My disdain and disbelief in the Harlequin brand is anything but conspicuous so, I'm sure people can only wonder why I pour any more time or TBR slots into the enterprise. The answer is simple in this case: this book was kicking around in my basement, a relic from way back when I used to splurge on cheap reads at thrift stores. Harlequins were (and still are) substantially cheaper than all other used books; and at three for a dollar, I couldn't get any better of a steal. I actually had to buy more books than I needed (or wanted) to get the deal too. It was either three for a dollar or one for 50¢ or 69¢, so I figured I may as well pick up whatever. That's why I ended up with so many that I never even got around to reading.
But then, I actually got to reading some of the books themselves - and realized the low cost was no coincidence. Contrary to the original price tags, their titles had gotten justice amongst the thriftier stacks because one really does get what they pay for. Their lack of cost reflected a lack of quality, almost next to no insight or innovation for readers whom indulged an idyll that involved intimacy as well as imagination. Like many romance publishers, this one notoriously capitalizes upon comic clichés and markets them under some pretext of carnality or libidinous liberation - and I honestly do have to wonder how culpable such crass commercialism is given its sustenance by quirked, clammy clientele.
The tropes tantalize people like the old me, the kid roaming romance aisles because reads gave her a whimsical fix which were entirely believable or partially plausible given my inexperienced grasp of the world. Banking upon uncertain seas and trying to anchor my ambition, my moral compass was less nuanced than simply nautical. Harlequins gave me an outlet to oblige a somewhat optimistic, overrated ideal of what romance and sex entailed.
But then, I grew up. I started reading other books. My library expanded into all sorts of esteems, which included non-fiction. I started to see life unfold for what and whom it was. Gradually, Harlequins (and other "romance reads") became less of a haven or "hot"; and their characters rubbed as prospects that pandered more than they imparted impressions. Which is why it still baffles me how these books have still maintained an empire, mostly on the backs and various other buoyant breadths of generally middle-aged to older women; women whom I would think had more insight, more experience, at least more of a library than I did.
This is why Her Secret Fling stuck with me. Through Jake Stevens, Mayberry acknowledges and briefly answers my question. I found myself relating to him more than the lackluster leading lady, Poppy Birmingham - and I have to wonder if that was anticipated by the author who arduously articulates (both subtly and explicitly, even in Jake's consciousness) he is an unjust cynic more than a force to be reckoned with. He's valid, vindicated, and entitled to his realistic opinions - and this book would've stuck with me quite deeply if the author had embraced that. But alas, who needs that when we've got sexscapades and quickies to supplant for catharsis?
I hate how these women are portrayed as pouty protagonists, dejected and otherwise depressive until they drown in desire as opposed to diving through the personal depth of their issues. I hate how Poppy is hypersensitive, almost histrionic in what strikes me as a vapid victim complex further coddled by her family and peers. I hate how Jake becomes a wasted observer who simply slicks into her sheets as opposed to offering her something substantial, especially because we know he's got industrious and interminable insight given he doesn't shy away from being frank. I didn't just relate to Jake; I was rooting for him. For once, I thought I'd stumbled onto the ever so rare, slowly going extinct Harlequin that made me take a hard look at the individual and interpersonal - and from jump, Jake effects that prospect.
Only for it to be shot to shambles.
Only for Poppy to prove that going along to get along trumps truth or tact.
Only for Poppy to be peddled as some People's Princess as she pours camaraderie into her coffee runs, then knocks boots with Jake when she doles out some drunken dribble about dissatisfaction.
I can't help but think Mayberry's catalog of titles that start with "Her..." likely prove to be just as banal or reductive.
Still, I have to hand it to Mayberry for throwing the barest bone in this story - if only to dryly drop the ball.