Genre Fiction
![Fiona Davis - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B01AYJ0AHE.jpg)
The Spectacular: A Novel
From the New York Times Bestselling Author of The Magnolia Palace: A thrilling story about love, sacrifice, and the pursuit of dreams, set amidst the glamour and glitz of Radio City Music Hall in its mid-century heyday.
New York City, 1956: Nineteen-year-old Marion Brooks knows she should be happy. Her high school sweetheart is about to propose and sweep her off to the life everyone has always expected they'd have together: a quiet house in the suburbs, Marion staying home to raise their future children. But instead, Marion finds herself feeling trapped. So when she comes across an opportunity to audition for the famous Radio City Rockettes-the glamorous precision-dancing troupe-she jumps at the chance to exchange her predictable future for the dazzling life of a performer.
Meanwhile, the city is reeling from a string of bombings orchestrated by a person the press has nicknamed the "Big Apple Bomber," who has been terrorizing the citizens of New York for sixteen years by planting bombs in popular, crowded spaces. With the public in an uproar over the lack of any real leads after a yearslong manhunt, the police turn in desperation to Peter Griggs, a young doctor at a local mental hospital who espouses a radical new technique: psychological profiling.
As both Marion and Peter find themselves unexpectedly pulled in to the police search for the bomber, Marion realizes that as much as she's been training herself to blend in-performing in perfect unison with all the other identical Rockettes-if she hopes to catch the bomber, she'll need to stand out and take a terrifying risk. In doing so, she may be forced to sacrifice everything she's worked for, as well as the people she loves the most.
New York City, 1956: Nineteen-year-old Marion Brooks knows she should be happy. Her high school sweetheart is about to propose and sweep her off to the life everyone has always expected they'd have together: a quiet house in the suburbs, Marion staying home to raise their future children. But instead, Marion finds herself feeling trapped. So when she comes across an opportunity to audition for the famous Radio City Rockettes-the glamorous precision-dancing troupe-she jumps at the chance to exchange her predictable future for the dazzling life of a performer.
Meanwhile, the city is reeling from a string of bombings orchestrated by a person the press has nicknamed the "Big Apple Bomber," who has been terrorizing the citizens of New York for sixteen years by planting bombs in popular, crowded spaces. With the public in an uproar over the lack of any real leads after a yearslong manhunt, the police turn in desperation to Peter Griggs, a young doctor at a local mental hospital who espouses a radical new technique: psychological profiling.
As both Marion and Peter find themselves unexpectedly pulled in to the police search for the bomber, Marion realizes that as much as she's been training herself to blend in-performing in perfect unison with all the other identical Rockettes-if she hopes to catch the bomber, she'll need to stand out and take a terrifying risk. In doing so, she may be forced to sacrifice everything she's worked for, as well as the people she loves the most.
Editorial Reviews
"As the plot builds to a dramatic climax that sees Marion putting her life at risk, Davis expertly incorporates behind-the-scenes details of the Rockettes, including the intricate choreography of their wooden soldiers number. This page-turner delivers the goods." -Publishers Weekly
"An engaging story…the novel is rich with historical details, and it comes most vividly to life in the passages about the Rockettes, with all the sweat, agony, and camaraderie that go into those miraculously perfect performances." -Kirkus
"Davis masterfully draws Marion into the story, setting the scene for a cinematic conclusion. Readers will be attracted to the intriguing history and moved by Davis' entrancing narrator."
-Booklist
"This propulsive novel is a fast-paced race throughout 1950s New York City to stop a deadly bomber from striking again. Set against the backdrop of the legendary Radio City Music Hall, Fiona Davis brings some of New York City's most memorable landmarks to life as a Rockette is entangled in the mystery of the "Big Apple Bomber" who is terrorizing the city." -CrimeReads
"Weaving together love, revenge, ambition, and heartbreak, Davis brings her two story lines to satisfying--and surprising-conclusions."-Shelf Awareness
"In The Spectacular, Fiona Davis has created a beautiful, evocative story of old New York. Marion and her fellow characters are fully alive, feeling individuals, who totally inhabit their world right down to the bittersweet ending." -AuthorLink
"Inspired by the real-life ‘Mad-Bomber' and steeped in the storied history of the Rockettes, Fiona Davis' intricately woven thriller is, at its core, a love letter to Radio City Music Hall and the families found and made backstage." -Dance Magazine
"Another likely hit in the historical fiction genre, The Spectacular by Fiona Davis... is centered around Radio City Music Hall and a Rockette in the 1950s, when (in real life) there was a mysterious bomber terrifying New York. Davis (The Lions of Fifth Avenue) reportedly spoke with many former Rockettes to get the details right."
"An engaging story…the novel is rich with historical details, and it comes most vividly to life in the passages about the Rockettes, with all the sweat, agony, and camaraderie that go into those miraculously perfect performances." -Kirkus
"Davis masterfully draws Marion into the story, setting the scene for a cinematic conclusion. Readers will be attracted to the intriguing history and moved by Davis' entrancing narrator."
-Booklist
"This propulsive novel is a fast-paced race throughout 1950s New York City to stop a deadly bomber from striking again. Set against the backdrop of the legendary Radio City Music Hall, Fiona Davis brings some of New York City's most memorable landmarks to life as a Rockette is entangled in the mystery of the "Big Apple Bomber" who is terrorizing the city." -CrimeReads
"Weaving together love, revenge, ambition, and heartbreak, Davis brings her two story lines to satisfying--and surprising-conclusions."-Shelf Awareness
"In The Spectacular, Fiona Davis has created a beautiful, evocative story of old New York. Marion and her fellow characters are fully alive, feeling individuals, who totally inhabit their world right down to the bittersweet ending." -AuthorLink
"Inspired by the real-life ‘Mad-Bomber' and steeped in the storied history of the Rockettes, Fiona Davis' intricately woven thriller is, at its core, a love letter to Radio City Music Hall and the families found and made backstage." -Dance Magazine
"Another likely hit in the historical fiction genre, The Spectacular by Fiona Davis... is centered around Radio City Music Hall and a Rockette in the 1950s, when (in real life) there was a mysterious bomber terrifying New York. Davis (The Lions of Fifth Avenue) reportedly spoke with many former Rockettes to get the details right."
Readers Top Reviews
Barb
The Spectacular by Fiona Davis is a wonderful standalone novel, which centers on Radio City Music Hall and the 1950’s Rocketts. In 1956, Marion (our heroine), lives with her father and sister in Westchester, and has just been fired from her job as a dance teacher. She finds an advertisement to audition for the Rocketts, and is offered a job; but her father disapproves, as well as her fiancée, but Marion is determined to live her own life, and defies her father’s wishes. Marion meets Bunny, who is a regular member of the Rocketts, and quickly they become friends. Bunny brings her to a boarding house for Rocketts and Actresses, where she can get a room, allowing her to be able to support herself working at Radio City Music Hall. Marion is happy meeting new people, living an exciting life, and learning to be wonderful dancer, knowing this is where she belongs. Though the work is grueling, with four shows a day and one week off a month, Marion is enjoying her life. She is sad that her father continues to ignore her and Nathaniel tries to convince her to quit, but she manages to convince her sister to see her perform. Bunny drags Marion to a local restaurant to meet her boyfriend, and his friend, Peter; who Marion finds very shy; later in the story, Peter will play a large part of the story with Marion. One night, a bomb explodes in the theater, which is said to be the Big Apple Bomber (actually true story, with villain called in real life, Mad Bomber), who has terrorized New York for 16 years, with no clue who he is. The bomb hit close to home, and Marion tells the police what he looked like, and she becomes very invested to find the bomber. She enlists her friend Peter, who is a psychiatric doctor at Creedmore Psychiatric Institute to help; with little support from the police; though Peter tries to explain the type of murderer who kills for revenge, using psychological profiling. Marion will find herself to be the target of the bomber, who reflects back to her father’s company. To say too much more will be spoilers, and this is a fantastic story line that should be read from start to finish. The Spectacular was a fascinating read, with so much going on, such as history, mystery, family drama, Rocketts dancing and danger. I loved all the dancers, the performances, and the friends in Marion’s life; very enjoyable. Fiona Davis excels in her research, always giving us plenty of history. The Spectacular was so very well written by Fiona Davis. I wholly recommend that you read this book, as it is a do not miss.
eema2emmaBarb
It's not often a story fits its title so perfectly, but that is definitely the case with The Spectacular! I loved this historical fiction look at the Rockettes through the eyes of Marion. Not only did it have a cool New York City theater feel, but it also reminded me of the Nancy Drew novels I grew up reading. This was such a great story from start to finish with the combination of Marion's family drama, her dancing aspiration, the terror of not knowing when the bomber would strike next, and even the romantic subplot. I could easily visualize everything going on as if I were watching it on the big screen. It made me think of when I watched Annie as a kid and they had the Rockettes in the "Let's Go to the Movies" scene. (Start at 2:22 for this part.) I haven't actually gone to a Rockettes performance, but they're always performing at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I didn't know that there were other performances along with theirs, before the movie would start. I also was fascinated by how the choreography had to be so incredibly precise at all times and one difference would be completely noticeable. The bombings remind me so much of what is happening now, down to the greed and ignorance that was keeping them from stopping long before they did. Just replace the bomber with a shooter, except there are many more of those and it feels unsafe to go almost anywhere these days. And it's not the greed and ignorance of a particular company, but instead the people who are supposed to be in charge of our country. I love how Marion worked so hard to get to the bottom of things since no one else was willing to step up and take control of the situation. She was wise beyond her years. The 1950s sexism in this story was also frustrating to me. It reminded me of Lessons in Chemistry in some ways, as well as some of the shows I've been watching that take place in the 1950s. Marion was ahead of her time in that respect and wanted to have a career before getting married and having kids. And as more information comes to light about her mother, who can blame her for that? This novel kept me riveted the entire time. It was really well done and now my favorite of everything I've read by Fiona Davis. (I still have a few of her earlier ones waiting to be read, but now I'll be measuring them up to this one, I'm afraid.) Don't hesitate to pick this one up and be ready to devour it! Movie casting suggestions: Marion (1956): Daisy Edgar-Jones Judy: Liana Liberato Bunny: Violett Beane Nathaniel: Carson Rowland Peter: Hunter Doohan Simon: Dean Norris Marion (1992): Frances O'Connor
FrogtownCreekeema
I just love the writings of Fiona Davis. She is definitely one of the best in the business. Can’t wait until her next release!
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One
December 1992
I still dance in my dreams.
But not in my life. In my life, I shuffle around this too-large house, tossing whatever is within reach into the nearest cardboard box, not bothering to wrap anything in newspaper or to make sure the box labeled living room actually contains items from the living room.
The movers are far more worried about my belongings than I am. As I've hit my fifties, I've found that the stuff that surrounds me every day has lost its charm. Like the clock on the fireplace mantel that I pick up, surprised at its heft. The darn thing hasn't worked in a decade. Or the cast-iron Le Creuset pot that sits in a drawer doing absolutely nothing. I haven't given a dinner party in ages, and I'm not about to start now. Some people end up hoarding their possessions, unable to get rid of the plastic bags that the groceries came in, but that's not me. To be honest, I'm getting a kick out of seeing box after box go out the door, like a snake shedding its skin. Out the door and into the big truck, to be dropped off at the Salvation Army. The few pieces that are left, including my antique bed and my favorite armchair, will be delivered to a sunny one-bedroom with high ceilings in Sutton Gardens, an independent-living community for the fifty-five-and-over set, where you can mind your own business in the comfort of your room or join in on a water-aerobics class, depending on the day.
You would think that after independent living comes dependent living, but instead it's "assisted," which brings to mind someone delicately holding your elbow as you cross the street in the best of circumstances or offering extra leverage as you rise from the commode in the worst. Having been the assistant myself for many years, I know full well what's involved. Finally, there's the memory-care floor, which is a laugh because for most folks behind those locked doors, there aren't that many memories left to be careful about.
That's not me, though. Not by a long shot. At fifty-five, I still have all my memories intact, thank you very much. There are days when I wouldn't mind blocking out the more painful ones, but I have nothing to complain about, not yet. I'm aware of my limitations, but I'm not defined by them.
My new lodgings are just down the road from this house, so I'm not venturing very far. Even though Bronxville is only eighteen miles from Midtown Manhattan, it's an oasis of green, renowned for its "stockbroker Tudor" houses, the term coined after the newly rich who snapped them up in the 1920s and '30s. People like my father, who was looking for a home that was close to the city but not too close, a place that showed he had good taste and a good job. My father never got tired of pointing out the slate roof and lead glass windows to visitors. He may not have been a stockbroker, but he was a company man and proud of it.
I look about my living room, almost expecting to see him drinking a scotch in his favorite armchair, and my throat tightens.
"Let me help you with that."
One of the movers, a skinny kid with freckles whom the others have teased all afternoon, puts the box he was carrying on the coffee table and comes toward me, eyes wide. He gently takes the clock from my hands.
"It doesn't work," I say, wiping the dust from my palms. "You can have it, if you like. Maybe it can be fixed."
"We're not allowed to take anything," he says. "But thanks."
He looks like he's barely sixteen and is more tentative in his actions than his cohorts, who move about the house like they own it. "You're new at this," I say.
"It's my first day."
"That's why they're making you do all the hard work, like climbing up into the attic. You better not take that kind of guff from them. They'll never stop."
"I don't mind." He pauses. "I found some things in the attic that I thought you might want to sift through, maybe give a last look."
I wave my hand. "No one's been up there in decades-whatever it is, I don't need it."
He turns to the large box sitting on the coffee table and opens it. "Well, this almost split open when I was upstairs. I'll have to take everything out and tape up the bottom anyway." He lifts out a pair of pointe shoes from when I took ballet class as a teenager, the ribbons fluttering loose like silk ringlets. "You were a dancer?"
I wish I had taken a moment, just one moment, back when I was dancing, to stop and appreciate what it felt like to lift my leg effortlessly high, what it was like when my limbs and mind were rich with music and my body snapped into place. When my arms and legs did exactly what I told them to do. In my dreams, I stretch like a rubber band and my body is nineteen again. And then I...
December 1992
I still dance in my dreams.
But not in my life. In my life, I shuffle around this too-large house, tossing whatever is within reach into the nearest cardboard box, not bothering to wrap anything in newspaper or to make sure the box labeled living room actually contains items from the living room.
The movers are far more worried about my belongings than I am. As I've hit my fifties, I've found that the stuff that surrounds me every day has lost its charm. Like the clock on the fireplace mantel that I pick up, surprised at its heft. The darn thing hasn't worked in a decade. Or the cast-iron Le Creuset pot that sits in a drawer doing absolutely nothing. I haven't given a dinner party in ages, and I'm not about to start now. Some people end up hoarding their possessions, unable to get rid of the plastic bags that the groceries came in, but that's not me. To be honest, I'm getting a kick out of seeing box after box go out the door, like a snake shedding its skin. Out the door and into the big truck, to be dropped off at the Salvation Army. The few pieces that are left, including my antique bed and my favorite armchair, will be delivered to a sunny one-bedroom with high ceilings in Sutton Gardens, an independent-living community for the fifty-five-and-over set, where you can mind your own business in the comfort of your room or join in on a water-aerobics class, depending on the day.
You would think that after independent living comes dependent living, but instead it's "assisted," which brings to mind someone delicately holding your elbow as you cross the street in the best of circumstances or offering extra leverage as you rise from the commode in the worst. Having been the assistant myself for many years, I know full well what's involved. Finally, there's the memory-care floor, which is a laugh because for most folks behind those locked doors, there aren't that many memories left to be careful about.
That's not me, though. Not by a long shot. At fifty-five, I still have all my memories intact, thank you very much. There are days when I wouldn't mind blocking out the more painful ones, but I have nothing to complain about, not yet. I'm aware of my limitations, but I'm not defined by them.
My new lodgings are just down the road from this house, so I'm not venturing very far. Even though Bronxville is only eighteen miles from Midtown Manhattan, it's an oasis of green, renowned for its "stockbroker Tudor" houses, the term coined after the newly rich who snapped them up in the 1920s and '30s. People like my father, who was looking for a home that was close to the city but not too close, a place that showed he had good taste and a good job. My father never got tired of pointing out the slate roof and lead glass windows to visitors. He may not have been a stockbroker, but he was a company man and proud of it.
I look about my living room, almost expecting to see him drinking a scotch in his favorite armchair, and my throat tightens.
"Let me help you with that."
One of the movers, a skinny kid with freckles whom the others have teased all afternoon, puts the box he was carrying on the coffee table and comes toward me, eyes wide. He gently takes the clock from my hands.
"It doesn't work," I say, wiping the dust from my palms. "You can have it, if you like. Maybe it can be fixed."
"We're not allowed to take anything," he says. "But thanks."
He looks like he's barely sixteen and is more tentative in his actions than his cohorts, who move about the house like they own it. "You're new at this," I say.
"It's my first day."
"That's why they're making you do all the hard work, like climbing up into the attic. You better not take that kind of guff from them. They'll never stop."
"I don't mind." He pauses. "I found some things in the attic that I thought you might want to sift through, maybe give a last look."
I wave my hand. "No one's been up there in decades-whatever it is, I don't need it."
He turns to the large box sitting on the coffee table and opens it. "Well, this almost split open when I was upstairs. I'll have to take everything out and tape up the bottom anyway." He lifts out a pair of pointe shoes from when I took ballet class as a teenager, the ribbons fluttering loose like silk ringlets. "You were a dancer?"
I wish I had taken a moment, just one moment, back when I was dancing, to stop and appreciate what it felt like to lift my leg effortlessly high, what it was like when my limbs and mind were rich with music and my body snapped into place. When my arms and legs did exactly what I told them to do. In my dreams, I stretch like a rubber band and my body is nineteen again. And then I...
