Love is blind The rapture of Brodie Moncur

Review by New York Times Review

IN HIS NEW NOVEL,William Boyd has a veteran pianist explain the way a piece of music draws a listener's tears: Just when you think you know where the harmony is going to go, it remains tantalizingly unresolved. "An old trick," the pianist says. "But old tricks are the best." That's the bet Boyd is making in "Love Is Blind," his 15th novel. Like the music his brilliant if drunken keyboard virtuoso is describing, the narrative never veers from the expected; even its twists fit into wellworn grooves. This is a "play it again, Sam" kind of production, the novelistic equivalent of the showy orchestral chestnut "Pines of Rome." "Love Is Blind" goes down easy, its pleasures are vaguely guilty, and upon setting it down, it swiftly vanishes from the mind. Boyd's books have included more serious (and more funny) efforts - like "Any Human Heart" (2003), a vigorous account of a 20th-century life, and the richly nuanced, darkly comic "An Ice-Cream War" (1983) - as well as slighter, larkier ones like this. (Five years ago he published "Solo," a James Bond novel that got a mixed reception.) In the past, he has sometimes been intrigued by larger issues, like the mutability of identity and the helplessness of individuals confronted with - and subsumed by - the great processes of history. With implausible suavity, "Brazzaville Beach" (1991) interwove its characters' motivations with the study of primate evolution. (Yes, you and me, according to Boyd, we ain't nothin' but mammals.) But there's no philosophical armature to "Love Is Blind," only the most convoluted of bildungsromans. His fin de siècle hero - a sensualist, as is Boyd's wont in his young male stars - is Brodie Moncur, a quickwitted Scot with a giftfor tuning pianos. His is the art and craftnot just of tightening an instrument's screws, but also of subtly tailoring its mechanisms to an expert player's strengths and weaknesses. (The vocation also inspired Daniel Mason's similarly smooth 2002 novel, "The Piano Tuner.") Sent from Edinburgh to Paris by his piano- maker employer to help open a new branch of the business, Brodie comes up with a plan to market the brand by securing an endorsement deal with a star musician. He settles on John Kilbarron - "a bit passé, perhaps, but one of the real oldschool klaviertigers 10 or 20 years ago." Kilbarron's nickname is the "Irish Liszt," and Boyd seems to want to evoke the fervid, sweaty, dazzling artistry of Franz Liszt, whose hysteria-arousing recitals were the Elvis concerts of their day. But "Love Is Blind" isn't all that interested in conveying the experience of listening to - let alone playing - music, even if there are sweet little descriptions of the invisible trickery (thin strips of lead glued here, a faint sanding-down there) that is the tuner's sleight of hand. What Boyd is interested in conveying the experience of is lust. Brodie falls helplessly in love with Kilbarron's mistress, the aspiring Russian singer Lika Blum (who responds, in kind), and follows to St. Petersburg the whole musical entourage, including the pianist's menacing brother, Malachi. Brodie and Lika's subterfuges grow less and less tenable, and the lovers eventually flee, but they find themselves entangled in, and finally shattered by, a Kilbarron family secret - albeit one that's been loudly hinted at for much of the book. Into this rather longwinded and stagy mix, Boyd throws a variety of devices: a tyrannical father, an allegation of musical plagiarism, a false accusation of fraud and a simmering case of tuberculosis. (Of course Brodie has to come down with that classic disease of sex and creativity.) There are halfhearted efforts to place the plot vividly in its time. "While he lay in bed waiting for visitors," Boyd writes, "Brodie read newspapers. He read about the continuing animosities of the Dreyfus Affair, the celebrations being organized around Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, the economic tribulations facing President Mc- Kinley, and a review of a shocking novel called 'Dracula.'" Yep, 1897 it is! Its title suggests that, while its milieu is music, the novel is more directly concerned with immortalizing great passions in general - in finding sensuality wherever it may lurk, including in the sonic. But the book's promise of eroticism ends up involving only some risible sex writing. "He reached down and touched her," Boyd writes of Brodie and Lika's lovemaking, "his fingers on the thick blond furze of her pubis, cupping it under his palm. He felt hugely aroused again, massively potent." Perhaps this prose is meant to feel cozily dated, like the character that Boyd describes as "dressed in a style that had been fashionable half a century before." If so, it's depressing that he thought that classical music would be the perfectly complementary subject matter, as lovably hoary as the narrative style he is pantomiming. In any case, however, there are only flickers of the charm you would want to steadily emanate from such a period production. "Love Is Blind" eventually reminded me of a tired revival of one of Franco Zeffirelli's decades- old, hyper-naturalistic stagings for the Metropolitan Opera: all surface detail, no life. "He looked intently at her face in the oval cameo," Boyd writes, "but the dated formalities of the pose, the exposure's long hold denied any sense of the real person emerging from the portrait." 0 Actually, the book's promise of eroticism ends up involving only some rather risible sex writing. ZACHARY WOOLFE is the classical music editor for The Times.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [December 9, 2018]

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Review by Booklist Review

Moving from Edinburgh in 1894 to the far-flung Andaman Islands in 1906, and smoothly landing in various European cities in between, Boyd's (Sweet Caress, 2015) affecting novel follows a young Scotsman's ardent pursuit of a woman and its treacherous consequences. An appealing though naive protagonist, Brodie Moncur has perfect pitch, a gift he uses as an accomplished piano tuner. He agrees to help manage a Parisian piano showroom, but he hates leaving his siblings behind with their controlling preacher father in their rural village. Brodie's quest for a sponsorship arrangement for his employer's business introduces him to the celebrated pianist John Kilbarron, his shifty brother, Malachi, and John's mistress, Russian soprano Lika Blum; and they all accompany Kilbarron on his concert tours. Brodie falls hard for Lika, which leads to clandestine meetings, a high-stress lifestyle, and, eventually, much worse. Their relationship feels more like erotic passion than love, but the novel hauntingly depicts how strong emotions can skew one's perceptions. Boyd beautifully paints the settings and the moods they evoke while sending readers on Brodie's adventurous, troublesome, and transformative journey.--Sarah Johnson Copyright 2018 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Boyd's lively 15th novel (following Sweet Caress) careens across the world following a consumptive, dueling, romantic piano tuner named Brodie Moncur. In a wild story whose prose reads as if written in 1888 (the year in which it is set), this seasoned author's handsome protagonist flees his oppressive Scottish family, first to Edinburgh, where he goes to work for Channon & Co. Sent to Paris by his boss, Ainsley Channon, to boost piano sales, Brodie's career is sabotaged by Channon's thieving son, Calder. Brodie is then approached by pianist John Kilbarron, the "Irish Liszt," and Kilbarron's evil brother, Malachi, who convince him to travel with them to Russia, having discovered he can tune Kilbarron's piano to mask a painful weakness in the maestro's right hand. As time goes on, however, Brodie falls in love with Kilbarron's mistress, Russian singer Lika Blum. When their affair, Lika's secretiveness, and a musical betrayal stir up trouble, Brodie flees the Kilbarrons and Russia. Complicating matters is Brodie's tuberculosis, a constant threat that dials up the book's tension and, along with an old-fashioned duel in St. Petersburg, allows the author a few action scenes. This man-on-the-run tale, which wraps up at one exotic end of the Earth, is strangely ageless and very entertaining. (Oct.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Set during the heady times at the turn of the 20th century, this meditation on the nature of love features Scottish piano tuner Brodie Moncur. The enterprising young Brodie is appointed assistant manager of Channon & Company's piano shop in Paris. There he becomes indispensable to the business, drawing the ire of the -owner's profligate scion. One of Brodie's ideas is to increase sales by enticing famous pianists to use Channon pianos, and he successfully recruits John Kilbarron, the Irish Liszt. Thus he meets Lika Blum, Kilbarron's erstwhile lover, and launches into a torrid affair with her as he's drawn into Kilbarron's inner circle. Learning that he suffers from tuberculosis and is wrongly accused of stealing from Channon, Brodie then begins a series of ever-widening travels in pursuit of both Lika and a better climate to treat his illness. When Kilbarron discovers -Brodie's and Lika's betrayal, high drama ensues. VERDICT Reading this masterly novel from Boyd (Restless) is like easing into a comfortable prose chair. The language, story, and setting all converge in a richly satisfying human drama; highly recommended. [See Prepub Alert, 4/9/18.]-Henry Bankhead, San Rafael P.L., CA © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Romance, deceit, revenge, missed opportunities, and piano-tuning are the central themes of an immersive new novel from a much-praised British writer.After 14 novels and many literary prizes, Boyd's (Sweet Caress, 2016, etc.) storytelling abilities are beyond dispute and are clearly on display in this latest tale that follows its hero, Brodie Moncur, on a restless journey from Scotland to Europe and beyond as the 19th century shades into the 20th. One of 14 children (nine living) born to a bruising Scottish preacher, Brodie is blessed with perfect pitch, a gift which frees him from his oppressive home and leads to work at the expanding Channon piano company in Edinburgh. Promoted to a post at the new Paris showroom, Brodie suggests that the company widen its name recognition by giving an instrument to a famous concert pianist, which is how he comes to meet John Kilbarron, "the Irish Liszt," and his lovely Russian girlfriend, Lika. It's Brodie's all-consuming love for Lika which now propels the story forward, as he loses his job at Channon's (falsely accused of embezzlement) and joins Kilbarron and his entourage on a luxurious sponsored trip to pre-revolutionary Russia. Layers of secrecy are both laid down and exposed as Brodie and Lika pursue a secret affair, yet Lika remains a shadowy figure, partly intentionally, partly through Boyd's failure to fully flesh her out. This and Brodie's desultory progress in life leave a sense of hollowness at the core of the story, although Boyd's tale-spinning is never less than enjoyable, dotted as it is with odd plot turns and much engaging detail. Its conclusion is perhaps the oddest turn of all, a departure that leaves the reader hungry for answers to some questions, especially those relating to Brodie's family, that are left dangling.All for Love or The Road Not Taken might have served as alternate titles for this largely good-humored, not especially deep-digging, quality entertainment. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Edinburgh 1895 1. Brodie Moncur stood in the main window of Channon & Sons and looked out at the hurrying pedestrians, the cabs, carriages and labouring drays of George Street. It was raining - a steady soft rain driven slant from time to time by the occasional fierce gust of wind - and, under the ponderous pewter light, the sooty facades of the buildings opposite had darkened with the water to a near-black. Like velvet, Brodie thought, or moleskin.  He took off his spectacles and wiped the lenses clean on his handkerchief. Looking out of the window again, spectacle-less, he saw that rainy Edinburgh had now gone utterly aqueous. The buildings opposite were a cliff of black suede. He replaced his spectacles - hooking the wire sides behind his ears - and the world returned to normal. He slipped his fob from his waistcoat pocket. Nearly nine o'clock - better start.  He opened up the glossy new grand piano that was on the display dais, propping up the curved lid with its inlaid mirror (only for display purposes - his idea) the better to present the intricate machinery within - the "action" -- that went into a Channon grand.  He removed the fall from over the keys and undid the key-block screws. He checked that no hammers were up and then drew the whole action forward by the flange rail under the front. As it was a new piano it drew out perfectly. Already a passer-by had stopped and was peering in.  Drawing out the action always compelled attention. Everyone had seen a grand piano with the lid up but having the action on display somehow altered every easy assumption. The piano no longer seemed familiar. Now all the moving parts were visible beyond the black and white keys - the hammers, the rockers, the jacks, the whippens, the dampers - its innards were exposed like a clock with its back off or a railway engine dismantled in a repair shed.  Mysteries - music, time, movement - were reduced to complex, elaborate mechanisms. People tended to be fascinated. He untied his leather roll of tools, selected the tuning lever and pretended to tune the piano, tightening a few strings here and there, testing them and resetting them. The piano was perfectly tuned - he had tuned it himself when it had emerged, pristine, from the factory two weeks ago. He tuned F a modicum on the sharp side then knocked it in - back into tune -- with a few brisk taps on the key. He supported a hammer-head and needled-up the felt a little with his three-pronged voicing-tool and returned it to its position. This pantomime of tuning a piano was meant to lure the customers in.  He had suggested, at one of the rare staff meetings, that they should have someone actually playing the piano - an accomplished pianist - as they did in showrooms in Germany; as the Erard and Pleyel piano manufacturers had done in Paris in the '30s and drawn huge crowds. It was hardly an innovation - but an impromptu recital in a shop window would surely be more enticing than listening to the mannered repetitions of a piano being tuned. Donk! Ding! Donk! Donk! Donk! Ding! He had been overruled - an accomplished pianist would cost money - and instead he was given this job of display-tuning: an hour in the morning and an hour after luncheon, going through the technical motions of tuning a piano to anyone passing by.  In fact he did attract spectators although he had been the single beneficiary - he wasn't sure if the firm had sold one more piano as a result of his demonstrations -- but many people and not a few institutions - schools, church halls, public houses -- had slipped into the shop, pressed a calling card on him, and offered him out-of-hours piano tuning. He had earned a good few pounds. So, he played A above middle C several times, to "get the pitch" pointedly listening to the tone with a cocked head. Then played a few octaves. He stood, slipped some felt mutes between strings, took out his tuning lever, set it over a wrest pin at random and gave it some tiny turns, just to deliver torque, then eased the pin slightly to "set the pin" and hit the note hard, to deliver a cast-iron tuning, feeling it in the hand through the lever.  Then he sat down and played a few chords, listening to the Channon's particular voice. Big and strongly resonant - the precision thinness of the sounding board (made from Scottish spruce) under the strings was the special Channon trademark -- its trade-secret. A Channon could rival a Steinway and a Bösendorfer when it came to breaking through an orchestra. Where the spruce forests were in Scotland that Channon used, what trees were selected - the straighter the tree, the straighter the grain -- and what sawmills prepared the timber, were facts known only to a handful of people in the firm. Channon claimed that it was the quality of the Scottish wood they used that made their pianos' distinct, unique tone.  Brodie's feigning over, he sat down and started to play "The Skye Boat Song" and saw that the single spectator had now been joined by three others.  If he played on for half an hour he knew there would be a crowd of twenty looking on. It was a good idea, the German idea. Perhaps, out of that twenty, two might enquire about the price of a baby grand or an upright.  He stopped playing, took out his plectrum, reached into the piano and twanged a few strings, listening intently.  What would that look like to anyone?  A man with a plectrum playing a grand piano like a guitar. All very mysterious - "Brodie! - " He looked round. Emmeline Grant, Mr Channon's secretary, stood at the window's framing edge, beckoning at him.  She was a small burly woman who tried to disguise how fond she was of him. "I'm in full tune, Mrs Grant." "Mr Channon wants to see you. Right away. Come along now." "I'm coming, I'm coming." He stood, thought about closing the piano down but decided against it. He'd be back in ten minutes.  He gave a deep bow to his small audience and followed Mrs Grant through the show room, with its parked, glossy pianos, and into the main hall of the Channon building. Austere unsmiling portraits of previous generations of Channons hung on olive and charcoal-grey striped wallpaper. Another mistake, Brodie thought: it was like a provincial art gallery or a funeral parlour. "Give me two minutes, Mrs G. I have to wash my hands." "Hurry along. I'll see you upstairs. It's important." Brodie went through the back, through a leather, brass-studded door into the warehouse area where the workshop was located.  It was a cross between a carpentry shop and an office, he always thought, the air seasoned with the smell of wood shavings, glue and resin. He pushed open the door and found his number two, Lachlan Hood, at work replacing the centre pins on a baby grand - a long job, there were hundreds of them. Lachlan glanced at him as he came in. "What's going on, Brodie? Should you no be in the window?" "I'm wanted. Mr Channon." He slid up his roll-top desk and opened the drawer where he kept his tin of tobacco. "Margarita" was the brand name: an American blend of Virginia, Turkish and Perique tobacco, made by a tobacconist called Blakely in New York City and to be found in only one retailer in Edinburgh -- Hoskings, in the Grassmarket. He took one of the three cigarettes he had already rolled and lit it, inhaling deeply. "What's he want you for?" Lachlan asked. "I don't know. Darling Emmeline says it's 'important'." "Well, it was nice knowing youse. I suppose I'll get your job, the now." Lachlan was from Dundee and had a strong Dundonian accent.  Brodie made the sign of the evil eye at him, took two more puffs, stubbed out his cigarette and headed for Ainsley Channon's office.   ***   Ainsley Channon was the sixth Channon to head the firm since it had been established in the mid 18th century. On the landing was a 1783 Channon five-octave spinet - the first Channon model to be a true success and which began the firm's fortunes. Now it was the fourth largest piano manufacturer, some said the third, in Britain, after Broadwood, Pate and - possibly -- Franklin. And, as if to confirm the length of this lineage, Ainsley Channon dressed in a style that had been fashionable half a century before.  He wore luxuriant Dundreary whiskers and a stiff wing collar with silk cravat and pin. His receding grey hair hung down long behind his ears, almost touching his shoulders. He looked like an old musician, like a stout Paganini. Brodie knew he couldn't play a note. Brodie gave a one-knuckle knock and pushed open the door "Come away in, Brodie. Brodie, my boy. Sit ye down, sit ye down." The room was large and gloomy - the gas lamps lit even though it was morning -- with three tall, twelve-paned windows looking out over George Street.  Brodie could make out the high, thin spire of St Andrew's and St George's West Church through the still-falling smear of misty rain. Ainsley stepped round from behind his partners' desk and pulled up a chair for Brodie, patting its leather seat. Brodie sat down on it. Ainsley smiled at him as if he hadn't seen him for years, taking him in. "You'll have a dram." It was a statement, not a question and Brodie didn't bother to reply. Ainsley went to a table with a clustered, light-winking collection of decanters, selected one and poured two generous glasses, bringing Brodie's over to him before taking his place behind his desk again. "Here's how," Ainsley said and raised his glass. "Slangevar," Brodie replied and sipped at his amber whisky. Malt, peaty, West Coast. Ainsley held up a puce cardboard dossier and waved it at him. "The Brodie Moncur file," he said. For some reason Brodie felt a little heart-jig of worry. He calmed it with another sip of whisky. Ainsley Channon had a somewhat dreamy and disconnected air about him, Brodie knew, and so was not surprised at the meandering path the meeting took. "How long have you been with us, Brodie? It'll be about three years now, yes?" "Actually seven, sir." "Good god, good god, good god." He paused and smiled, taking this in. "How's your father?" "Well, sir." "And your siblings?" "All fit and well." "Have you seen Lady Dalcastle recently?" "Not for a while." "Wonderful woman. Wonderful woman. Very brave." "I believe she's very well, also." Ainsley Channon was a cousin of Lady Dalcastle, who had been a close friend of Brodie's late mother. It was through Lady Dalcastle's good offices that Brodie had been taken on by Channon's as an apprentice tuner. Ainsley was looking at his dossier, again. "Aye. You're clever boy, right enough. Very good grades..." He looked up. "Do you parley-voo?" "Excuse me?" "Speakee zee French? Ooh la-la. Bonjour monsieur ." "Well, I studied French at school." "Give us a wee whirl." Brodie thought for a moment. " Je peux parler français, " he said. " Mais je fais les erreurs. Quand même, les gens me comprennent bien. " Ainsley looked at him in astonishment. "That's incredible! The accent! I'd have sworn blind you were a Frenchie." "Thank you, sir.  Merci mille fois ." "Good god above. How old are you, now, Brodie? Thirty? Thirty-two?" "I'm twenty-five, sir." "Christ alive! How long have you been with us? Three years, now?" "Seven," Brodie repeated. "I was apprenticed to old Mr Lanhire, back in '88." "Oh, yes, right enough. Findlay Lanhire. God rest him. The best tuner ever. Ever. The very best. Ever. He designed the Phoenix, you know." The Phoenix was Channon's best-selling upright. Brodie had tuned hundreds over his seven years. "I learned everything from Mr Lanhire." Ainsley leaned forward and peered at him. "Only twenty-five? You've an old head on your shoulders, Brodie." "I came here straight from school." He looked at the dossier. "What school was that?" "Mrs Maskelyne's Academy of Music." "Where's that? London?" "Here in Edinburgh, sir." Ainsley was still computing numbers in his head. "'88, you say?" "September 1888. That's when I started at Channon's." "Well, we've got a Channon challenge for you now..." He paused. "Top us up, Brodie." Brodie fetched the decanter and topped up their two glasses and sat down again. Ainsley Channon was staring at him over the dome of his steepled fingers. Again, Brodie felt vague unease. He sipped whisky. "You know we opened that Channon showroom in Paris, last year..." Ainsley said. Brodie admitted that he did. "Well, it's not going well," Ainsley confided, lowering his voice as if someone might overhear. "In fact it's going very badly, between ourselves."  He explained further. Ainsley's son, Calder Channon, had been appointed manager in Paris and although everything was in reasonable shape, seemed well set up, contacts made, stock warehoused, regular advertisements in the Parisian press placed, they were losing money - not worryingly -- but at a steady, unignorable rate. "We need an injection of new energy," Ainsley said. "We need someone who understands the piano business. We need someone with bright ideas..." he paused theatrically. "And we need someone who can speak French. Calder seems incapable." Brodie decided not to confess how rudimentary his grasp of the French language was and let Ainsley continue. "Here's the plan, Brodie, my boy." Brodie was to go to Paris as soon as possible - in a week, say, once his affairs were in order -- and become Calder Channon's number two. Assistant manager of the Paris showroom. There was only one thing to have on his mind, Ainsley said: sales, sales, sales - and more sales. "Do you know how many major piano manufacturers there are in Europe? Go on, have a guess." "Twenty?" "Two hundred and fifty-five, at the last count! That's who we're competing with. Our pianos are wonderful but nobody's buying them in Paris - well, not enough of them, anyway. They're buying trash like Montcalms, Angelems, Maugeners, Pontenegros. They're even starting to make pianos in Japan! Can you believe it? It's a fiercely contested market. Excellence isn't enough.  It's got to change, Brodie. And something tells me you're the man for the job -- you know pianos inside out and you're a world-class tuner. And you speak fluent French. Good god above! Calder needs someone like you. Stupid old fool that I am for not realising this." He sat back and took a gulp of his whisky, pondering. "Calder was too confident - over-confident, I now see. He needs someone at his side, help steer the ship, if you know what I mean..." "I understand, sir.  But, if the language is a problem, why not employ a Frenchman?" "Sweet Jesus, no! Are you losing your reason? We've got to have one of our own. Some one you can trust absolutely. Member of the family, as it were." "I see." "Can you do it, laddie?" "I can certainly try, sir." "Try your damnedest? Try your utmost?" "Of course." Ainsley seemed suddenly cheered and assured him he'd have a significant increase in salary and his position - and his salary - would be reviewed in six months, depending on results. Ainsley came round from behind his desk and poured them two more drams, the better to toast the new Parisian enterprise. They clinked glasses, drank. "We'll meet again, afore you go, Brodie. I've a couple of wee tips that might be useful." He took Brodie's glass from him and set it on the desk. The meeting was over. As he showed Brodie to the door he squeezed his elbow, hard. "Calder's a good boy but he could do with a staunch lieutenant." "I'll do my best, Mr Channon. Rely on me." "That I will. It's a great opportunity for us. Paris is the centre for music, these days. Not London, not Rome, or Berlin. Apart from Vienna, of course.  But we could be number one in Europe - see them all off: Steinway, Broadwood, Erard, Bösendorfer, Scheidmeyer. You'll see." Back in the workshop Brodie smoked another cigarette, thinking hard. He should be pleased, he knew, incredibly pleased - but something was bothering him, something indeterminate, naggingly vague. Was it Paris, the fact that he'd never been there, never been abroad? No that excited him: to live, to work in Paris that would be -- Lachlan Hood sauntered in from the shop. "Still here?" "Not for long," Brodie said. "I knew it. Tough luck, Brodie.  Hard cheese, old pal." "No. I'm to go to Paris. Help Calder with the shop there." Lachlan couldn't conceal his shock, his disappointment. "Why you? Fuck! Why not me? I've been to America." " Mais est-ce que vous parlez français, Monsieur ?" "What?" "Exactly." Brodie spread his hands, mock-ruefully. "The benefits of a good education, sonny-boy. I happen to speak excellent French." "Liar. Fucking liar.  You speak opera French." "All right, I admit it. The key thing is I speak enough French. Which is about one hundred percent more French than you do." He offered Lachlan a cigarette, and smiled patronisingly. "If it all goes well, maybe I'll send for you." "Bastard." Excerpted from Love Is Blind: A Novel by William Boyd All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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