Présentation de l'éditeur
The New York Times bestseller from one of the most versatile and bold writers of our time—“an astonishing, tightly structured and lyrically told” (People) novel inspired by Princess Diana.
When Princess Diana died in Paris’s Alma tunnel, she was thirty-seven years old. Had she lived, she would have turned fifty on July 1, 2011. Who would the beloved icon be if she were alive today? What would she be doing? And where? One of the most versatile and bold writers of our time, Monica Ali has imagined a different fate for Diana in her spectacular new novel, Untold Story.
Diana’s life and marriage were both fairy tale and nightmare rolled into one. Adored by millions, she suffered rejection, heartbreak, and betrayal. Surrounded by glamour and glitz and the constant attention of the press, she fought to carve a meaningful role for herself in helping the needy and dispossessed. The contradictions and pressures of her situation fueled her increasingly reckless behavior, but her stature and her connection with her public never ceased to grow. If Diana had lived, would she ever have found peace and happiness, or would the curse of fame always have been too great?
Fast-forward a decade after the (averted) Paris tragedy, and an Englishwoman named Lydia is living in a small, nondescript town somewhere in the American Midwest. She has a circle of friends: one owns a dress shop, one is a Realtor, another is a frenzied stay-at-home mom. Lydia volunteers at an animal shelter and swims a lot. Her lover, who adores her, feels she won’t let him know her. Who is she?
Untold Story is about the cost of celebrity, the meaning of identity, and the possibility—or impossibility—of reinventing a life. Ali’s fictional princess is beautiful, intrepid, and resourceful and has established a fragile peace. And then the past threatens to destroy her new life. Ali has created a riveting novel inspired by the cultural icon she calls “a gorgeous bundle of trouble.”
Extrait
Untold Story
Chapter One
Some stories are never meant to be told. Some can only be told as fairy tales.
Once upon a time three girlfriends threw a little party for a fourth who had yet to arrive by the time the first bottle of Pinot Grigio had been downed. Walk with me now across the backyard of the neat suburban house, in this street of widely spaced heartlands, past the kid’s bike and baseball bat staged just so on the satin green lawn, up to the sweet glow of the kitchen window, and take a look inside. Three women, one dark, one blonde, the third a redhead—all in their prime, those tenuous years when middle age is held carefully at bay. There they are, sitting at the table, innocent of their unreality, oblivious to the story, naively breathing in and out.
“Where is Lydia?” says Amber, the blonde. She is a neat little package. Delicate features, Peter Pan collar dress, French tip manicure. “Where the heck can she be?”
“We holding off on the sandwiches, right?” says Suzie, the dark-haired friend. She didn’t have time to get changed before she came out. There is a splash of Bolognese sauce on her T-shirt. She made it in a hurry and left it for the kids and babysitter to eat. “These reduced-calorie Ruffles? Forget it, not going there.” She pushes the bowl of chips away.
“Should I call her again?” says Amber. “I left three messages already.” She closed up her clothing store an hour early to be sure to get everything ready on time.
The redhead, Tevis, takes a small phallus-shaped crystal out of her pocket and sets it on the table. She says, “I had a premonition this morning.”
“You see a doctor about that?” Suzie, in her favorite khaki pants and stained T-shirt, sits like a man, right ankle on left knee. She gives Amber a wink.
“You guys can mock all you want,” says Tevis. She has come straight from work. In her pantsuit, with her hair in a tight bun, pursing her lips, she looks close to prim—the opposite of how she would want to be seen.
“We’re not mocking,
