“Master” by Collette Gale
So I read Colette Gale’s latest book. Mimi and Sheridan tried to dissuade me. “Remember when you finished ‘Unmasqued’ Lola? Everytime you heard harp music you squealed and clamped your legs so tightly together an ant couldn’t have crawled through,” warned Mimi. “Plus you couldn’t join us for our weekly “Down a pint of whiskey and make lewd comments at Gerard Butler” night until a month later!” chided Sheridan.

“Don’t read Colette Gale’s latest book!” my dearest friends screeched in unison.

Well good news and bad news kiddies. Colette Gale’s latest book, “Master,” doesn’t push the envelope as much as her take on Phantom of the Opera did. But ironically because of that, it isn’t as much fun to read. There. I said it. La Lola is a kinky deviant Chanel loving weirdo. (I’d advise you to lock handcuffs around me, ‘cept I’d probably enjoy it.)

Anyway, “Master” is a reimagining of “The Count of Monte Cristo,” but with more sex. And yet, not a single prop device in it! No harps, mirrors or weird X-shaped torture instruments! What a shocker!

Presumably, you guys are acquainted with the tale of “The Count of Monte Cristo.” If not, there’s always wikipedia. But here’s the cliff’s notes to it: Edmond Dantes is in love with Mercedes Herrera. But Edmond is framed for being a traitor to the crown, and falsely thrown into prison. It being the 19th century and all, he unfortunately didn’t get his one telephone call. (It also being the 19th century and all, Alex Bell didn’t get cracking on the telephone yet.) So he spends the next 2 decades locked in a prison cell, dreaming of the day he can get revenge on the men responsible for throwing him into prison, and Mercedes whom he blames for not waiting for him. Then he eventually manages to escape by digging his way out with a spoon, or something painfully tedious like that.

La Lola wants to give him a maternal pat on the shoulder and go, “Dude, you should have checked with Mercedes whether she still loved you! Because she totally did! You didn’t even tell her to go and tie a yellow ribbon around the old oak tree or anything!” But Edmond, once he escapes from prison with the help of aforementioned spoon and the dead body of another prisoner, has only vengeance and sex on his mind.

So then we see Edmond, as the new Count of Monte Cristo, penetrating, um, Parisian society, and getting close to Mercedes. And Mercedes is all overcome with happiness and disbelief, but she can’t understand why no one else is able to recognize that Edmond = Count of Monte Cristo. Throw in a whole bunch of scenes where Mercedes’s icky husband tries to have a ménage a trois with Mercedes and the mysterious new count, and you look to the front of the cover and go, “Now I know I’m reading a Colette Gale!”

“Master” didn’t end up pushing all my buttons in a bad way, like “Unmasqued” did. And because of that I had kind of worked myself up into this flurry of emotion, taking in a deep breath to scream, only to release it in a startled fashion, when I realized that there was nothing to scream about!

So I am turning my efforts to thinking of other new salacious plots that can be injected by Colette Gale into familiar classics:

1. Jane Eyre— the brooding lord of the manor and his timid (or is she really?) governess. Rochester tries to go all top-wolf on little Jane, with his dangerous ways and big, hard… hands. But maybe Jane can turn the tables, and teach Mr Rochester that sometimes it’s a lot more fun to be on the receiving end! Something tells me that Mr Rochester might find it interesting to be spanked by this particular governess.

2. Rebecca— the mysterious Maximillien de Winter marries the impoverished narrator, who is only referred to as Mrs de Winter. Another nameless heroine? Shades of S&M play if you ask me. And Max darling might still be hung up over Rebecca, which is all to the good, so long as there’s no weirdo fiddling with the corpse!

3. Pride and Prejudice— maybe after the happily ever after, Mr Darcy and Lizzie, and Mr Bingley and Jane decide to engage in a round of swingers’ games after the assembly ball. Colin Firth in a wet shirt anyone?

Actually looking at all of those ideas in print, I can practically feel the spirits of Charlotte Bronte, Daphne du Maurier and Jane Austen rising up to come after me. I’ll stop right there I think.