Every reader has a guilty secret – the author they’re slightly embarrassed to admit they love.
Mine is Georgette Heyer.
She’s generally considered a bit out-of-fashion – at least, among many of my bibliophile friends.
Lots of them admit: ‘Oh, I read her when I was a teenager…’
The implication being: ‘And I wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole now I’m grown-up and know better.’
Which is a shame – it’s comforting sometimes to bury one’s nose in an old favourite. Continue reading