THE LIBRARY - BOOK REVIEWS - CAN'T BUY ME LOVE - DONNE TEMPO
My Best Friend's Girl
Reviewed by Cecie O’Byron-England
The plot is the tale of the broken hearted Kamryn and how she learns to love again through the adoption of her dead best friend’s daughter. It is almost pulpy, in that the story includes cheating fiancés, childhood abuse, physical abuse, foster homes and cancer.
However, Koomson uses the fast moving plot to advance the personal growth of her main character in an understandable way.
Kamryn must reach outside of her comfort zone, an insular, workaholic life, in order to help her dying best friend. She must also find it in herself to become a mother worthy of trust.
For those that struggle with betrayal or basic trust issues she can be an easy to relate to heroine, for those readers who assume everyone will rise to the occasion she is slow in her personal development.
This only fills out a well-written novel. I enjoyed the read. The book kept me interested and I finished it wanting to know more. That, in and of itself, makes it worthwhile.
Read an excerpt My Best Friend’s Girl
Prologue
To be honest, I'd been tired for so long I don't remember, not accurately, when I realised something serious was wrong with me. I put up with it, though. Told myself I needed more rest and that it'd pass. But it didn't.
No matter how much I slept I was always tired. Proper, bone tired. It wasn't until Tegan asked me to go to the doctor that I realised. My four year old actually voiced what I couldn't - wouldn't - face, the simple fact that I wasn't myself any more. She'd gotten tired of me being too exhausted to play with her. Of me having nosebleeds. Of me being breathless after even the smallest amount of exertion. 'Mummy, if you go to the doctor she can make you better?' she said one day out of the blue. Just said it and I did it.
I sat in the doctor's, told her what was wrong and she did a blood test. Then called me in for more tests. More tests with names and words I'd heard on the medical shows on telly, then words that never had a happy ending on TV were being bandied around. But they couldn't truly have anything to do with me. Not really. They were eliminating possibilities.
Then, I got the call. The call saying I had to go see my doctor straight away. Even then... And even when she told me… when she said she was sorry and then started talking about treatments and prognosis, I didn't believe it. No, that's not right. I did believe it. I just didn't understand. Not why. Not how. Not me.
It took a good few days for what I'd been told to sink in. Maybe even a week. Every second counted, they said, but I still couldn't comprehend. I didn't look that ill. A little paler, a little slower, but not really and truly ill. I kept thinking they were wrong. You hear about it all the time, the wrong diagnosis, people defying the doctor's theories, people finding out they had glandular fever instead of…
About a week later, on my way to work I got to the train station early, mega early, as usual. You see, I'd built lots of compensators - things that made normal activities easier - into my life to accommodate the disease invading my body: I left for the station early so I wouldn't ever have to run for the train; I brought food to work so I wouldn't have to walk to the sandwich shop at lunchtime; I cut the childminder's hours so I wouldn't be tempted to go for a drink after work.
Anyway, on this particular day I sat at the station and a woman came and stood beside me. She got her mobile out of her bag and made a call. When the person on the other end picked up she said, 'Hello, it's Felicity Halliday's mother here. I'm calling because she's not very well and she won't be coming to school today.' I fell apart. Just broke down in tears. It hit me then, right then, that I might never get the chance to make a call like that. I might not get to do a simple mum thing like call my daughter's school. There were a million things I might never get to do again and that was one of them.
Everyone was terribly British about it all and ignored me as I cried and sobbed and wailed. Yes, wailed. I made a hideous noise as I broke into a million, trillion pieces.
Then this man, this angel, came to me, sat down, put his arm around me and held me while I cried. The train came, the train left. As did the next one and the next one. But this man stayed with me. Stayed with me as I cried and cried. I totally soaked and snotted up the shoulder of his nice suit jacket but he didn't seem to mind, he waited and held me until I stopped wailing. Then he gently asked me what was wrong.
Through my sobs, all I could say was, 'I've got to tell my little girl I'm going to die.'
Copyrighted Material/My Best Friend's Girl by Dorothy Koomson © 2005
To be honest, I'd been tired for so long I don't remember, not accurately, when I realised something serious was wrong with me. I put up with it, though. Told myself I needed more rest and that it'd pass. But it didn't.
No matter how much I slept I was always tired. Proper, bone tired. It wasn't until Tegan asked me to go to the doctor that I realised. My four year old actually voiced what I couldn't - wouldn't - face, the simple fact that I wasn't myself any more. She'd gotten tired of me being too exhausted to play with her. Of me having nosebleeds. Of me being breathless after even the smallest amount of exertion. 'Mummy, if you go to the doctor she can make you better?' she said one day out of the blue. Just said it and I did it.
I sat in the doctor's, told her what was wrong and she did a blood test. Then called me in for more tests. More tests with names and words I'd heard on the medical shows on telly, then words that never had a happy ending on TV were being bandied around. But they couldn't truly have anything to do with me. Not really. They were eliminating possibilities.
Then, I got the call. The call saying I had to go see my doctor straight away. Even then... And even when she told me… when she said she was sorry and then started talking about treatments and prognosis, I didn't believe it. No, that's not right. I did believe it. I just didn't understand. Not why. Not how. Not me.
It took a good few days for what I'd been told to sink in. Maybe even a week. Every second counted, they said, but I still couldn't comprehend. I didn't look that ill. A little paler, a little slower, but not really and truly ill. I kept thinking they were wrong. You hear about it all the time, the wrong diagnosis, people defying the doctor's theories, people finding out they had glandular fever instead of…
About a week later, on my way to work I got to the train station early, mega early, as usual. You see, I'd built lots of compensators - things that made normal activities easier - into my life to accommodate the disease invading my body: I left for the station early so I wouldn't ever have to run for the train; I brought food to work so I wouldn't have to walk to the sandwich shop at lunchtime; I cut the childminder's hours so I wouldn't be tempted to go for a drink after work.
Anyway, on this particular day I sat at the station and a woman came and stood beside me. She got her mobile out of her bag and made a call. When the person on the other end picked up she said, 'Hello, it's Felicity Halliday's mother here. I'm calling because she's not very well and she won't be coming to school today.' I fell apart. Just broke down in tears. It hit me then, right then, that I might never get the chance to make a call like that. I might not get to do a simple mum thing like call my daughter's school. There were a million things I might never get to do again and that was one of them.
Everyone was terribly British about it all and ignored me as I cried and sobbed and wailed. Yes, wailed. I made a hideous noise as I broke into a million, trillion pieces.
Then this man, this angel, came to me, sat down, put his arm around me and held me while I cried. The train came, the train left. As did the next one and the next one. But this man stayed with me. Stayed with me as I cried and cried. I totally soaked and snotted up the shoulder of his nice suit jacket but he didn't seem to mind, he waited and held me until I stopped wailing. Then he gently asked me what was wrong.
Through my sobs, all I could say was, 'I've got to tell my little girl I'm going to die.'
Copyrighted Material/My Best Friend's Girl by Dorothy Koomson © 2005