If it wasn’t in Lucky, or Chances, it wasn’t an erotic experience worth writing about. John Updike, whoever he was, was quoted on the cover: “The most uninhibited, delicious, erotic novel a woman ever wrote,” blah blah blah. Luckily, in a suitcase, I found a novel of my mother’s with a bright yellow jacket. I had by then been reading what I thought of as grownup novels for years, but they were mostly historical: Jane Eyre, which seemed more like a children’s book, with its orphanage, ghosts and frilly white nighties the enthrallingly cartoonish Gone With The Wind and, of course, any Jackie Collins I could lay my hands on.Īfter reading right down to the Mrs Pepperpot Omnibus, I looked for something – anything – that wasn’t my dad’s History of Hill Walking.
When I was 13 I went on holiday to Mallorca with my family, and halfway through the trip ran out of books to read.
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