Playing the Game
Barbara Taylor Bradford
(HarperCollinsPublishers)
Novels can be divided into many categories: those favouring plot; those more concerned with character; those moving at a brisk trot; and those whose setting remains the same four walls from beginning to end.
Rarely, however, does one encounter a novel apparently so eager to drive itself into the ground that it lacks every aspect usually used to hold a reader’s interest. Playing the Game is such a novel; one for which it would be more fitting to write an obituary than a review.
Annette Remmington, art dealer and wife of Marius, is coasting through a particularly satisfying period of her life. A recent auction of a long-lost Rembrandt painting has catapulted her into the public eye and to the pinnacle of her career.
Soon, however, her contentment is threatened by the meddling of a private detective – not to mention a sooty Cezanne painting, a charming journalist, and Annette’s own shaky marriage.
Jack Chalmers, journalist extraordinaire and feeble womaniser, is meanwhile suffering his own quarterlife crisis. After flitting off to France for a pit-stop at his villa, he finds himself in the fortunate position of interviewing Annette. Somewhat predictably, within two minutes of meeting one another, both parties are infatuated. Only minor inconveniences hinder their adolescent-like passion; Annette is married to the most possessive (and stereotypical) “silver stallion” imaginable, while Jack is still dealing with a bored and boring lover (when he feels up to it, that is).
Annette’s sister Laurie is wheelchair-bound and beautiful and, according to a conversation between Annette and her husband, is still capable of having sex – a bit of writing falling far beyond the realms of bad taste. As Annette is tossed by marital woes, Laurie discovers love.
The narrative is punctuated by flashbacks to Annette’s childhood (not to mention the not-so-occasional typographical error), suitably gothic and tormented by abusive relatives. Unfortunately, in a novel populated with such cardboard characters, the introduction of such a visceral and intricate theme is nothing more than a mockery of real issues.
Equally absurd is the occasional appearance of the comically named “Hilda Crump”, a thorn in Annette’s side and reminder of her guilty conscience. By the time Hilda’s role is revealed, however, it is difficult to recall her initial purpose.
Each character is overflowing with eagerness to embody their various stereotypes. Annette is the driven yet intensely vulnerable businesswoman who craves neither food nor sex (what she does crave, apart from some character development, remains something of a mystery). Laurie is the appeasing angel, disabled yet bursting with grace and acceptance; eloquently described by her sister as “petite and delicate but she packs a wallop”.
Similarly bemusing phrases litter the novel. Annette, for example, is described as, “so thin she was like a wafer”, while her husband appears to walk at such a rapid rate that he is forced to “draw to a standstill”. Other than these gems, however, the narrative is bland and stilted, while conversations are robotic.
For somebody described as “Queen of the genre”, Barbara Taylor Bradford is a royal disappointment. Playing the Game is a masterpiece of the mundane, trundling from office to restaurant to country mansion with no qualms whatsoever about being the most ridiculous piece of fiction on the shelves (which is not, in fact, an honour). It’s only redeeming feature is perhaps its relentless (and oblivious) self-mockery, which provides a modicum of entertainment now and again.
If the reader is able to persevere to the bitter end, they can be certain their only remaining wish will be that Barbara Taylor Bradford acquire a proofreader, a shredder, or both.
LARA SADLER