The plotline promised gold; the actual execution is so poor, so linear, trite and absolutely flat that the book falls below mediocrity into utterly despicable territory. Though Mrs Ainsworth is not an up-and-coming writer and with a respectable number of stories under her belt ought to know her trade by now, everything smacks of amateurism here, from the atrociously unrealistic intrigue which has no right to be called "fluff" since it fails to create happy feelings in the reader, to the undeveloped and formulaic characters, feeble love story, inadequate ending which provides little closure, the whole wrapped in the kind of melodramatic, occasionally ornery writing apt to damage even first-class storytelling (let one sample of her way with words suffice:
"“I need to tell you . . .” I clear my throat. My voice roughens, sounding strange even to me.
“Yes?” She leans forward, and the line of her cleavage deepens.
I turn around to make sure the door is shut behind us, but of course it is. I stare at the door and the sweeping cream-colored curves of the frame. Everything here is flawless, every detail perfect, and I'm a glaring exception that makes me want to hang my head in shame. Nausea rises in my throat, as if urging me to make an excuse to leave the room. I can't even live up to the perfection of the bloody hotel room, much less the clamoring of my fans. Sweat dampens my hands, and I stuff them in my pockets. My voice is hoarse when I speak.
“Debbie, there's something I need to tell you.”
“Something's wrong?” Her eyes widen even more. “It's the clinic stay, isn't it?”
“Well . . .”
Debbie straightens, and her feet plop onto the floor. Hot pink toenails press against the thick carpet. “Oh, Caleb. I'm so sorry. The head injury. It was more serious, wasn't it? That's why you've been so withdrawn? And head injuries are terrible things. Some football players get them, and . . .” She stands and wraps her arms around me. “Oh, Caleb. How long do you have left to live?”").
The narrative voice of the rock star retains the same flimsy quality from beginning to end, so much so that one soon grows convinced that there is not one chance in heaven that this goody-two-shoes teenager could ever have topped the charts. As for his PR agent and love interest, he exhibits the smarts of a goldfish, all gobsmacked charm and Latino chic to Caleb's all-Englishman pale beauty. The remainder of the cast seems to have been lifted straight from a bullet list, for their lack of depth and roundedness; not a single one of these crudely sketched characters comes alive before the reader's eyes. As an illustration of both gripes, let me quote the following passage, in which Caleb's moronic internal discourse and the cardboard stamp of the secondary cast break out in earnest :
"A producer reminds Miranda it’s nearly time to start the show, and she waves good-bye to us. “We have a surprise for you!”
“Great!” My eyes drift to Mateo, and his expression flickers with worry.
Cheerful music bursts through the room. The tempo is upbeat, but it does little to help me relax, and nothing to diminish the sensation that my chest is being squeezed. She's probably just going to give me nice underwear like Ellen gives her guests. Maybe she'll diversify and give me socks. I could use socks. A surprise doesn't necessarily mean anything bad. I mean, she seemed excited, right?
Miranda rushes out to the audience, weaving her way through adoring fans in stilettos, the high heels visible as she twirls around. The audience is not comprised of prim New Yorkers. They wear the colorful, casual, comfortable clothes of tourists. They clap their hands as Miranda approaches the stage, and a wild glee seems to take hold of the room.
Miranda is here. She leans into the microphone. “Good morning, New York City!”
The crowd explodes, and she lifts her hand up high, doing a dance before them.
“This morning we have some very special guests. It’s a true privilege to see them again.”
The crowd leans closer. “Let me introduce the most fabulous band in America. Not that its members are only American. We’ve watched them grow up these past five years. Ladies and gentlemen—Fifth Element!”
When she announces our presence, the crowd breaks into further hysterics.
“Those fans,” I scoff. The words feel foreign in my mouth, but Ezra told me the old me used to be annoyed at them.
Giovante and Kyle smirk, and Julian turns his head to us.
Luca raises his eyebrows. “You mean you didn't miss them in the clinic?”
“Nope. Totally peaceful for once,” I say, my heart hammering at the lie."
I do not grade it one star because the fundamentals of the prose style are sound and the book thus does not deserve to be lumped together with those that exhibit subliterary characteristics.