On the face of it, The Dressmaker is a girly book. Rags to riches, romance and intrigue, and lots of luscious clothes. And in the pages? Well, yes, it’s just what you expect. Although perhaps a little bit less than you expect.

Set in London and thereabouts in the 1800s, the central character loses both father and mother, runs away and gets married young to a man who turns out to be greedy and shallow (quelle surprise), runs away from him and has a baby young, and in between all that learning to design and sew. And she goes from poor to rich to poor to rich, depending on who she is living with, all the time managing to remain beautiful and elegant.

Sadly, I had read a review of this novel, espousing its fabulous virtues – hence the book ending up in my hands all aflutter with the expectation of a great visionary feast. There were promises of mouthwatering descriptions with wonderful fabrics and divine gowns; a rollicking novel running the whole gamut of unexpected twists and turns of fortune. All of this is true of course, but for my reading of it, it all came across as a bit of a soapie. Twists and turns there may be, but so very unrealistic as to call them about as predictable as Days of Our Lives (albeit a wee bit shorter). Most disappointing of all for me though were the descriptions of the clothes; I had such great expectations. Perhaps I am too particular about such things, but there was not enough detail in many sketches to paint a clear picture, and at times there were also oddly jarring combinations of fabrics and colours my mind refused to comprehend.

Don’t get me wrong, the story is cohesive (even if implausible), and Graeme-Evans has a wonderful grasp on language on occasion – but the contrived plot lets the whole thing down in a tangled mess of lace, silk and calico. I’m sure this book will be loved by some and adored by others. But just not me.

Published by Simon & Schuster, ISBN 978-0-73181-507-4