Even though JC is back writing about her favourite subjects, horses and horsey types, this is not a patch on her best efforts, Riders and Rivals. She has included so many characters that she seems unable to differentiate between them herself; some of them are present literally to make up numbers in the syndicate at the centre of the story. One set piece early on, at a cocktail party, attempts to introduce all of these haphazard creations, and the resultant mish-mash, with people being profferred lines of dialogue simply to get their names on the page, is way below her best. Plotlines are mainly recycled from Riders and Rivals, and it appears obligatory to include at least one plump female character who is unlucky in love until pining causes the weight to fall off, and the hapless swain sees her for the beauty she is. No-one, it seems, is entitled to romance unless they are in possession of killer cheekbones.
A couple of promising plotlines get lost under the weight of dramatis personae, and completely daft lumps of astrological knowledge, gardening advice and veterinary tips. She appears to attempt a bit of social commentary (Liverpool is quite different to Cheltenham, apparently....) and has thrown in a failed suicide bomber, so that she can let us know her thoughts on Middle East politics.
Etta, her heroine, is frankly annoying, seeming to do little apart from cry, apologise for crying, then cry some more. I found myself skipping through the bits where she appeared, particularly by the end.
Finally, a thoroughly nasty relationship between a 15 year old girl and a man presumably over 50, included a repellent rape scene, and was blithely glossed over by JC. It was out of kilter with the sort of frothiness one expects from her.
Overall, had she been persuaded to drop about half of her characters, and a great deal of the verbiage about horse bandages, rose-grafting and star-gazing, the book might well have been half the size, but would have been better for it.