Judith Sullivan is a writer in London, originally from Baltimore. She is working on a crime series set in Paris. Fluent in French, she’s pretty good with English and has conversational Italian and German and 20+ years in Leeds improved her Yorkshire speak.
The cover of this paperback screams summer read, what with the shot of woman’s face in the foreground and shimmering swimming pool in the background. The blood spatters on the woman’s sunglasses, however, suggest this is not your basic chicklit. Indeed, as the title suggests, much nastiness is contained within the pages of Party. And very fun nastiness it is, too.
We first meet Amelia Spencer in London, living with her meh boyfriend Ford Fowley. She is shacked up with this nondescript City trader not out of love but out of that other great motivator – a desire for revenge.
Amelia explains to us that her beloved sister Rose the previous summer attended a Gatsby-esque party in Norway thrown by a cousin of Ford’s and never returned. Finding no joy from the local coppers, Amelia has devised a complex plot to track down the errant Rose.
Thing is invites to the annual Fowley bash in Norway are harder to come by than backstage Oasis concert passes. So Amelia has lured in the hapless Ford to ensure the couple are invited to this year’s bacchanal. Amelia is convinced that Ford’s cousin Lawrence, a captain of industry a la younger Elon Musk (minus a few dozen kids), somehow spirited away Rose, with whom he’d been friends at Cambridge.
Having seduced and ensnared Ford, Amelia prepares to attend the fabulous gig in Norway. She packs makeup and suntan lotion and lots of hi-tech spying gear. Once in the fjord-dotted mega-estate, she learns that people tend to die suddenly in this northern paradise. Not only has Rose vanished, but a housekeeper and several guests mysteriously perish or disappear.
This is where Party really gets going. We see Amelia rushing around as Kardashian types glug drinks and powder their noses with abandon. She uses her fancy tech to bypass unbreachable security. She confronts the mysterious and slightly dishevelled Lawrence and other members of his bitchy family. She lies to the not-too-bright Ford and charms information out of some of the glamorous guests and bedraggled staff. It’s a cat and mouse game where everyone is in Chanel and Versace and most are wasted out of their skulls.
Cunnigham keeps you guessing until the final showdown (though I did see some Ahas coming). Never having attended a bash this selective, I have to take her word for how these things play out.
The author does have an agenda and she lays it out from the get-go. Having worked in kazillion-star hotels and residences, she’s got a lead on how awful the awfully rich can be. Not that she is taking revenge on anyone, she’s just writing what she knows. And some of the Fowley’s are sad rich kids and Amelia feels their pain or does a good job of pretending she does.
There is a a social message here but that matters less than the wild romp through the picturesque beaches and forests of remote Norway. Amelia is a tough nut and she carries out her revenge quest with skill and intelligence. I recommend this book as a beach read – just watch for blood spatter on the sunglasses.
