"The term 'love' is also mysterious, although possibly it had something to do with the universal practice in earlier times of betting on matches ('for love or money'). That one word has caused more controversy than any other aspect of the game, but these linguistic mysteries only add to the romance of tennis."

Every year in June, a friend of mine despairs over many comments of mine - both on social media and when meeting up in person - because I will be in the throws of the ongoing thrill that is the tennis season and my friend absolutely detests the sport - and especially the scoring system. Or, rather, I should say the the 'idiotic' scoring system.

Over the years, this has developed into a bit of a joke between us and by now we have made it a tradition that she will comment on the matches as well - which usually is hilarious.

What has all this to do with the Love Game? Nothing, except that when reading this book I was reminded of my friend and how much she would despise the book. Not so because Love Game is about tennis, but because there seem to be very few answers in the book to questions that the non-tennis enthusiast might have. What I am getting at is that, while reading this book, I was not sure who it was written for. Was it written for people who are already familiar with the sport or for people who were looking for an overview of the sport and its history?

Most of the book read like a piece of academic work, although less like a research paper and more like a literature review, touching on subjects and stories, but never fully investigating them.  

Also, having followed the sport since the late 1980s and actually having read some of the books that are referenced in Love Game, much of the information was tangible, if not even familiar. Even to a degree where it was possible to notice where stories were summarised to the extent that they may have lost some of their poignancy.  

As a result, I liked the book as a compendium of tennis history but only as a quick introduction, as an appetizer, if you will. I would doubt tho that the fairy impersonal, dare I say passion-less, style of the book would enthuse anyone to find out more about the personalities and issues that have shaped the sport since its inception. 

Karen leaned back in her chair, not liking the answer she came up with, but knowing there would be nothing better coming from the man opposite her. ‘You were a right bunch of fucking cowboys in the old days, weren’t you?’ There was no admiration in her tone.

I don't know what I expected but I did not expect to like this book as much as I did. I gather from a lot of comments and other reviews that this is one of McDermid's weaker offerings but I actually really enjoyed the mix of interlinking stories, each of which had it's own element of suspense:

The search for a donor that is compatible with a sick child.

The disappearance of a man who seemingly one day walks out on his family in the midst of the 1984 miners' strikes.

The journalist in search of a story.

The business oligarch in search of his peace of mind.

And DI Karen Pirie searching for the solutions to all of these puzzles. 

As mentioned before, I'm not keen on reading gory tales or scary thrillers, and I was pleasantly surprised that the suspense - and there are oodles of suspense in this - was built not on gory facts but on characters and atmosphere. The elements of forensic detail just helped piece the clues together and follow the investigation. 

So, yes, my apprehension of reading this was totally unwarranted - and yes, it was all in my head. Just as well, because having read this one I look forward to reading more by McDermid. It's is not just her writing style that made me hungry for more but also the setting - Kingdom of Fife - and the historical snippets. 

'It’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?’

‘It’s never too late to spit at God Almighty. He lasts for ever and ever, amen. And he made us what we are.’

‘Perhaps he did, but Doctor Fischer didn’t.’

‘He made me what I am now.’

‘Oh,’ I said – I was impatient with the little man who had broken my solitude – ‘go up there then and spit. A lot of good may it do you.’

What a book! I can't reveal too much about the plot without giving some of the twists away but this was a meticulous exercise in spunky, dark. twisted, cynicism - and I loved it. If you're not a fan of Greene's dark side, stay way away from this one.

In places, the eponymous Dr Fischer and his games actually reminded me of Thomas Harris' Hannibal Lecter character - except without the gore and cannibalism. The end of Dr Fischer reveals their differences in motivations, which was nice to read because it added another dimension to Dr Fischer.  

‘It’s just to show the others that he can get you to come. He may try to humiliate you in front of them – it would be like him. Bear it for an hour or two, and, if he goes too far, fling your wine in his face and walk out. Always remember we are free. Free, darling. He can’t hurt you or me. We are too little to be humiliated. It’s like when a man tries to humiliate a waiter – he only humiliates himself.'

I live under a rock. I do. Otherwise, I would have probably known what the big twist in this book was all about. But I didn't, and that was ok.

However, even not knowing that there even is a twist didn't help me enjoy the book more than I did, and here is why:

The beginning of the story was awesome - the MC, Rosemary Cooke, is inadvertently arrested when another woman goes mental on her ex-boyfriend in a cafeteria.

What a great start to a story! 

Unfortunately, from there on the book lost momentum while Rosemary tells about her childhood and introduces us to her family, and how her and her family's lives have fallen apart after her sister and brother disappeared. There is also the "big reveal", after which the book continues in search for a conclusion.

Fowler takes up an interesting story full of thoughtful observations and quirky dialogue, but I could not help feeling that the issues Fowler tried to address where over-written and drawn out to an extent where I lost interest. What's more, even my usual enthusiasm for animal welfare issues and philosophy near enough extinguished over the question what the book was trying to do. Did the interjections of literary and philosophical quotations try to aid the message of the book or were they meant to lend an air of validation to what would have otherwise been a perfectly good coming of age story or family saga?

I know this book has received a lot of praise but it just did not do much for me.

"Nothing did. Nothing would. Nothing could ever bring my mother back or make it okay that she was gone. Nothing would put me beside her the moment she died. It broke me up. It cut me off. It tumbled me end over end.

It took me years to take my place among the ten thousand things again. To be the woman my mother raised. To remember how she said honey and picture her particular gaze. I would suffer. I would suffer. I would want things to be different than they were. The wanting was a wilderness and I had to find my own way out of the woods. It took me four years, seven months, and three days to do it. I didn’t know where I was going until I got there.

It was a place called the Bridge of the Gods."

I loved this book. Not because it was an uber-inspirational, amazing story - if it had been like that, I would not have much time on this book at all. What I loved about the story was that it was honest in its bluntness and that it did not glorify grief. Reading, Cheryl's story was very easy to relate to even though I did not walk the PCT. But then, every one deals with stuff differently.

So, apart from the description of how Cheryl found a way to deal with the events in her life that overwhelmed her, the book was a funny, smart, down-to-earth reminder of the huge effect that very small things that can have - the pleasure of tasting a favourite soft drink, the warmth of a shower, the feel of tiny frogs jumping on you, the liberation that is gained from not having to wear shoes that are too small.

On that note, as I am writing this review, I have my foot elevated in a position where my heel does not touch anything. I have a (massive) blister from going hiking this past weekend and Cheryl's struggle with her boots is all too real to me. So, whilst I am grateful that Wild - despite the publisher's best marketing efforts - was not the over-dramatised, over-sentimentalised account of a Cheryl's journey, I particularly loved that the book managed to reflect on both grief and practical issues of hiking with a sense of humor and humility. I also now want to visit some of the parts of the PCT, but not before my feet are healed from my recent excursion and not definitely not before I manage to read a map. Map reading skills in particular would have been useful last weekend and would have saved me and my friend from an additional 4 miles of detour. Luckily, neither of us was prone to panicking over the fact that we had - temporarily - gotten lost. Learning not to panic is probably one of the the first things to learn about going hiking.  

"It was a deal I’d made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn’t long before I actually wasn’t afraid."