After three abruptly ended marriages - hippie husband Tim, stoned one minute and dead the next, fell off a balcony; architectural historian Cecil fell into Venice's Grand Canal (he couldn't swim); tax inspector Hugh fell off a cliff at Land's End - Aurora is ready to lose her dreary black trouser-suit and kick over a few distressing traces. Myths, though, have a way of being subverted by reality for Aurora. It's her new eau de nil frock that she sheds, however, when she finds herself in the hotel room of the disconcertingly magnetic Father Michael. He's wearing yellow paisley socks. He also rides a Harley Davidson, and he may not be a priest at all. Nor may the charming, exquisitely tailored museum director, Frederico Pagan, be quite so thoroughly heterosexually disinclined as Aurora thinks. One thing is certain, Aurora's old friend and erstwhile radical feminist Leonora is now the local convent's abbess, even if Aurora can't imagine what an abbess might want with a gun. What she can image, vividly, by the end of this tale, is exactly what to do with it.
Michele Roberts—Reader, I Married Him