Unfortunately, I had gotten to the unputdownable stage of the Blue Hour by Paula Hawkins when I realised it was starting to creep me out. There were so many things I loved about it until then: Eris, a beautiful Scottish island connected to the mainland by a causeway; Vanessa Chapman, reclusive, slightly mad female artist (deceased); James Becker, art expert charged with curating her works, and so on.
James, “fatherless bastard of a supermarket checkout girl”, is living with his blue blood wife, Helena, in the Gamekeeper’s Lodge of Fairburn House, to which Vanessa’s body of work has been bequeathed, and where James is employed for his expertise. Helena was formerly engaged to Sebastian, the heir to Fairburn and James’ friend from Oxford. I loved that intriguing set up too: so far, so good.
On hearing some disturbing news about one of Vanessa’s works which he has integrated into an exhibition at the Tate Gallery, James is urged by Helena and Sebastian to go to Eris and investigate and also collect the materials which make up the rest of the bequest. It was at this point that I started to wonder what I had gotten myself into, reading-wise. When you’re sitting up in bed at midnight with chills creeping up your spine there is no point in putting the book down and hoping to drift off into a nice, peaceful slumber. I was in for the long haul, like it or not.
The writing is brilliant, the story is solid, the atmosphere electric and the characters are fascinating. There are twists galore and the suspense is close to unbearable. I know my late sister would have loved it, but she was always braver than I.
Published by Doubleday