|About the Book|
A sexier Bridget Jones? A latter day Nancy Mitford? Wayward romantic bohemian? Or recovering alcoholic? Isabella Richards wants to have it all or does she? Single, married, widowed, heart breaker and heart broken in the space of two years, IsabellaMoreA sexier Bridget Jones? A latter day Nancy Mitford? Wayward romantic bohemian? Or recovering alcoholic? Isabella Richards wants to have it all or does she? Single, married, widowed, heart breaker and heart broken in the space of two years, Isabella Richards secretly wonders if she wouldn’t be happy doing her own thing rather than being one half of a couple and all of the pressures that being perfect bring. Isabella’s dream of having it all is shattered when her first husband, the prolific and iconic Billy Belvoir is killed by a rhino in Africa whilst filming his epic, now cult documentaries. Bella’s life lies in tatters as she comes to realise that the man that she thought ‘had it all’ wasnt. Love conquering all or all conquering love?Extract from Exquisite Corpse: So we made our way to the wedding of the year, or possibly the decade. Myself and two gay male friends, who are two of my favourite people in the world. The three of us had been talking about the possibility of ‘accepting an invitation’ to the wedding for a few weeks beforehand and thought it might be a hoot. What better way to spend a Saturday night than to be handcuffed and arrested by the local old bill. With security rife, how the hell would we do it? Why did we want to do it? How would we feel if we found gatecrashers at our own weddings? I drove up from London that day to meet James and Edmund looking terribly dapper in their trendy but not too obviously Non-U regalia, they had taken all of about three hours getting ready to my forty minutes, including hair.James and Edmund had always said that I was a gay man trapped in a woman’s body. I found myself getting very upset at this crazy suggestion and told them that there was absolutely nothing ‘trapped’ about my personality whatsoever, even if it did mean that I could not quite explain why I adored dancing to Hazel Dean’s greatest hits. We giggled as I drove to the venue and did not analyse the way that we would make our entrance into the castle grounds, which we hoped, was not accompanied by a whopping great moat. Besides, we were far more concerned about finding the bloody place, without an aide memoir of so much as a map of the area or a previous dry-run recce.A great friend of ours, Araminta Dunkley, who apparently had multiple experience in the art of graceful gate crashing, had come up with the ingenuous idea of trotting up to the castle door with a wine glass in each of our hands, as though we had momentarily left the wedding throng to take in a little air before dining. Araminta had been successful hundreds of times with this clever wheeze at various book launches, rock group after show parties and even society weddings. The only time that Araminta had come unstuck was when she had taken a large balloon size wine glass, fill with Chablis to a party filled with non-drinkers clutching their alcohol-free fruit cocktails. It was the best piece of advice of the whole evening that we could have got. Those wine glasses, looking back, even if they were cheap cut glass from the local ESSO garage, were our absolute saving grace.Graceful gate crashing it was not! The half a mile drive to the castle was as dark as hell and at low beam, with palpitating heart, I nearly managed to screw up the start to the evening by driving into the entrance’s steepest ditch. The main entrance was swarming with paparazzi and ruddy faced locals shouting the names of the well-known faces inside the stunning looking marquee. It certainly did not look like this gate crashing lark was going to be the biggest breeze of our lives. Our wine glasses were held with the grip of an SAS soldier in Sierra Leone and we sauntered to the castle in the only way we knew how.