“She couldn’t help feeling she’d sold her soul to the devil, and she hoped she didn’t live to regret it”

On the AFI’s list of the top one hundred romantic movies made by the United States the twenty-first entry is Pretty Woman, the much-adored fairytale starring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere as prostitute and man who buys prostitute, respectively. Of the one hundred films there are only two which tell of the world’s oldest profession and Breakfast at Tiffany’s is tenuously the other. There are as many hooker-themed films as ghost love stories then, making spirits and prostitutes equally appealing to cinema audiences. Pretty Woman sidesteps social or moral issues by presenting their adorable street-walker as a likeable, naïve waif on her very first day in her new occupation, who agrees to the sleazy corporate raider’s unconventional request because he offers a good deal of money and he’s charming Richard Gere. From there the film descends into heavy-handed visual metaphors, feel-good triumph over adversity and scenes borrowed from My Fair Lady of the Night. From a budget of $14 million the movie grossed over $450 million, made superficiality cool and became a favourite among female audiences despite numerous actors turning down the Vivien role, including Michelle Pfeiffer, Daryl Hannah and Jennifer Jason Leigh, because they found the script degrading to women.

The power of the concept remains alive and lucrative for the authors of Mills & Boon, as we again have had to read with The Millionaire’s Indecent Proposal. While Hollywood argues that hookers-with-hearts-of-gold can be reasoned into non-hookers-with-hearts-of-gold with enough money, Harlequin and her sister publishers make a bolder claim. With enough money women can not only be prostituted, but then civilized and brought back into society as submissive wife, which would have been a character arc too far for even Audrey Hepburn. Stacy Reeves begins chapter four by accepting her payment, albeit with a few conditions that don’t seem important, and ends the chapter accepting her first orgasm courtesy of Franco’s masculinity. Life is good for Stacy and until we read on so it shall remain. Meanwhile, here at Bewildered Heart there is the bountiful topic of Solicititilation to discuss, and why the subgenre can be allowed to exist when it appears to be offensive to women, prostitutes and Mediterranean tycoons.

Mating interests strategised over years of evolution have brought us to the point in time where wealth is a desirable quality in a partner, and this dates back to the beginning of humankind, to the caveman with the largest rock, through the prosperous heroes found in respected romantic fiction, by Jane Austen and all those Bronte’s, to the disrespected annals of Harlequin Presents a poorly-written retreads of the classics. Women want to have babies, and in order to avoid self-imposed moral stigma of having many babies with many different fathers they seek one father, wed in holy matrimony where anything goes, to beget the many babies which will bring them a life purpose and contentment. A mother’s love is never enough, however, and therefore in order for these babies to be provided for and raised healthy, the potential father must have a fortune and an athletic body of rippling muscles and few venereal diseases. Solicititilation plays directly into these basic feminine desires, as the man in question must have much money to squander and be impossibly handsome. The narrative devices to bring him from man willing to buy women to a man who doesn’t proposition women with cash motivations is plenty to base an arc on.

Romantic heroes unfailingly begin their novels conceited and arrogant, an attitude all affluent, gorgeous men are born with and retain until a delicate female is able to unburden them of their personal traits, thus rendering them marriage material. Within the context of the genre the structure works remarkably thoroughly. All Mills & Boon men are created in their author's idealised vision of a desirable male, and usually separated by non-heroic men by thickness of hair. Once you have your perfect man, however, described in magnificent detail, their only faults can come from within. Invariably they shall be wealthy, glamorous, worldly, respected, powerful and intelligent, but with these material and emotional virtues comes an off-putting self-satisfaction, as if they believe that through their irresistible beauty, charm and infinite funds they are able to claim whatever they please.

For juxtaposition, the virginal poor yin to the divorced rich yang, our writer wisely chooses a heroine who has paid the obvious price for not being a man, and that price is financial. Only within this set-up is there potential for us, the gentle reader, to credibly accept Stacy agreeing to sell her body for €1,000,000 to Franco Constantine, devious chocolatier. There are few secrets to the appeal of the archetypal romantic plot, where an innocent gamine in a mysterious land meets an enigmatic, guarded land-owner, and although initially distrustful of his arrogant nature, discovers his sensitive side and brings out the best in him with selfless loving. However, why this has regressed to Solicititilation is somewhat bewildering, as if the progression of the characters involve exacerbating their faults by pushing money to the forefront of the tension.

Why do romance fiction authors feel compelled to tell such tales, as there is no narrative-incentive to creating a dilemma for a heroine and then spending the majority of the novel defending the characters and explaining how none of this is how it seems? Yes, Stacy Reeves has sold her body for money to a man she is afraid of because of deep-rooted, unresolved issues with her father, but she needs the money for noble reasons, will pay tax on it and refuses additional gifts. Also, did you read the description of Franco Constantine? He is utterly delectable and has access to free chocolate. Stacy would have slept with him for free, so hold those degrading accusations for the next heroine who sells her body to a billionaire. Stacy is unlike those sluts, because Stacy is modest and doesn’t want money, only what she will be able to spend it on. Furthermore, Franco is European and cynical because his ex-wife had an abortion without his knowledge and his father is frittering away his money on gold-diggers, so Franco is hardened by experience and just needs to meet a woman from the USA to teach him that it is only non-US citizens who are whores. Now, with that in mind the whole prostitution dilemma sounds suitably agreeable and beneficial to all parties.

Author Emilie Rose may have wished to exhibit the destructive effect Stacy's complicity has on her soul, but instead she weakly trots out guilt-ridden asides through an interior monologue, with Stacy ashamed of Franco's attention and her enjoyment of her newfound sexuality. She considers the money on occasion, but is thankful for the life the financial backing will afford her. We can only assume this rationalisation and watering-down of prostitution stems from the novelist's own neuroses about writing chauvinistic and misanthropic stories and then selling them to women for payment from their arrogant, controlling publisher, with offices in London, Paris and New York and a heady history of success and sexual experience. Authors tremble at the knees in the presence of Mills & Boon and are happy to give up their more dignified aspirations of writing romances in the style of their icons and settling for making an under-whelming living as sell-outs, happy to abandon love in poverty for a lucrative imitation of the real thing.

"Stacy had made him feel more than sexual relief - a luxury he no longer afforded himself"

When Kimberly Sayer-Giles and her assorted experts equated the literary interpretation of attraction to the visual interpretation of physical intimacy, as they did in Romance Novels Can Be as Addictive as Pornography, their claims could be assuredly dismissed as being lurid, misconceived and sexist. However, within a week there followed a second article, this time from the possibly reputable Journal of Family Planning & Reproductive Health Care, and without anyone wanting one, a pattern had emerged. Therefore, when Susan Quilliam picked up her writing utensil and authored The Surprising Impact that Romantic Novels have on our Work newspapers seized upon this most recent and thus unequivocal opinion for their own headlines exclaiming that romance novels are bad for your health, may lead to destitution or a career in pornography, or both, and most bothersome of all, may alter your perception of reality, and no journalist would tolerate that.

Quilliam's argument begins promisingly, 'Some fans read up to 30 titles a month, one book every 2 days.' Now, Susan Quilliam is a sexual health professional, not a mathematician, so perhaps we are best advised to move onto pointing out the differences between what occurs within the pages of a Harlequin Presents and the standard relationship the real world presents us with. 'Mills and Boon majored on stunningly beautiful but passive virgins whose sexual desire was awakened by their perfectly-choreographed seduction at the hands of a highly-skilled alpha male.' While Quilliam suggests this is the structure of early romances, there have only been minor changes to the narrative since. Heroines overwhelmingly remain beautiful, yet passive, and while many today have gainful employment and a firm handling of their own sexual identity their lives continue to be dedicated to the dream of, 'abandoning joyfully to a life of intercourse-driven multiple orgasms and endless trouble-free pregnancies in order to cement their marital devotion.'

Where is the harm in that, Susan Quilliam? Who doesn't love joy, multiple orgasms, trouble-free pregnancy and marital devotion? After all, these dreams are usually embedded in the heroine's emotional development, and even if such a character starts their story refusing to sacrifice their destiny to the ambitions of a man, by the end of the book she is willing to do so because ambition is manly while giving birth and supporting your husband are feminine qualities. Furthermore, a reader projects an ideal onto the ending of a romance novel. Once the author closes her tale of true love with a kiss, marriage proposal, unexpected pregnancy or sex scene there our knowledge of hero and heroine finishes. What becomes of them from then on is implied, but never pronounced. At the very most there is an epilogue telling of six months later, but suggestions of a joyful life and environmentally-foreboding patter of tiny feet are a product of the reader's imagination. When Bewildered Heart closes the final page of their latest conquest we shrug and give the couple two years, tops, then trundle on back to the charity shop from whence we came.

Quilliam has more pressing concerns, 'In one recent survey, only 11.5% of romantic novels studied mentioned condom use, and within these scenarios the heroine typically rejected the idea because she wanted ‘no barrier’ between her and the hero.' From our insatiable appetite of these books only a small smattering contain no prophylactics. In one, Bedded at the Billionaire's Convenience, the unsheathed act of passion results in pregnancy, and in another, A Few Good Men, every instance spreads a debilitating sexually-transmitted disease. 'There was a clear correlation between the frequency of romance reading and the level of negative attitude towards condoms and the intention to use them in the future.' The last thing anyone wants is romance readers procreating, but who carried this recent survey out and how many billionaires have syphilis are questions that need answering first. Mills & Boon novels always make sure to mention condoms, even when the conversation kills the mood and pacing of the scene, because their authors understand social responsibility is more important than eroticism, or story-telling.

Still, there is a strong claim to the glamorising of unprotected sex, the idealising of relationships and the offering of a distorted vision of the world to vulnerable women. Is Harlequin entirely evil? Should Bewildered Heart return to the loving bosom of Point Horror before it's too late? '(Feminist academics) now celebrate romantic fiction as a statement of women's right to have sex, honour it as female-focused erotica, re-categorise it as a collection of ‘feminist fairy tales’ that allow women to feel good about their desires and develop their erotic power.' Those saucy feminists. '75.5% of regular readers in a 2009 survey said that romantic fiction had encouraged them to have more sex, more adventurous sex and more experimental sex. And these women also reported that they did not negatively compare their own real-life partners with their fictional heroes unless the partnership was already rocky.' Everybody appears to be at it, and there were we thinking it was only the characters of our Desire 2-in-1's. 'Studies have shown a correlation between high levels of romance usage and happy monogamous relationships.'

Yay, Mills & Boon! Empowering women in the least likely way since 1931. It seems readers use the books to reinvigorate their desires for love and sex and have a healthy understanding of the differences between fact and fiction, as well as feminist empowerment and Mills & Boon. If only Susan Quilliam had been able to stop there and refuse the temptation to conclude her article with spurious accusations that these statistics aren't as valid as one relationship psychologist's unfounded misgivings. 'If a woman learns from her novels that romantic feeling is the most important thing, then what follows from that might be to suspend her rationality in favour of romanticism,' Quilliam argues, pooping the party. 'It might mean panicking totally if sexual desire takes a nose dive after pregnancy or because of strain – after all, such failure never happens to a heroine. It might mean – in the wake of such panic – judging that if romance has died then so has love.' As the publishing house has consistently proved romance is infinitely superior to love, proven by the fact that few of their stories have sequels involving the loss of passion, disagreements over how to raise the children and extra-marital affairs driven by the heroine's love of romance fiction and the hero's increasing obsession with internet pornography.

The Journal of Family Planning & Reproductive Health Care is better served dispelling the rumours of the genre's association with negative attitudes toward contraception, men and reality. For every survey there appears to be another to refute the findings of the first, and then we can expect someone to enter the discussion by pointing out how everyone is over-reacting, and the voice of reason on this occasion is Quilliam herself, 'When it comes to romantic fiction, the clue's in the name; it is fiction not fact.' So what have Kimberly Sayer-Giles and Susan Quilliam been able to teach us? 'Sometimes the kindest and wisest thing we can do for our clients is to encourage them to put down the books – and pick up reality.' Both writers end their rallying calls with this nugget of wisdom. If something is addictive and destructive then stop doing it. Problem solved. This is quality, comprehensive advice that transcends the small matter of women who read too many Mills & Boon novels.

Perhaps the overall conclusion is that there is no all-encompassing issue and therefore there is no universal solution. We wish to believe that everyone is unique, despite repeated evidence to the contrary, thus grouping the billion-odd romance fans into a single homogeneous pot of irrationality is myopic psychology. Many fans of the genre want their daily dose of, 'escapism, perfectionism and idealisation,' to remove them from the drudgery of living in an imperfect world, but others enjoy the predictability and happy messages of love conquering such obstacles as prostitution and emotional-retardation, while more just want something undemanding to read before bed. That they are reading anything is an achievement of the publisher in itself. As we have already demonstrated to the Church of Latter-Day Saints what we must fight for is an increase in quality, because befuddled attitudes to life are a product of weak, implausible characterisation, dull archetypes and unimaginative plotting. Whimsical fairy-tales can be well-written with strong, independent heroines. Snow White, for example, was not some flighty girl with a sordid paraphilia, awaiting a handsome man to rescue her from her life of domesticity for a life of domesticity, intercourse-driven multiple orgasms and endless trouble-free pregnancies in order to cement her marital devotion. Cinderella, to boot.

"Her traitorous nipples tightened at the memory of those dark, wiry curls teasing her breasts"

As any Bewildered Heart knows finding material to write about on your world wide weblog is half the battle of writing a weblog, and so a topical news item is indeed a rare blessing, even when said news item is silly and hardly requires commenting on. This month followers of Mills & Boon had two such stories to roll their eyes at, and the journalistic presses hurtled into overdrive, so desperate for incidents as we have been recently. Firstly, and if we are unnecessarily analytical also lastly until tomorrow, an article appeared on ksl.com, a website for members of the Church of Latter-Day Saints, entitled Romance Novels Can be as Addictive as Pornography, written by Kimberly Sayer-Giles. Two immediate thoughts strike at this headline. Mormons are against pornography and romance novels aren't pornography?

Don't fret though, cagey reader, Sayer-Giles has the evidence to back up her claims, so long as we agree beforehand to misuse the word evidence. 'Romance novels are a booming business. Analysts believe book sales are increasing because romance novels provide a perfect escape during tough times. Revenue topped $1.36 billion last year, while religious, self-help and inspirational books combined sold only $770 million. Romance novels accounted for 55 percent of all the popular mass-market fiction sold.' In your face, religion and inspiration. How to respond to such overwhelming success? Biblical erotic fan-fiction? That probably does already lurk in the bowels of the internet, but we should continue to feign ignorance in case the issue ever comes up in casual conversation. However, to lead us seamlessly back to the matter at hand, romantic fiction is very popular and rather lucrative, a statistical fact that might have led someone to write about romantic fiction online, under the delusional belief their criticism and essays would bring them acclaim and any readers.

According to a best-selling author named Shaunti Feldhahn, 'Some marriage therapists caution that women can become as dangerously unbalanced by these books’ entrancing but distorted messages as men can be by the distorted messages of pornography.' This dangerously unbalanced opinion has as many holes as the plot to a romance book, or indeed, the other thing. When Feldhahn's statement is taken out of context, by either Sayer-Giles or us, there are infuriating questions left unanswered, such as what are the messages of pornography, how many is some and who are these marriage therapists? Furthermore, the distorted messages of Mills & Boon are a necessity of the genre. The lack of realism, the glamorous veneer and the contrived scenarios that culminate in earth-shattering sex are fundamental appeals. They are, as Harlequin might retort via press statement, escapist fantasy, and you cannot have escapist fantasy without escapism and fantasy. That's solid psychological deduction right there, Shaunti Feldhahn.

Speaking of professional psychologists, Dr. Juli Slattery, author of Finding a Hero in Your Husband: Surrendering the Way God Intended, suggests that there are direct parallels between men's obsessive desire to consume visual porn and women's obsessive desire to consume emotional porn, and as with any addiction, an addiction to romance books is potentially troublesome. 'For many women, these novels really do promote dissatisfaction with their real relationships,' writes Slattery. The cure? Self-help books, such as Finding a Hero in Your Husband, an obsession with a deity, such as Jesus Christ, and the distorted messages of Joseph Smith. We are getting ahead of ourselves, however. First we must admit we have a problem, only then can we hope it goes away on its own.

'Women may find their standard for intimacy begins to change over time because may not be able to get as satisfied with their partners as they can reading a book.' Ignoring the problematic grammar within that sentence, Sayers-Giles possibly makes a logical argument, but this has no association to the contents of those books. Presumably as each day draws to a close there are women who prefer reading the anecdotes of a Mills & Boon to hearing about the day of their partner. While this is an enormous insult to the story-telling abilities of husbands everywhere there remains no proof that the genre negatively affects expectations in spouses, international tycoons or local sheikh surgeons. Readers understand their real-life lovers cannot compare to the heroes and heroines swooning within the pages of their favoured literature because they have not lost their minds. Now come on, where is a pornography-addiction counsellor when you need one to say something utterly preposterous and devoid of meaning. 'Pornography addiction counsellor Vickie Burress said reading romance novels or viewing pornography may eventually lead to an affair for some women. "Women involved in pornography have a hard time keeping their family together,” she said.'

Still, if we were to humour Kimberly Sayer-Giles and admit we have a problem with reality, expecting to see gorgeous billionaires around every corner and finding normal people's eyelashes thin and deeply upsetting, what must we do to heal our unhealthy attitudes towards feelings and make good with the beautifully-coiffed facial hair of the Lord? Perhaps there is a neat summation of these steps that we can copy onto a post-it-note and stick on our bathroom mirror, stitch onto a throw-pillow or print onto a bookmark:

'Break the Addiction

Commit to stop reading romance books

Commit to working on your relationship, if you're in one

Find a different hobby, or find a new genre of books to enjoy

Invest in your real life, not fictional characters'

Thanks, Church of Latter-Day Saints. All this time we've been trying to break our addiction by reading romance books, sabotaging our relationships, not having other hobbies and investing all our money in the fictional corporations of Mills & Boon novels. Admittedly, it is difficult taking advice from the Church of Latter-Day Saints on the subject of delusional and harmful devotions to fiction, but Sayers-Giles' overall point has its merits and the potential threat Mills & Boon poses should not be discounted with cheap jokes about religion. Those who take romantic literature seriously, as either fans or critics, are a perturbed bunch and need our support and occasional displays of concern. It is possible, gentle reader, that you are only visiting Bewildered Heart because your wife has a detrimental passion towards romance fiction or pornography, and so, if this is the case, allow us to redirect you to the helpful steps above. Have you tried replacing the offending material with exercise, psychiatry or a different medium of entertainment, such as Hollywood romcoms starring Kate Hudson? No one becomes addicted to films starring Kate Hudson.

Torstar and its many illegitimate publishers will distance themselves from the damaging effects of their product because they are merely seizing on love's enduring popularity and sating a love-hungry market. Pornography, as the visual manifestation of physical connection, does similarly. Only an individual without a sound grip on their sanity will be misled by the genre's preoccupation with unrealistic portrayals of everything, and this contention simply continues from the hysteria over violence in movies and computer games. Love is the shameful habit, not the artistic renditions of an intangible emotion. The Sayer-Giles article, and the general antipathy aimed at romance fiction, and even pornography, finds its fury from a blinkered understanding of human biology and a sheltered, puritanical attitude toward sexuality. The enemy here is not an easy target as there is no enemy to agonize over. A broader comprehension of the overall theme is vital to dealing with this problem that may or may not exist.

Everyone wants to read books, watch films and television shows and listen to music about this euphoric, yet fleeting, experience. We have evolved to placing love next to money as a cornerstone of personal contentment. However, the only setback with romance novels is their quality, not their legacy. If you wish to hold humanity to account for writing, publishing and buying this codswallop, descending our planet into tough times so we need it to serve as a distraction, and then finding fault with those who have idealised notions of romance and a better life then Bewildered Heart is right behind you, but please, shall we set the world to rights another day? We can easily drag this predicament across four or five weblog updates easily, saving us from having to read another book.

"He offered his elbow. Stacy couldn't think of a courteous way to decline"

Much to Bewildered Heart's pleasure Mills & Boon begin their novels with a letter from the author alongside a biography always involving marriage to childhood sweethearts, indulgent numbers of children and a flatteringly unrealistic representation of the happiness and financial well-being writing for Mills & Boon brings. In Emilie Rose's correspondence to her fans she confesses that her latest hero is her most sensual yet. 'What could possibly be more delicious than a sexy, French chocolatier?' she asks, tantalisingly. A man made of chocolate wearing a chocolate tuxedo carrying a bouquet of roses that under closer inspection turn out to be made of chocolate? Oh, Emilie Rose's Dear Reader, you know us so well. The only thing we love more than that is an arrogant millionaire with more money than decency who treats women as hookers as way of seduction. Throw candy and an exotic location into the mix and we have ourselves a hit.

The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal begins, suitably, with a prologue that sets forth a chain of events concerning such expected themes as extravagant wealth and bitter misogyny that can only end with extravagant wealth and the shiny side of misogyny. Franco Constantine is a successful international tycoon and chief executive of Midas Chocolates, a very well known company within the world of the novel where highly lucrative independently-owned chocolate companies exist, and prosper. However, all is not splendiferous in the halls of the many Constantine mansions. Franco's father, Armand, wishes to marry Angeline, a gold-digging harpy forty-five years his junior, and the inevitable divorce that always follows such a marriage will cost the chocolate dynasty so many euros. 'Do you think chocolate will always be this popular, Papa? Who knows when the bubble will burst,' Franco yells exasperatedly, his long, thick eyelashes fluttering in the gentle breeze.

To save his business from another pay-off, and because the author could not think of anything more believable, the son makes a wager with his father. Franco will offer a woman €1,000,000 in exchange for being his mistress for one month. If she accepts all women are mercenaries willing to trade sex for money, proving Angeline is no different. If Franco convinces a woman to accept this offer Armand must sign his fortune over to his son, which would surely have been a quicker way of discovering where Angeline's interests lie. Never mind such obvious plot contrivances though, overly-discerning reader, because now there is a plot apparently worth basing a book around. Only one issue remains, where is Franco going to find a beautiful, desirable female who coincidentally only happens to be in Monaco for four weeks?

Meanwhile, on another part of the island, the unremarkable, sensible Stacy Reeves is admiring the chocolates in a Midas store window when something even more delectable wanders into view, a gorgeous, sophisticated slab of Frenchman-meat, possibly named Franco Constantine. Stacy isn't in town for romance, however. Oh no, she is too unremarkable and sensible for matters of the heart. Indeed, she is busy organising the wedding of her only friend, a nurse named Candace, who is set to marry another millionaire named Vincent. But wouldn't you know it, when Franco introduces himself Candace recognises him as Vincent's best friend. Ye Gods, Stacy! The man you are attracted to is a key player in the wedding, meaning there will be plenty of opportunities for the two of you to steal glances at one another, say awkward phrases, feel nervous and exchange sex for money.

For dowdy Miss Reeves the attentions of an attractive, muscular French millionaire made of chocolate isn't quite as appetising as he sounds. Stacy has a mysterious past, glimpsed at briefly through poorly-written asides from the author and involving a millionaire father who used his resources to torment Stacy and her mother with years of abuse and chasing that eventually may have ended in murder, probably. Stacy has been left unable to trust, love or enjoy intercourse, and has sunken to such depths she even took a job in accounting to further disaffect her in the eyes of men. Now she has lost her job because of corporate downsizing, the one person she is close to is moving to Monaco with husband and foetus because of marriage and untimely pregnancy, and an enigmatic tycoon keeps pestering her with chocolates and tactless invitations to make love in fancy locales, because of reasons that aren’t entirely obvious.

Reluctantly she agrees to one date, on the condition that Franco must end his Gallic seduction attempts if the evening is less than successful. Yet Stacy's luck has petered out. Franco wears a suit that parades his biceps and sturdy torso, takes her to an intimate restaurant where a string quartet plays swelling music on the patio and when the perfect opening reveals itself forces himself upon her by pinning her down and speaking foreign-sounding words she is too enamoured to understand. Later, outside the hotel Stacy admits what she really wants from life, financial security, and seizing the manufactured moment Franco offers her one million Euros to become his mistress for the month leading up to the wedding, guaranteeing no romantic feelings and no declarations of love. Stacy perceptively notes that the offer is akin to prostitution, but Franco tempers her fears by explaining that there is nothing wrong with being a prostitute. After all, she is a silly, fragile woman and no match for his wealth and European sensuality. She is only going to sleep with him anyway, so why not make some money out of it? Maybe she can spend some on that security she so desperately craves, to keep continental miscreants off her property for good. Stacy has twenty-four hours to accept or reject the venture, and define forever how women should be treated. The stakes couldn't be higher.

This brings to close the first three chapters and so far we have The Billionaire's Housekeeper Mistress relocated from Australia to Monaco and re-dubbed The Millionaire's Mistress. Less money and no tidying? Call yourself a story, The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal? Typical of this Mills & Boon sub-genre, which we shall call Solicititilation for want of a better invented word, the blatant sexism is submerged within character and physical beauty. Arguably Franco is the womanising jerk all evidence points to him being, pimping an innocent American tourist to stop his father from finding happiness, but when the author subverts the stereotype by having him make his own coffee and think of the feelings of others, all of his beliefs, actions and deeply inappropriate chat-up lines sound sensual and irresistible. Besides, Stacy has more depth than some lady who likes money and is willing to sell her body for more money. She is an accountant, which shows she understands money. She has never had a serious boyfriend and finds sex merely endurable which means she is hardly selling out something personally significant. Also, she recently lost her job and her mother was poor so she won't spend the million Euros frivolously. Finally, it is one million Euros and Franco is handsome and she has a whole month to kill, so calling her a prostitute, as she does, is unkind when you take all that into consideration. Let us not forget that once this novel ends with Franco and Stacy married they will have an adorable tale to weave when the grandkids ask them how they met.

We assume, naturally, that Stacy will accept the money and become Franco's mistress, leading them to develop feelings for one another via passionate thrusting only for Stacy to discover it was all part of a bet forcing Franco to chase after her in a sequence eerily-reminiscent of Stacy's own father's action, but ending when Stacy realises she must move on from her horrific past and learn to overcome her prejudice against men who pay to have sex with you only to develop feelings for you and then ask to have sex with you without wanting to pay anymore, which would be marriage if this were an analogy. Alternatively, Stacy might refuse Franco's money, showing him that all women are money-grabbing she-devils except for her, prompting him to fall in love with her because she is so special. Alas, however, because without reading the rest of the book we can be certain she will accept the money. Maybe it will turn out Vincent is actually her father, or Armand is Stacy's dad and she and Franco are in fact half-siblings. That seems far-fetched. Let's say he pays her for sex and then they fall in love and everything somehow works out ideally for everyone, except Angeline who turns out to be an actual prostitute. That seems just about the right amount of farfetchedness.

“We are all just one small adjustment away from making our lives work”

When you reach a certain age and pass on feelings such as hope and not having pain in your knees to the next generation you settle into a resigned attitude towards most experiences that have consistently disappointed you to stop the never-ending suffering of resentment, and replace it with the joyful superiority of cynicism. Chief among these experiences is the Hollywood movie genre known as the romantic comedy. As we move into whatever we are calling this decade that presumption that the next boy-meets-girl nonsense will be appalling has managed to evolve into downright hostility. Nowhere has this been more noticeable recently than in the case of James L. Brooks' latest How Do You Know. Early indications suggested poor results, the budget had soared to over $100 million and critics and audiences were ready, as they always seem to be, to punish such excess with scathing reviews and a paltry gross revenue. There was little surprise when the film was released to scathing reviews and audiences staying away in their droves, instead heading next door to spend their hard-earned money on the likes of Yogi Bear, Tron: Legacy and Little Fockers.

When you imagine scathing reviews, however, you imagine something more fierce than those How Do You Know received. Critics instead reserved their utter contempt for the likes of Yogi Bear, Tron: Legacy and Little Fockers. Nevertheless, the romcom, starring such luminaries as Reese Witherspoon, Paul Rudd, Jack Nicholson and Owen Wilson, had its fair share of caustic remarks. Philip French described it as, 'interminable', perhaps a dig at the running time which clocks in at an epic two hours. Better still was Peter Bradshaw, who wrote of, 'a fatuous and depressing parade of nothingness.' David Jenkins of Time Out called it, 'Contrived, mawkish and mirthless,' leaving Lou Lumenick to end with this neat summation, 'a rambling, over-produced, tone-deaf melange of romance, comedy and drama.' Many of those adjectives are harsh, of course, as How Do You Know is too bland to provoke such bile. Other critics were stung by Brooks' continuing downhill trajectory from the contrived and mawkish Terms of Endearment, to the Network for Dummies romcom Broadcast News, to As Good as It Gets and that interminable parade of nothingness, Spanglish. Brooks is finely-considered as a writer, director, producer, and rightly, so expectations were higher for How Do You Know, compared to the collective holding-of-breath that preceded Little Fockers.

Reese Witherspoon is a much-loved and very successful professional softball player whose career is coming to an end prematurely due to her turning thirty. Disillusioned and without a future she does what any woman should do in such a circumstance and begins putting herself out there sexually in order to snare a wealthy husband. Immediately two such Lotharios begin sniffing around. First there is Owen Wilson, a professional baseball player enjoying his success, laid-back charm and thick, luscious hair. Clearly entranced by at least one of these, Reese jumps into his bed without so much as a serious conversation only to discover he is something of an insensitive chauvinist, who cares not for her constant whining. Soon after she meets Paul Rudd, who is possibly the protagonist. Paul has his own set of troubles, caused by the financial mismanagement of his father being blamed on him. This causes Paul to lose his job, his fiancée and his luxurious apartment, while also being threatened with having to choose between saving his father from jail or going to jail himself. Why is there the tale of corporate fraud and father-son tensions clumsily forced-in to a romcom about a woman saying goodbye to her youth? Because Brooks got as bored as we did by the romance story and decided to clumsily force-in a whole second movie on a whim.

How Do You Know's flaws are conspicuous and fatal. The story never rises from its disorganized origins, the actors coast without much effort, there is minimal chemistry and the majority of the dialogue is lifted directly from self-help books and the psychiatrist's office, even though only Reese briefly drops in on an analyst to quickly dismiss any need for insight. Despite these glaring faults and an excessive budget the mauling the movie received seems a result of the unnecessarily large cost and indulgent salaries for the stars. That the content fails miserably is something of a happy coincidence. However, How Do You Know does not deserve to be remembered as one of the Hollywood's biggest follies. How should anyone of us know what insipid drivel audiences will flock to out of their devotion to love stories? After all, lazy romantic comedies continually rake in a fortune at the box-office much to critical dismay, so why shouldn’t Brooks have some coming?

On paper, the film sounds promising, so long as the paper isn't a page of the screenplay. When judged by the trailer, Brooks' film plays heavily on star-power, but there lacks a striking concept such as a magical fountain, a male maid of honour or commitment-free sex to draw the viewer in. All these scenarios scream jokes and a happy ending, meaning it matters not whether they are then forthcoming. How Do You Know has loftier ambitions and avoids meet-cutes and gimmicks, yet this should not be interpreted as a sign of greater intelligence. The corporate fraud subplot is borrowed from newspaper headlines and is introduced without any consideration of how it will affect the central premise. The script abandons any pretensions of realism, or even sympathetic characters, in the hopes of entertaining us with our favourite thespians traipsing out their usual shtick in a world of aspirational success, beauty and expensive real estate.

Romances exist as escapist fantasies involving impossibly-attractive people falling in love in an idealised location. Their popularity rests comfortably on a universal, timeless empathy, safe in the knowledge that audiences shall always identify with someone searching and falling in love. We cherish the books, television series and films because they are honest in their intentions and sell us on delusions that love conquers all, attractive people work in offices, there is a soul-mate for everyone and becoming sexually-desirable is only a montage away. How Do You Know offers an alternative insight. Sure, all the characters are wealthy and pretty, and even the most cramped apartments are spacious and handily-located, but life is difficult and painful, problems are never easily-solved and financial corruption is occasionally punished with appropriate retribution. A potential single mother is saved from her fate by the father of her baby proposing marriage, and Reese's forced retirement, career limbo and general confusion about men, life and infirmity is fixed by loving a man with the same inadequacies. Brooks creates a melancholy world of fraught disturbances where there are no easy answers and then climaxes his story by solving everything with an easy answer, and an unseen comeuppance for the film's thankless villain. How Do You Know ends as nothing more than the superficial veneer Brooks invented to convince us there was more to his film than there was.

Such a spectacular failure with critics, audiences and on its own terms as a film, there came an unexpected sense of pallid disappointment from those still capable of being disappointed. The contempt How Do You Know provoked was caused largely by our superior expectations attached to James L. Brooks, but he was let-down by a misguided sense of ambition and an alienation from modern audiences who have never been fully committed to explaining what they want from this strange genre. His was a story of grown-up troubles settled by cheap romcom tricks. Either poor, getting old Reese Witherspoon is single, yet likeable, and suddenly meets the man of her dreams leading to any number of hilarious social embarrassments and grandiose displays of affection, or she is facing the second act of her American life and needs a few big answers to comprehend the meaning of her existence, in which case meeting the man of her dreams just won’t cut it as a solution. Equally, if Paul Rudd is having a bad life, but then through an unlikely circumstance meets the woman of his dreams, but must hide his impending strife for fear of scaring her away leading to hilarious social embarrassments and grandiose displays of affection then we have a strong idea for a romantic comedy, possibly starring Jack Lemmon as Paul Rudd. However, if his impending doom is tied to the actions of his estranged father with whom he has never had a happy relationship and has never escaped from under the shadow of you cannot then introduce a blonde woman and hope that will take care of his predicament. Nice try, Mr. L. Brooks, but somehow we viewers saw through that from just the trailer.

‘Should Rick start mixing business with romance -- and both with a baby?’

The talk of Mills & Boon titles being proof of anything has made Bewildered Heart thirsty for a romance novel with a heavy-handed title indicative of female mating interests. One of the many omissions of the scientific study was no noting of the gradual evolution the publishers have made towards ridiculous titles containing market-researched signifiers and away from the previous generation’s more artistic leanings. Nowadays there is no ambiguity in a Harlequin title, with modern monikers increasingly close to those a website such as this would invent for parody. Even our limited travels into the world of saucy fiction have thrown up names such as Finding Nick, Romantics Anonymous and Leopard in the Snow. Those don’t include the words billionaire, bride, mistress or pirate. What on earth will the female reader base her consumer wants on?

For this reason, among others that will soon become clear, we have chosen to investigate the Mills & Boon Desire 2-in-1, named 2-in-1 because there are two stories offered in one novel and not because of any sexually-explicit love triangles. In this case we have Emilie Rose’s The Millionaire’s Indecent Proposal and Under the Millionaire’s Influence by Catherine Mann, two writers challenging readers’ expectations by asking us to fall in love with millionaires when there are so many gorgeous single billionaires running amok. Best of luck, Rose and Mann. Before we tackle the stories, however, our research begins with the publisher’s description of what a Desire is.

Originally an imprint at Silhouette over a Simon & Schuster the sub-genre was bought by Harlequin in the mid-eighties and today Mills & Boon operates it solely as 2-in-1, having before that run it as Desire Double. Why is Desire only sold as two times the amount of novel at twice the price? No one seems willing to explain, but each coupling is themed, as ours is themed by millionaires and force, while others might instead use cowboy tycoons, secret babies, virgin brides, billionaires, blackmail and force. With instant appeal and obvious differences between others sub-genres aspiring authors can look to the Writing Help for further information. ‘A powerful, passionate and provocative read…guaranteed!’ it says, temptingly. All alliteration, and rhyming, aside, this is a strong start. Whereas Cherish would guarantee a gentle, loving and inoffensively bland read, Desire sets its stall out without any ado. We can only hope they don’t instantaneously become vague and contradictory in the opening paragraph.

‘Desire books are filled to the brim with strong, intense story-lines. These sensual love stories immediately involve the reader in a romantic conflict and the quest for a happily-ever-after resolution. The novels should be fresh, fast-paced and modern, presenting the hero and heroine's conflicts by the end of chapter one.’ Do you see, gentle reader, here we are offered palpable narrative instructions to help us understand the key variations that mark Desire unique, from, for example, Modern or Nocturne. Those sub-genres are stagnant, meandering and archaic, presenting tensions eventually, once the reader has bored of all the easy-going camaraderie. But who are these heroes and heroines the Author Guidelines speak of and how should we, starry-eyed writers, attempt to present our leading men, other than perhaps making them desirable?

‘The hero should be powerful, wealthy — an alpha male with a sense of entitlement, and arrogance. While he may be harsh and direct, he is never physically cruel. Beneath his alpha exterior, he displays some vulnerability, and he is capable of being saved. It's up to the heroine to get him there.’ These are the conflict seeds we have previously discussed. Firstly we introduce the hero, as conceited, believing he has the right to have sex with a woman just because he is authoritative and prosperous. However, our heroine is not attracted to those traits, though she is enamoured by his physical appearance, money and influence and thus, over the course of some two-hundred pages, she must teach him to stop being egotistical by having sex with him and acting womanly. Any further character details for those who haven’t been paying attention? ‘The Texan hero should own the ranch, not work on it, and the urban hero should be the company CEO, not a handyman.’ Indeed. Female readers will not buy A Texas Handyman’s Respectful Courting, and more fool you for even suggesting it.

Desire heroes, therefore, are much like all the other Mills & Boon heroes, with the exception of Cherish men, who, by this definition, aren’t men at all. Now, what of the protagonist, the heroine herself? ‘She is complex and flawed, strong-willed and smart, though capable of making mistakes when it comes to matters of the heart. The heroine is equally as important as the hero, if not more so. There is room for both protagonists' perspective, as long as his thoughts are centered on the heroine and their conflict. Desire novels are usually 60% heroine and 40% hero.’ Everyone understands percentages. We can expect our two upcoming Desire novels to be more women-centric than any examples from the other categories. Due to this statistical breakdown then, it is advisable to create a compelling heroine with more depth than cooing at babies in supermarkets and having frizzy hair on especially humid days, although it is most likely this is what they meant by complexities and flaws.

‘The conflict should be dramatic with such classic plot lines as revenge, secret pregnancies, marriages of convenience and reunion romances.’ Where is the implied prostitution? From the list of fairly standard soap opera clichés we can only hope marriage-of-convenience is code for live-in-mistress-but-not-prostitute-because-they-love-each-other. After all, that is a pretty classic plot line. Wannabe Mills & Boon creators should look to these suggestions for a scenario for their own ideal novel, where a couple reunite, arrange a marriage of convenience and then the heroine makes a terrible mistake in matters of her heart by getting pregnant because of the hero’s arrogant misplaced sense of entitlement, but gets revenge by falling in love with him. We can call it The Millionaire’s Blackmailed Bride’s Secret Baby Revenge. Cox and Fisher would adore that one. All we have left to learn is how many gratuitous sexual acts we will have to type.

‘Desire novels are sensual reads and a love scene or scenes are needed, but there is no set number. Rather, the level of sensuality must be appropriate to the storyline. Above all, every Silhouette Desire novel must fulfill the promise of a powerful, passionate and provocative read.’ Goodness, how helpful. With there being little discernible difference between Desire and Modern, besides a minor emphasis on the heroine, we should assume by the over-use of words such as sensual, passionate and desire, as well as the red cover, that this series will have a large story-appropriate quantity of copulation. Once you have decided your story will contain a wealthy tycoon buying a woman for cohabitation (and possibly more!) only to discover his physical attraction blossoms into genuine emotional connection you are going to need a gregarious attitude towards describing their love-making just to reach the required fifty-five thousand words.

First up for our reading pleasure is the aforementioned The Millionaire’s Indecent Proposal by Emilie Rose, part of her 2007 Monte Carlo series that included The Prince’s Ultimate Deception and The Playboy’s Passionate Pursuit, so we can comfortably assume Emilie knows what she is doing. The blurb promises passion and drama and the title hints are derivativeness. ‘Would she accept one million euros to be his mistress for a month? How could practical American Stacy Reeves say no to Franco Constantine's proposal?’ Hopefully these are the first of many deeply philosophical questions the scenario will throw up. How do women refuse money in exchange for sex? ‘The wealthy, arrogant CEO of Midas Chocolates was overwhelmingly passionate in his pursuit. Their union would be pure pleasure, but Stacy did not know Franco's offer was part of a bet.’

Intrigue, pleasure and chocolate, the dream trifecta for every lady of a certain age, but how does this differ from Modern’s The Billionaire’s Housekeeper Mistress, besides the gulf in wealth? Reading through the Writing Guidelines we are supposed to study before submitting our manuscript to the beloved publishers the only alteration should become apparent from reading on, and that shall be the focus on Stacy over Franco. This suits the story perfectly, as Franco, a millionaire who pays vast sums for call-girls, can remain suitably enigmatic, to hide his blatant sleaziness under layers of sexy mystery, while Rose can delve into Stacy’s psyche and convince the reader that her protagonist’s actions are credible. Our empathy will be vital to prevent us from falling into the trap of leading with prejudices and concluding that Stacy sounds like a hussy. Emilie Rose will presumably do this by making Franco incredibly gorgeous, charming and seductive, the offer impossible to turn down and the terms quite agreeable, thus under-mining those guarantees of passion, drama and provocation.