Francine is applying for Queen’s Counsel
and is determined to prove her worth: “’How many state-school-educated QCs are
there…How many women, Northerners, ethnic minorities … The very top end of our
profession is still full with white upper-middle, Oxbridge men…’” Then she
meets Martin Joy. Seeking a divorce, he sweeps in to Francine’s office and the
attraction is instant. A chance encounter in Selfridge’s sees Francine being
wooed by the handsome millionaire: “He pushed his shirtsleeves up and I noticed
what good forearms he had: strong and tanned with a light trail of hair across
the top.” Within hours, the lawyer is “in love” and seems to have repressed all
her legal training. She has also forgotten the small detail of her bipolar pills:
“I had missed taking my medication last night and this morning, and I knew I would
soon feel a comedown, or panic or derailment, but for now, my mind was consumed
by him and all felt well.”
Francine is loving the wining and
dining, the Aston Martin and lavish properties: “we were the beautiful people,
sophisticated and urbane.” What could go wrong? A missing wife, that’s what.
Donna fails to appear in court and questions are asked. Martin suggests she has
probably jetted off “for a detox” and will return to Chelsea “tanned, ten
pounds lighter.” Briefly, Francine considers the alternative: “I’d heard about
Missing White Woman Syndrome before … Donna Joy wasn’t just blonde, white and
beautiful. She was estranged from her millionaire hedge fund banker husband.”
The plot becomes gloopier when Francine ‘remembers’ following her client; seeing
him with Donna on the night she disappeared.
Mine attempts to be on-trend and ripe for TV adaptation; full of
hedonistic-lifestyles of the self-entitled. However, it also ticks every cliché
box: mental health, alcohol, handsome/wealthy man causing brain fog, sexual
assault (not reported), amazingly-patient female friend and forgiving boss. The
writing can be beautifully descriptive when detailing the high-end streets of London,
but the concept of a high-flying lawyer is rather spoiled by many clangers.
While undergoing therapy (of which one ten-minute session seems to do the
trick), Francine is asked if she has heard of the term dissociation. “She shakes her head”. Really? Like a Harold Robbins novel from the 80s - sexy
and bizarre - but the women of today deserve more than the suggestion that
Martin “had the most muscular and tanned forearms that were the very definition
of manliness.”
Mine is published by Harper Collins and is available in Hardback and ebook format.
