"When did you become one of these women who just waits and is still waiting?"

Let us imagine, in purely hypothetical terms, that you finally get around to writing down your romance novel after what has seemed like over a year of pointless blogging. You package the manuscript up and send it to the offices of Mills & Boon, Harlequin or a similarly witless publisher and they love your little book and release it to the undiscerning masses. There it would stand on the shelves of low-brow bookshops, if those still exist when this purely hypothetical situation occurs, and it would have websites on the internet dedicated to it and a few people would even buy it, adding it to the list of books they will never find the time to read. With sales a little disappointing, however, your novel requires a promotional push and at this point, as luck would contrive it, a film company from Hollywood secures the rights and turns your words on the page into a bright, glossy blockbusting romantic comedy. Suddenly, as the movie opens to unconscionable reviews across the whole world, your can-do book is thrust into the limelight, the Zeitgeist, the big time, and at long last, there is recognition for your pseudonym.

Unfortunately for you, dear author, Hollywood has something of a reputation for wrecking perfectly decent source material and the movie based on your novel is a hopeless mess of cynical focus group-findings and romcom clichés starring romcom stars. Anyone who sees the film instantly detests it and has no intention of subjecting themselves to your book as well, believing you are to blame for the idiocy and shallow characters. Count yourselves fortunate, therefore, that you have never attempted such a thing as writing a romance and your pseudonym remains an unheard private joke between you and the occasional readers of your weblog who accidentally wound up there while image-searching Brad Pitt.

Such a thing does happen, however, and as you may have worked out from this post's title, the book and film in question is Something Borrowed. The chick-lit by Emily Giffin was scripted into a chick-flick by Jennie Snyder Urman and directed by Luke Greenfield, famed for The Girl Next Door, that one about the porn star and the young man who rescues her from pornography with his intelligence and non-pornographic penis. Something Borrowed is the first in a series by Giffin, and was followed by Something Blue, continuing the adventures of the original's most irredeemably awful supporting player. We can only hope Old and New are in the works, and they also follow the exploits of horribly obnoxious young people, around the age of thirty and facing important romantic dilemmas and dealing with themes such as identity, ethics, social stigmas, drunken one night stands, pretending to be homosexual instead of breaking up and aggressive games of beach badminton. Something Borrowed, meanwhile, has Ginnifer Goodwin, her from Valentine's Day, and Hollywood's go to girl for likeable yet their definition of ugly, playing Rachel, a likeable yet in-no-way-ugly lady about to turn thirty and in love with her best friend's fiancé. Kate Hudson's remaining audience goodwill takes the role of Darcy, despicable, self-involved, duplicitous and mean-spirited, and despite the obvious discord with reality, the life-long best friend of Rachel.

As the story begins, Darcy has thrown Rachel a surprise 30th birthday party, which she has used solely to boost her own popularity, because Darcy is not a nice person. In flashbacks we see Rachel at lawyer school where they teach young people how to be lawyers. There she meets the handsome, charming and permanently-tanned Dex, the privileged boy coasting on his looks, charm and supreme intelligence. He and Rachel bond over Torts and inappropriate giggling in libraries and sure enough they fall in love. However, Rachel cannot bring herself to see what such a chiselled, wealthy man would find attractive about her, and fluffs her lines, playing the friend card when Darcy swoops in trying to set them up on a proper date. Because she is not a nice person Darcy then ensnares Dex for herself, much to Dex's disappointment, because he likes Rachel, despite himself. Back in the present day of how we assume glamorous Manhattanites live Rachel casually admits to having had a crush on Dex back at lawyer school, which naturally causes she and him to sleep together a series of times. Uh oh, Rachel. You've only gone and fallen in love with the man you've always been in love with. What will you do now, as he is about to marry your best friend, and even though Darcy is not a nice person and you don't like her and she doesn't actually love Dex, she is still your best friend. Perhaps the thing to do at this point is just wait things out. Dex will eventually come to a decision about which of the women he is sleeping with he wants to continue to sleep with, especially the choice is so obvious, it is either the lady he is engaged to or the one he wants to be with.

As Rachel explains to her needless John Krasinski-voiced voice of reason, this is a complicated situation and the emotionally-mature thing to do is let the wedding day move ever closer without deciding anything. Firstly, there is Dex's depressed, suicidal mother who is over-joyed at the prospect of nuptials. Would cancelling the day also manage to cancel his mother's life? Secondly, there is Darcy, the jilted bride. Either Rachel will gain a husband and lose her best friend, or she will lose the love of her life and have to watch him sorrowfully growing old with her best friend, regretting every day. You would expect with such a strong scenario that Emily Giffin and then the film-makers would choose to pursue these topics through any other genre than frothy, romantic farce starring Kate Hudson. By doing so, both versions of Something Borrowed are unable to properly explore any pertinent themes, instead contriving Darcy having an affair herself, John Krasinski moving to London for the sequel, and Dex calling off the wedding and the script just forgetting his mother ever existed. Any feelings the audience might have had for the central friendship are quashed by the heavy-handed handling of Darcy's character. She is a phony, superficial moron, using Botox, manipulating friends into falsely admiring her and angry at Dex and Rachel when she is herself pregnant with another man's baby. Losing her is no great loss to anyone, especially the audience, until the penultimate scene where reconciliation is implied. The final scene, however, which hints at the plot of Something Blue appears as a nasty threat we viewers should take as declaration of war.

As the names of the hundreds responsible roll to the tedious noise of two ballads, one can only conclude everybody involved made a number of mistakes. Many of these result directly from the treatment of the material. To examine the politics of relationships and the ethics of betrayal the characters must be presented in a believable way, representative to the protagonist's emotional journey, or exaggerated for comedic effect. Something Borrowed cannot decide which path to follow, and we end up with listless leads we are supposed to wish well, and an antagonist so vindictive and implausible her climatic discovery of Dex and Rachel's disloyalty has no satisfaction, pathos or resonance to anyone still watching. We are invited to dislike Dex throughout, as he strings both women along and suggests genuine connection with Darcy's vacuous consumerism, yet we share in Rachel's idolisation of her boyish dreaminess, and sympathise with his worries for his mother. As the film concludes with him abandoning the wedding and failing to mention his mother's reaction we are happy Rachel has ended up with her ideal man, although we struggle to see what she sees in him, especially as there is John Krasinski and his lovable puppy-dog face, the only one showing affection and concern for anyone else during the entirety of the running time. Giffin may claim her novel delves deeper into characterisation and finds the neuroses, uncertainty and self-loathing at the heart of every romantic entanglement, and perhaps she does, but Bewildered Heart has no interest in reading the book having now seen the film.

"If he was stressed it was no more than he deserved. He'd tried to buy her baby"

When we left Stacy and Franco, our lovers from The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal, she had accepted his offer of one million euros to be his around-the-clock mistress for the month before the wedding of a shared acquaintance. Unbeknownst to Stacy, of course, Franco had bought her as part of a bet with his father, the winner due to command the controlling stake in Midas Chocolates, the family business. Stacy was instantly seduced by the millionaire chocolatier's Gallic charm, strapping physique, ability to speak two languages, insistence that she have sex with him, and his luxurious mansion. Equally, Franco was intrigued by Stacy's sexy ordinariness, practical shoes, and willingness to trade her body for money. It seemed a short-term match made in Mills & Boon heaven, and for several chapters the relationship had all the hallmarks of an actual relationship. The couple talked and ate meals together, made love in a series of conservative locations, went clubbing and danced with their bodies pressed into one another, and constantly worried what their friends thought of their union. It was only when emotions got in the way that trouble brewed. Suddenly, Stacy's initial infatuation had turned into genuine infatuation and her casual attitude towards the financial aspect of their agreement had Franco questioning whether Stacy was even a prostitute at all. Would the twosome be able to recover and enjoy a lifetime of wedded bliss and baby-making?

Stacy Reeves is not your standard unemployed accountant from a city in the United States that probably doesn't exist, however. She has an unaffected beauty, long chestnut hair and azure eyes. As the book nears its conclusion the author, Emilie Rose, finally rewards us with a physical description of her heroine, where we learn her breasts and bottom are splendid and she has psychic nipples. Even more important than these vital statistics is her haunted back-story which Stacy is reluctant to confess to anyone, until she confesses all to Franco in a fit of narrative necessity. This might have come as a revelation to the suave millionaire, but we readers had suspected something was screwy all along, as Rose could not help slipping hints at this previous tragedy into the narration. Would you care to know the shocking bombshell without facing the unenviable task of reading the book? Well, when Stacy was a child her mother fled her abusive, wealthy husband and lived a life on the lam, struggling to make ends meet and always afraid the man she deserted would track her down and have his revenge. Stacy's full comprehension of the truth would come one day when returning home she found her parents dead, by that classic cliché of romance fiction, a murder-suicide. Naturally, the poor girl has never been the same since, and has developed a vehement distrust of rich men, red carpeting, violence and obsessive love affairs that end in murder, suicide or a combination of the two.

Meanwhile, Franco has his own sordid confession to reveal. His ex-wife had an abortion without alerting him of her pregnant status, causing the many awkward lulls in conversation that led to their divorce. Furthermore, Franco's mother was a wanton harridan, indulging in drugs, partying, drinking and men who weren't Franco's father, which somehow resulted in her death, by what Franco claims was a chemical overdose. With such a tragic past and unwillingness to trust, love or have respectful attitudes towards the opposite sex it would appear Stacy and Franco have all the groundwork needed for a long and successful coupling. Despite what should be happy news, both characters remain pensive and libidinous. If Stacy is not the gold-digging, one-track-minded, mercenary harlot all women are then Franco loses the bet with his father and, because of the terms of their wager, will owe him nothing. For Stacy, if she and Franco are in love she will have to remain in Monaco and turn her back on the United States, the country of her birth and neuroses, where she has no friends, family or prospects. Truly there is much riding on whether Franco and Stacy can get over themselves, be reasonable and conclude that while their relationship is based solely on sex and personal admittances alleging murder against family members that is more than enough to mean they're soul-mates and suitable to raise children together.

Unlike the majority of Mills & Boon novels we read as examples of the genre The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal offers distinct arcs to both hero and heroine, with each mirroring the other, allowing Rose to study the healing power of commitment and the inconsequentiality of capitalism in matters of the heart. The romantic interludes of our leads is played against a typical backdrop of resplendent grandeur, but thankfully because of Stacy's history all the glamour and wealth is framed by a paranoia of money's corruptive force. Intertwined is a supposedly charming sub-plot involving Candace and Vincent's nuptials, he the millionaire sports car enthusiast and she the nurse who treated him after his crash and fell for him despite his facial scarring. With such strong potential for a multi-layered examination of themes through the journeys of compelling characters with often self-destructive motivations The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal becomes even more disappointing. By choosing to tell her tale through the genre of badly-written pornography, author Emilie Rose undermines the emotional twists of the story and sacrifices nuance in favour of sex scenes, hedonism and occasional unsubstantiated dithering. The predictable, penultimate sidestep all romances contain where the couple fight over a misunderstanding only to realise their stupidity pages later is replaced here with a broken condom. Stacy and Franco fear their month-long orgy might have led to a baby and are forced to re-evaluate their feelings for one another. Franco offers to buy the child for a second million euros, but explains he will never marry. At this point Stacy begins to wonder if he actually is the man for her. All ends perfectly half a page later though, when he admits the whole thing had been a bet with his dad, which she finds adorable, and they kiss and promise to wed.

Any semblance of hope the reader might have had for the high quality of the first in this Desire 2-in-1 evaporates and we realise we have been cheated out of anything meaningful or fun and instead given an endless parade of frivolity where the only threats to happiness aren't so much squandered as completely abandoned. The story is nothing more than an old-fashioned, sexist fairytale involving a relatively innocent might-as-well-be-a-virgin who discovers her sensuality through being bought and taught by an arrogant, experienced foreigner. Emilie Rose's attempts to characterise Stacy's lack of worldliness by making her the victim of domestic violence means she writes herself into a thematic cul-de-sac, trivialising the misfortune and solving everything with a well-placed penis and a mind-boggling amount of money no one could relate to. Instead of exploring any of the subjects raised by the concept the book seems determined to avoid them. Franco's greatest concern is losing his true identity to his material worth. He rejects women for finding his millions more compelling than him, but he defines his seduction techniques as acts of cost and only respects Stacy when she refuses his extravagant gifts. His challenges merely validate his prejudices, yet he receives no comeuppance and learns no lesson. His father loses his young girlfriend when he hands over his business and Vincent only knows Candace's affections are real because of his grotesque disfigurement. A story involving the usually rightfully ignored territory of how the wealthy search for appreciation of who they are and not what they represent should find more interesting ways to do so and should not blatantly fetishise opulence in every sexual scenario.

As for the ladies, Rose treats them with a shallow disregard typically associated with a contemptuous billionaire or a Harlequin writer. Either the women are superficial, calculating whores only interested in themselves, as with Angeline, Franco's mother and Lisette, or they are virtuous angels dedicated to the desires of their men, such as Candace and Stacy. Finally, in the case of Madeleine or Amelia so peripheral are they to the central story they are forced to run away to the bathroom in the final chapter for reasons only explained in sequels, continuing the adventures of holidaying Americans in Monte Carlo. Perhaps we can expect a cameo appearance from Stacy and Franco, or Candace, Vincent and their baby, and we can catch a glimpse of their futures of countless offspring and disagreements over decorating the living room. By this time Franco may have found a role for Stacy in the Midas accounting office, and she will have thrown herself into work to avoid accepting the ten year age gap between she and her husband as they await the birth of their first child. Amelia and Madeleine will visit with their own millionaire princes and playboys and everyone will sail out on yachts to watch fireworks to the faint noise of the Grand Prix. Stacy will look to her friends and say all this could too be yours if you're willing to over-look your man's egotism and misogyny and concentrate instead on less fleeting virtues such as his muscular frame and abundant affluence, and Amelia and Madeleine will stare off picturing their own glorious wedding days and Emilie Rose will type THE END and she will have churned out yet another book.

“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.