The Edge of Pleasure by Philippa Stockley, Saiqa Aftab |, Paperback | Barnes & Noble
The Edge of Pleasure
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The Edge of Pleasure

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by Philippa Stockley, Saiqa Aftab

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Gilver Memmer is running short of time. He is an enormously gifted painter, staggeringly good-looking, and profoundly self-involved, a cross between every woman's dream and every woman's worst nightmare. Great though his creative gifts may be, they cannot save him from dissolution. No longer the London art scene's wunderkind, he is getting by on the fumes of his


Gilver Memmer is running short of time. He is an enormously gifted painter, staggeringly good-looking, and profoundly self-involved, a cross between every woman's dream and every woman's worst nightmare. Great though his creative gifts may be, they cannot save him from dissolution. No longer the London art scene's wunderkind, he is getting by on the fumes of his former luck and sliding inexorably-though with a certain self-destructive elegance-toward oblivion. Into Gilver's life come two women: one who wants to push him into the grave he has been digging for himself and another who just might save him from it.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

"There is much to enjoy in Stockley's sly, tart mix of sex, painting and mischance, confected with a naughty, sophisticated glitter."

"Confident, assured and highly entertaining . . . A vividly sensual novel."-EVENING STANDARD

Publishers Weekly
Stockley presents a stylish portrait of a formerly famous artist as a not-so-young man. Once a "gorgeous, lone, enigmatic male," with a fabulous early career, painter Gilver Memmer, now 42, has slipped into alcoholism, set aside his paintbrush for a decade and retreated into self-imposed exile from his former London social circles. Two women penetrate the realm of his near-seclusion. Alice longs to be part of his future, hoping to help him become the man he once was. But Juliette, who just happens to be Alice's best friend, is a woman from Gilver's past intent on exacting revenge for a transgression of his 15 years earlier. None of the characters is likable, but the glittering narrative exerts a strong pull. Gilver's habit of rough, narcissistic sex complicates a later "did he or didn't he" rape scenario in which Stockley wisely steers clear of the reformed-bad-boy clich . Stockley's novel (after A Factory of Cunning) revels in London's glamorous art world, but also teeters uncomfortably close to the edge of something much darker. (Mar.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Handsome British bad boy Gilver Memmer was a painter of abstracts, a young, overnight sensation feted by the art world and courted by the glitterati. At 42, he wakes up with his usual hangover and yet another unfamiliar woman in his bed, but suddenly realizes how far he has fallen. His money is gone, he's a drunken wreck, and he hasn't painted anything in years, having over the course of a decade laid waste to his own prodigious talent. Can this artist be saved? The women and men drawn into Gilver's orbit continue to be captivated by his ravaged but still-compelling face and the power of his personality, despite his seemingly unbroken record of selfishness and despicable behavior. Nice Alice, venomous Juliette, and helpful Hal all play a role in this drama of one man's redemption by Stockley, the deputy editor of the Evening Standard (U.K.). A Sunday Times 2002 Book of the Year; highly recommended for literary fiction collections.-Laurie A. Cavanaugh, Brockton P.L., MA Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Brazenly romantic debut about a London golden-boy artist who hits the skids but redirects his wayward life with the help of a nice girl from the neighborhood At 28, Gilver Memmer had a glittering reputation based as much on his good looks and lavish parties as on the wildly expensive paintings that made him rich. In the subsequent decade, he didn't actually paint much but assumed that the money would last forever. It didn't, and at 39 he can no longer afford his luxurious flat in a London mews. His college roommate Harry, a gay decorator half in love with Gilver and easily manipulated by him, finds the artist a dilapidated studio in Ladbroke Grove. Unused to doing things for himself, Gilver latches onto a pretty young working woman, Alice, who proceeds with astounding alacrity to help him clean his new flat for three days. She's in love with him, too, but Gilver forgets about her and spends the next two years wallowing in self-pity. Alice, meantime, learns about his spectacular past from her scary, backstabbing girlfriend Juliette, a journalist who has harbored a personal grudge against Gilver for 15 years and, just as he's about to stage a comeback, seizes the opportunity to ruin him with a vicious editorial in her scandal sheet, Rogue. British author Stockley provides all the necessary combustible elements for a devilishly entertaining narrative, including nicely salacious details of Gilver's boozy sexual escapades. In time-honored romance fashion, her darkly hubristic hero must be civilized, though American women will probably find Alice too much of a doormat. (Would an English woman really clean a strange man's apartment without asking for anything in return?) Harry, however, is atrue-blue character they can root for, and while Stockley can be catty-generally when denigrating female characters like Juliette who are ambitious and sexually driven-she is seldom glib and never dull. Repellent characters redeemed by saucy, vivid writing.

Product Details

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publication date:
Edition description:
First Edition
Product dimensions:
5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x (d)

Read an Excerpt

Gilver had been precociously talented. When he was a very young child, everyone admired his skill, his ability to draw straight lines without a ruler. A painting he did (in powder paint) of a red horse when he was four aroused considerable admiration. At ten, a drawing of a cast of the Venus de Milo, the spoils from a school coach trip to a London museum, led to the opportunity to lift up Kate Seddon’s pleated skirt and have a good feel.

This early connection between possession of artistic skill and the granting of sexual favours was not lost on him. With a thick mop of golden hair and a physique that soon added muscles to gangling height, his manhood was swift.

By the time he went to the Ruskin, where he spent a great deal of time drinking and f***ing interspersed with briefer periods painting and drawing, he easily consolidated the reputation of genius. The mantle was waiting. In the absence of other takers, Gilver slipped it on as if it had been put ready.

At Oxford he took up rowing to build the muscles in his legs and arms, creating a leonine body and staying power to get through exams easily without limiting his social life.

When, later, he arrived in London, after a few months’ travelling on his own version of the Grand Tour, he was smugly ensconced in his talent. Everyone thought him talented and it was true, after all. He knew everybody who mattered, as far as he could tell, and everyone wanted to introduce him to everyone else.

Gilver shared a flat with his friends Harry and Max in Cornwall Gardens. They had been at Oxford together, having made friends at the Wine and Cheese Society, an excellent place to get outrageously drunk and debate cricket and girls. Gilver was the most handsome, standing a few inches over Max’s clean, rich looks and a clear head over Harry, who didn’t seem to mind being laughingly excused as an intellectual misfit. When there were girls around they headed straight for Gilver, who over the years benignly passed a couple on to Max. He got away with it every time. Easiness; the impression that his skin fitted so well it had been tailor-made, along with a grinning generosity and devil-may-care attitude were alluring to young women and forgivable to young men. When Max called him a lucky bastard, which he frequently did, Gilver only grinned wider, showing good teeth with a slight space at the front. He called it his Solzhenitsyn smile, although he was not absolutely sure how to spell it. No one knew how true Max’s words were but they all – particularly Gilver – seemed delighted. It was logical to move in together when they headed for London. They were used to each other and there were no arguments – in Waitrose, at least.

Gilver had the best room, which was big enough to paint in. Even though the flat was at the top of the stuccoed building it didn’t stop him painting large canvases that had to be manhandled down the stairs with difficulty. His first one-man show took place when he was only a year out of Oxford and it was a tremendous success. There was a piece in Harpers and photos in Tatler. A girl he had a fling with wrote him up as a bright young thing. The Evening Standard called him a young Turk. The show sold out. He was invited everywhere.

He had always valued his paintings very high on the inverted principle that no one believed you could be any good unless the price said so. In consequence, by the time he was twenty-five he was extremely wealthy with a wardrobe to demonstrate it, and moved out of Cornwall Gardens to a place of his own.

Gilver rather favoured Savile Row tailoring with a supervised twist: he had thirty suits, all skilfully hand-piqued, set off by the occasional gleam of nacre or gold in the lining, an eccentric number of buttons on the sleeve or a viciously narrow cuff to the trouser. His touches were usually but not always subtle. For the boudoir, as well as gentlemanly cashmeres in soft browns and restrained Paisleys, there was a particularly handsome dressing-gown of Thai silk brocade in imperial purple and crimson, cut from an ancient Ottoman pattern book he found in the Victoria and Albert library.

Then there were fifteen pairs of handmade shoes on custom-built trees, several pairs of kid boots, two of patent pumps, two of embroidered Kurdish slippers. Four hand-stitched ­cashmere evening suits each with a different rever and tone suited various kinds of parties; there were more than fifty day shirts in every weight, weave and colour, and eight evening ones, all identical. He had myriad ties in the most magnificent silks, some of them specially made for him in a pleasing jacquard called the Memmer Ripple by a small Lyon company, woven in minute thread-dyed batches. Link and stud boxes had their own compartments in his wardrobe as did a ­peculiar long sharkskin box containing ten pairs of evening gloves he never wore, as well as yellow suede, pigskin, and a spectacular black pair with sealskin turnbacks that always looked ­dashing. Covert coats; sweeping black, charcoal and loden overcoats; breeches; Tattersall shirts, and a curious range of waistcoats (because he did not approve of them) by no means completed the town wardrobe.

Three French armoires housed this booty in a rented mews house between South Kensington and Knightsbridge. He took over the lease of the garage beneath for a considerable amount of money and turned it into a studio, connected internally by a spiral stair. Its double doors were handy for the massive works he produced.

In his twenty-eighth year a New York gallery offered him the biggest exhibition so far, a one-man show on the scale of a retrospective. Gilver rose to the challenge, unruffled by his youth, marshalling twenty canvases of enormous proportion. These were rolled and flown to New York where new ­stretchers were being made to his specifications.

The SoHo exhibition marked a turning point. Success was guaranteed. The paintings, moody and authoritative sweeps of the most expensive pigments, were deemed superb. His vigour in painting was relentless. Unfortunately Shira, the young assistant who primed the canvases in between rushing up and down the spiral staircase for frenzied sex, misheard his recipe instructions. As the paintings were restretched in New York they cracked one after the other. Only the feeblest survived unscathed. The rest reticulated like the backs of leaves. One or two inexpli­cably oozed.

The exhibition was cancelled but not before the American critics got hold of it, gleefully ripping the golden boy of British painting limb from limb. He was excoriated as a lazy ­charlatan, an example of the failure of Old World art. For no apparent reason the New Yorker was especially virulent. Despite the fact that his American backer demanded the repayment of huge sums of money, and a contract with the Museum of Modern Art to buy one of his works was cancelled, Gilver’s repu­tation at home was undented.

If anything, being spurned by American Philistines for what was probably – he decided – their own fault, only lent an extra burnish to his halo. He was fêted now not only for being handsome and extraordinarily talented but for being misunder­stood. Before, the mere fact of his brilliance meant he could have anyone he wanted, anywhere and at any time (although he understood, albeit dimly, that there might be one or two exceptions); now, the apparent setback made women hurl themselves at him to cosset and nurture his wounded pride.

Gilver had a magnificent time. He threw parties attended by twenty or so of the loveliest models, actresses and tele­vision presenters intermixed with young male writers and musicians conspicuously less good-looking than him – so many girls, he couldn’t remember their names. He painted the front of the house a colour that would make a useful backdrop tone for newspaper photographs and adjusted the porch lighting to minimise glare.

A year went by in which he did not paint a single thing. The New York disaster shook him, although he never mentioned this to anybody. Whether he painted or not, it made no difference. He was invited to the same glamorous and influential dinner parties and dances. His name was on the list of gallery openings, magazine launches, literary events, fashion shows. He was invited to country-house weekends and summers and winters abroad.

If anything, having more time on his hands made him even more of a success: he was insatiably sociable. He understood the responsibilities of polite behaviour, diligently dispatching charming thank-you notes and courteous acceptances on a pleasingly small and masculine paper from Smythsons. The handsome face and body set off by rigorously updated clothes made him that rare thing: a gorgeous, lone, enigmatic male.

Gilver further enhanced his standing over the next decade with a string of judiciously chosen liaisons. Before he was thirty the knowledge that he could have any woman he pleased made him enthusiastically – if circumspectly – promiscuous, but he had grown wiser. Choice made him discriminating. Moreover, as his peers began to settle down, he confined his attentions to unmarried women, thus gaining the liking and respect – only pleasantly tinged with envy – of influential husbands. ‘Memmer’s a good man’ and ‘Memmer’s sound’, exclusively masculine phrases, served as his passport to clubs and committees, judging panels and men-only drinking jaunts where important decisions got made, some reaching as far as Westminster.

GIN: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 24.0pt" He spent a delirious two years with a recently widowed Austrian countess, three with the scion of a publishing house, six months with a very boring but world-famous model who went by a one-syllable name, two years with the heiress to a vast fortune in olive oil and one with an unwilling art student, whom he introduced to techniques that availed her nothing outside his bedroom.

During all this time he painted little of any significance but was always ready, if asked, to toss off a sketch on a napkin, an envelope or a piece of paper that happened to be lying around. On the Croisette, at a shooting party in Argyll, ­fish­ing on the Laerdal, at a modernist house-party in Lewes, curled up by a fire in Gstaad or even at the Crush Bar, he was always delighted to oblige. His handsome demeanour, the strong brown hand carelessly, faultlessly using whatever pencil or pen was given him to its best advantage, his total absorption ­interrupted by a sudden, penetrating glance . . . Gilver won hearts with no effort at all.

These paltry sketches on their stained, crumpled or lipstick-smudged ground were immediately slapped behind bevelled glass and costly frames and prominently placed in the best drawing rooms and the loveliest bedrooms the length and breadth of the country.

Copyright © Philippa Stockley 2002

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

Meet the Author

Philippa Stockley is a deputy editor at the Evening Standard and also works as an artist and illustrator. She lives in London.

or Sarah Humphreys

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Edge of Pleasure 4.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 3 reviews.
Anonymous 3 days ago
SHIP SHIP SHIP SHIP ALERT!! <p> As you can see by today's comments, I am a tad high.
Anonymous 3 days ago
Eeeeeeeeeehhhh. Roooooomance. Gaaaaaaaaynesss. Pleeeeeeeease.
Kristina_Eastman More than 1 year ago
I bought this book as a bargain and thought I'd give it a try. 4 bucks verses 14 wins. It certainly wasn't a waste of $4, but it is a waste of $14. I found it somewhat difficult to get over the London slang/vocabulary, but I should have known that since it says London (Engalnd)-Fiction right on the page. Other than that, it wasn't a half bad book. Also, I must note that Stockley makes references to works of art, and you don't specifically need to know these works to understand the novel, but it certainly helps in specific areas. Otherwise you can just skip over it and keep to the story. All in all a good read, but it was close to being more a disasterous rather than a pleasureable read.