
It is a rare occurrence when the closing words 'To Be Continued' fill me with such dread as these ominous words do in Maestra. Frankly I shall be amazed if either or the two novels which are due to follow this debut see the light of day. In the end it was the details about the art world which interested me, not my interest in the storyline which was a very poor sideshow between the frequent bouts of sex.
Judith Rashleigh is a bullied and patronised assistant in one of the two major auction houses in London, busily seeking a passport to the realms of the upper classes that she seems to almost sycophantically admire. When Judith comes across an attempt by her employers to pull of an art fraud she is promptly fired and left seething for revenge. Luckily Judith has a second job to fall back on as a glamorous hostess in a champagne bar in St. James's. When one of her regular clients invites her on a weekend trip to the South of France and a minor mishap sends her hightailing it to Italy, a chance occurrence sees her come across a painting she knows rather too well. Embittered following her dismissal this situation provides Judith with an ideal opportunity to exact some revenge and perhaps set herself up as a bona fide member of the social elite she so admires.
Maestra tests the definition of crime thriller to the very limit as large parts of it read more like a cross between chick-lit and soft porn. Maestra is largely about a young woman as she seeks to elevate herself into the upper echelons of society, leaving behind her Liverpool roots and as she so succinctly terms it:
"All the things I knew it was indecent to despise, because they were just the fabric of most people's lives, yet my contempt for which kept me flinty clean inside."
Much of the sexual content is graphic, with frequent use of the word "cunt" throughout and as is so often the case the repetition blunts the impact it is obviously intended to have. It certainly didn't take me too long to become inured to what reads at time as pure soft porn. Some of the most erotic and sensual writing comes about when alluding to an act rather than graphically detailing it in such an inept way that I might as well have been reading from a biology textbook. Other attempts as mildly titillating are more cringeworthy and raised serious questions about the writing prowess of L.S. Hilton:
"I could feel the lips of my pussy swell against the tight cloth of my panties,"
Maestra is a crass attempt to shock with a storyline that started with potential and descended into utterly puerile. Maestra stretches the definition of crime fiction to the extreme and whilst admittedly the starting plot had the makings of a classy thriller this floundered and turned into a romp around Europe detailing the lives of the wealthy and socially affluent. I did not want name-dropping of every designer and hotel or the lavish descriptions of how the privileged classes dine; that means nothing to me and quickly became very tiring, hence my comparisons with the chick-lit genre. This reads like a lesson in social climbing and the attitude of Judith is haughty as she seeks to eschew every sign of her Liverpool upbringing. Often I found this offensive, conceited and at times downright arrogant:
"..it occurred to me that one feels less guilty about murdering a man who reads Jeffrey Archer for pleasure."
Whilst this may not be the attitude of the author herself the continued preoccupation with her lead character of leaving the life of the more lowly classes behind did make me wonder about her own opinions on social affluence and class.
It is a rare occurrence when the closing words 'To Be Continued' fill me with such dread as these ominous words do in Maestra. Frankly I shall be amazed if either or the two novels which are due to follow this debut see the light of day. In the end it was the details about the art world which interested me, not my interest in the storyline which was a very poor sideshow between the frequent bouts of sex.