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Reluctantly Charmed: A Novel, by Ellie O'Neill
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In the spirit of Cecelia Ahearn and Regina McBride, a lighthearted and relatable debut novel about an advertising copywriter who upends her ordinary life and captures the attention of the world after publishing a seven-part treatise on the existence of fairies.
Kate McDaid thought that going to the reading of her great-great-aunt’s will would be just another non-event in her ordinary life. A junior copywriter at an advertising agency in Dublin, she was used to spending her days wrangling clients, over-indulging in chocolatey products, and whiling away nights at the pub with her best friends, using her trusty bicycle to get around town. Instead, Kate finds out that the will and her aunt (also known as the Red Witch of Knocknamee) dictates that Kate must publish a series of strange poems called “The Seven Steps” under her own name in order to inherit the rest of her aunt’s estate.
And those poems? They’re a mysterious treatise on the importance and existence of fairies…
Kate decides to publish the Steps on a friend’s website, thinking that the low traffic on the site would let her posts go unnoticed. She never could have imagined that in a matter of days, she would find herself a local celebrity with her own group of devotees and the target of a mysterious and glamorous newspaper reporter. Even Dublin’s rock-and-roll sweetheart—and Kate’s onetime fling—writes a song inspired by the Steps.
While the Steps strike a chord across Ireland and the world, Kate takes the message to heart. But as the tone of each Step moves from free-spirited to sinister, Kate must decide if she will go through with publishing all seven Steps—or protect humankind from an ancient evil.
Infused with just enough magic and everyday familiarity that anyone can relate to, this fantastic debut is a page-turner with the perfect mix of humor and mystery.
- Sales Rank: #1268752 in Books
- Published on: 2015-03-17
- Released on: 2015-03-17
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.00" h x .90" w x 5.25" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 416 pages
Review
"O’Neill’s writing is sharp, funny, and authentic, and she brings us a believable – and truly likable – protagonist in the most unlikely of circumstances. Reluctantly Charmed is a first effort that will bring O’Neill plenty of fans, while reminding her readers to keep an eye out for magic in surprising places." (Irish America)
"Reluctantly Charmed is a sweet, whimsical, quintessentially Irish novel guaranteed to add a little magic to your day!" (Liane Moriarty)
“[A] chatty and original debut . . . The pages breeze by due to O'Neill's accessible style. . . . The true appeal of the novel is in the author's sure-handed depiction of Ireland's landscape, people, and lore. . . . Whimsical.” (–Kirkus Reviews)
About the Author
Ellie O’Neill took the long way around. She sold spider catchers in Sydney, flipped burgers in Dublin and worked in advertising in London. All the while, she knew she had stories to tell. So, at thirty-something, she made the brave leap and moved back in with her parents in Dublin to get the job done, and scribbled away, knowing that there was something about Irish fairies she needed to share with the world. Those scribblings would later turn into her debut novel, a bestseller called Reluctantly Charmed. Then Ellie fell madly in love. The only catch was that he lived in Australia. True to form, she couldn’t ignore the magic and followed her heart to Oz for what was supposed to be a long holiday. Six years later, Australia is home to Ellie, her Joe and their fabulous toddler (with an Irish name no one can pronounce). They live in Geelong.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Reluctantly Charmed
1
A year ago no one had heard of me. That was before all this. Before a columnist in The Irish Times wrote that I was a twenty-first-century prophet. Before I was denounced from the pulpit by the Catholic Church. Before a small group in Dublin misinterpreted me and destroyed a landmark clock in my name. Before I was chased by paparazzi. Before I became the number one Irish search word on Google. Before Mam wanted a boob job. Before people wondered, I mean really wondered, “what if.” Before anyone had ever really considered the existence of an invisible world.
I can hardly remember back that far. I try to, but my old life is getting hazy.
It all started on a Monday. My birthday.
The office had gone through the birthday rigmarole and surprised me with a Victoria sandwich covered in candle wax. The sugar addicts and the easily distracted design department halfheartedly mouthed the words to “Happy Birthday.” One budding soprano stretched his neck and crackled through the high notes. I recognized him from accounts but couldn’t remember his name.
“Thanks.”
All eyes shifted from me to the cake.
“Let’s eat.”
I backed away and they dived in.
I’m not a fan of birthdays. It took Claire, the office manager, two years to find out my birthday date. And then it was accidental. The amorous Italian I was dating that summer sent me flowers. Carnations. He had busy hands, more suckers than hands. We’d be in a bookshop, and all of a sudden they’d be up my shirt and in my bra. He’d eat my neck as a first course in restaurants and snake his legs around mine so it was impossible to stand up. It was irritating. Anyway, Claire twigged when she saw the petrol-station flowers, and I’ve had three uncomfortable ten-minute work birthday parties since then and no more Latin lovers.
When the cake had been demolished, I slunk back to my desk and sank into my chair, happy to lie low in case they wanted a speech. This was unlikely; most of them would have learned my name for the first time when they signed the birthday card. I work with four people, am on nodding acquaintance with another ten, and have no idea who the other three hundred are.
“Happy birthday, Annie.” Matthew winked at me as he wheeled over my guests-only chair. He was trying to be funny: my name is Kate, but I was a dead ringer for Little Orphan Annie as a child, with a shock of red hair, large blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles that twenty years later still haven’t joined up. Birthdays were ruined for me by Annie, or rather by Mam’s insistence that I mark my special day by singing “Tomorroooooow” to neighbors, drunken relatives, and postmen—anyone with ears, really.
“Funny. You are funny.”
Matthew started whistling “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow,” his eyes tearing up with amusement.
I hadn’t been sure about working with Matthew at first. I think it was his name. Matthew, not Matt, Mattie, M, but the full-barreled shotgun Mat-thew. It’s unusual not to shorten your name. It feels very grand and a bit unfriendly. It made him sound like an earl or a liquor. He’s none of those things, but he is a little bit grand, I suppose, by Dublin standards. He carries a briefcase and always has a black umbrella, like a banker. He uses a money clip, a gold shiny one. He asked if I thought he was “an awful eejit for having one.” I shook my head and declared, “No, maybe we should all have money clips.” And that seemed to break the ice.
I started working at Frank & Peterson, an advertising agency, five and a half years ago as a junior copywriter. Five and a half years later, I’m still a junior copywriter. I don’t know how to shout. When I get turned down for a pay raise, I say thank you. I once plucked up the courage to ask for a promotion, which I didn’t get, but I did get put on the summer party fund-raising committee and somehow offered to babysit my boss Colin’s kids. I panic in the face of authority, and even though Colin speaks like a Disney character and twiddles his mustache in a friendly fashion, I’m still intimidated by him.
That was all going to change this year, though. My birthday is my New Year’s Eve. I make resolutions. This year I was going to get a promotion, a proper promotion with a pay raise and a new job title. For four days now, I had told the universe I was grateful. I embraced the power of now while still managing to feel the fear and do it anyway. I had repeated affirmations in my head like “I am a rich, successful copywriter who is moments away from a promotion.”
The good news was, in spite of my self-help mantras, or because of them—I hadn’t made up my mind—the promotion was looking like a possibility. Through a series of errors, Matthew and I had landed one of the biggest accounts in the agency, the Starshoot Chocolate account. So far, the client didn’t like us or any of our ideas, but I was optimistic. I was always optimistic.
Frank & Peterson is a giant multinational advertising agency, one of the shiny corporate ones where decisions are made from a head office in outer space, based on gravity pull and lotto numbers. They colonized a small indigenous agency about fifteen years ago, introducing new jobs and a corporate language and ethos to which most employees were happy to be shackled. Corporate life has a lot of perks—good Christmas parties and an excellent dental plan. My teeth have never looked better.
The offices are on the top floor of a building in the financial district of Dublin. If this were any other city, F & P would be at a dizzying height, inducing wobbly knees and shortness of breath, but not in Dublin, where the hand of God rests firmly on the skyline to stop it from getting too proud. Modesty is a much-respected Dublin trait, in the people and in the city.
The office overlooks the River Liffey and its ancient bridges, gray and heaving under the heavy commuter plod. The IV drip to Dublin is the river. It splits the city in two and serves as our very own Berlin Wall. Northsiders and southsiders seldom see the need to cross over and mix with each other, and only bad jokes about passports and visa stamps unite the two sides. It used to be that the north side was poor and the south side was rich, but for the past few years the economy had been booming, so everyone was rich and the jokes weren’t funny anymore. Life was plentiful in Ireland. We were riding the crest of a wave that wasn’t showing any sign of crashing. Kids born in the 1990s couldn’t remember life before BMWs, stone massages, and organic-coffee shops. The past few months there’d been rumors that the good times were coming to an end, but no one seemed to be paying any heed to the naysayers.
The north side of Dublin feels gritty and disheveled. A lot of the buildings are tired and need a reality TV makeover. The main shopping street, Henry Street, moves at a frantic pace: elbows are out, necks jut forward, and there’s a sense of urgency that that coat will be 20 percent off for only the next two minutes. In contrast, the south side is lazy. Grafton Street shoppers move slowly down the burnt-orange brickwork, like cows out to pasture. Shopfronts are charming and freshly painted, maintaining the feel of an older, grander Dublin. It helps that Grafton Street is anchored by the beauty and dignity of Trinity College, which is hundreds of years old, and capped on the far end by Stephens Green, home since the seventeenth century to the friendliest ducks in Ireland.
I’m a southsider. I went to a south-side school and a south-side university, my ex-boyfriends have all been southsiders and most of my friends are, too. Except for Matthew. He’s a northsider through and through. We’re very proud that we’ve managed to crash through the barricades to become friends.
Matthew ripped open his 2,453rd Starshoot, the reason he’d put on seven pounds in the past month. He pulled on his nose. He has a big nose and big eyebrows, features that don’t work in isolation but together are quite attractive, and short dark hair and lovely olive skin that you wouldn’t expect to find on an Irishman (he reckons a Spanish sailor wandered into his gene pool many generations back).
“The caramel in these is too chewy. My fillings shake when I’m near one. Will we go with that? ‘Rip the fillings out of your head with Starshoot.’”
He drew a line on a blank page and dramatically placed a full stop after it. “Starshoot, in association with the dentists of Ireland.”
I long-blinked in agreement. “How are we going to crack this campaign?” I started chewing the skin around my nails, always a sign that I’m nervous.
A slow mournful creak distracted us. In our agency the postman always howls twice. Dudley from dispatch was approaching with his cart. He could deliver the mail and cop a perve at the same time—it was award-winning stuff.
With a heavy sigh, and never taking his eyes from my chest, which isn’t particularly flat or buxom and normally doesn’t warrant many glances, Dudley did a three-point turn and parallel parked. “Happy birthday, Kate.” White spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth. He gave a little giggle and wiggled his shoulders. “So, are you two, you know . . . ?” He raised his unibrow.
It’s impossible for some people to understand that Matthew and I are just friends. We’ve never had a sneaky snog or a drunken fumble. There’s never been any sexual tension between us, and neither of us is closeted gay. We really like each other but have just never fancied one another.
“Well, are you and Connie, you know?” Matthew had caught him out. Connie worked in the canteen and was 874 years old.
“That’s disgusting.” Dudley coughed and straightened up. “This came for you. It’s registered. Looks important.” He passed me a large white envelope, reversed his cart, and left, muttering “disgusting” under his breath.
“Oh, registered.” Matthew looked delighted to have a distraction. “A birthday present?”
I did an I-don’t-know face and ripped open the envelope, which, disappointingly, was not car- or house-shaped. Still, I felt giddy and then confused when I pulled a legal-looking letter out of the envelope. I cleared my throat and in a professional, BBC-newsreader manner turned to Matthew.
“‘Dear Miss McDaid. You are invited to attend the reading of the will of Miss Kate McDaid in our offices on Monday, May 5, at nine a.m.’” I looked up over the heavy cream paper. “What? Have I died and nobody told me?”
Matthew looked as baffled as me.
“Is this one of those weird after-death dreams?” I said. “I don’t remember a white light.”
“What else does it say?”
“‘You are cited as a benefactor in her will and are required to attend our offices for a reading of said will. Yours sincerely, Seamus MacMurphy.’ How can I be a benefactor of my own will?”
Matthew reached over and grabbed the letter from my hand.
“It must be a typo or a mail merge gone wrong or something.” I gulped loudly.
“Very wrong if it’s killed you off,” Mathew said. “There must be another Kate McDaid. It’s not that uncommon a name. We could google her.”
“We’d just be googling me.”
“Facebook?”
“Me.”
“You should ring this guy, Seamus MacMurphy. Find out if it’s a typo.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“Cagney and Lacey reruns.”
I laughed and picked up the phone. This had to be a typo.
“MacMurphy Solicitors. How can I help you?” The woman on the other end of the line sounded startled, as if the phone had woken her from a deep sleep.
“Can I speak to Seamus MacMurphy, please?”
“I’m afraid Mr. MacMurphy isn’t available. Can I take a message?”
“Well, em . . .” How do I say this? I’ve been invited to my own will reading?
“I just got a letter and I’m invited to the reading of a will tomorrow and I don’t know who the person is who died. Is that normal?”
“Your name, please?”
“Kate McDaid.”
There was some paper rustling on the other end of the line. “Yes, Miss McDaid. You are invited to the reading of the will of Miss Kate McDaid.” She paused. “Oh, same name.”
“Yeah, that’s why I was wondering if there’s an error or a typo?”
“No, no typo.” Her voice lowered. “We’ve been waiting for the reading of this will for quite some time. There’s a real buzz in the office about it.”
“About the will?”
“Yes. We’ve had it in the office for over one hundred and thirty years,” she whispered. “It’s one of those we never thought would come about.” I heard a door banging behind her. She cleared her throat. “See you at nine a.m. tomorrow. Thank you.” And she hung up.
I turned to Matthew, excitedly. “The will is over one hundred and thirty years old. This other Kate McDaid died back in 1880 or something. How did she know to invite me now? And why? Who is she?”
Matthew looked at me, chewing pensively. “I wonder if she had any money.”
“And I wonder if any of it is going to come my way.”
Most helpful customer reviews
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
AMAZING - Fairies, love & family mystery
By ktu35114
Reluctantly Charmed is certainly a charming read. Ellie O’Neill has such a fantastic writing style and I was so very addicted to; it was a fun fantasy mystery novel full of faeries, historical research and romance. Kate is such a wonderful character, fun banter with co-workers, no BS attitude and treats everybody the same no matter their status. Her parents are such amusing people also, taking the rollercoaster of fame and living each day like it’s their last.
Kate McDaid is a twenty six year old copywriter that has been trying for a promotion for two and a half years. Working for the company for five and a half years as a junior, Kate knows she deserves a promotion, but just needs to prove it. With the arrival of the New Year, Kate decides this is the year she WILL get her promotion.
At work one day, Kate receives a registered letter from a lawyer. She is summoned to Seamus MacMurphy’s office in order to hear the reading of a will. The will has been waiting 130 years to be finalised and belongs to a Kate McDaid. That Kate was a sister of a great great great great grandfather and there seems to be quite a lot of mystery behind this lady of the same name.
Curiosity wins and Kate goes to the reading, she will receive an estate after seven steps have been published; each week Seamus will deliver another step. The first letter is to help Kate (ancestor) to reintroduce the fairies to the human world, to help the humans believe in them once more. Kate is a sceptic, but figures all she has to do is publish the letters and agrees to the stipulations.
Kate has been infatuated with a rock singer, Jim Johns and has spent a night with him. He promises to call, but of course never does and is now on tour. Jim had an old website that doesn’t get used anymore and Kate uses this site to publish her letters. There was no stipulation as how they were to be published and the internet is the best place.
Within the letters, there are little tasks for Kate to do that will help keep the fairies happy, like talking to nature and whistling to her plants. After a while she doesn’t even realise she’s doing these things. The letters are getting a lot of publicity on Jim’s site and he wants more. He lines up an interview and drags Kate along pretending they are together. Kate isn’t sure what to expect from him.
Kate doesn’t realise that she’s using magic even when she gives her friend, Lily a recipe that will help a man fall in love with her. Little recipes that just push their way into her head when she thinks about helping others. At work everyone has been supportive of her steps and Kate is still working on getting her promotion. A client of the firm, Hugh Delaney is known as a tyrant in the office and always brings his dog, Setanta. Setanta has taken up place under Kate’s desk and becomes very protective of her.
As time goes by, Kate escapes to the village where it all began. Determined to research her ancestry and find out what happened 130 years ago, Kate hides out there but makes friends with the locals and falls in love with the village. Coincidentally, Hugh lives not far from the village and they spend more time together. Kate finds that there is more to Hugh and there is a spark of something there.
Will Kate be found by the paparazzi? Will Kate find out what happened 130 years ago? Do fairies really exist? If so, will the human world accept them or laugh Kate away? What will she collect after the steps have been published? Will there be anything between Kate and Jim or Kate and Hugh?
Follow along the journey with Kate as she discovers her ancestry, fairies and love. Reluctantly Charmed is a humorous and mysterious read that everybody needs to grab quickly. Ms O’Neill has certainly won my heart and I cannot wait to read what she delivers next.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
What a nice gift for St. Paddy's Day from Ellie O'Neill!
By Steve Moore
This book, a lively combination of mystery, fantasy, comedy, and romance, was like a fresh spring breeze blowing away memories of this dreadful winter. Main character Kate McDaid is a junior person in a Dublin advertising firm. An earlier Kate McDaid, the great-great-great aunt of the current Kate, who lived around the time of the potato famine, was called the Red Hag because she was reputed to be a witch and had red hair like the modern Kate. The Red Hag’s will is directed to the first female ancestor who is a redhead when she turns twenty-six, but she mysteriously knows that descendant will also be called Kate McDaid. It took more than a century for that to happen, so there’s a curious mix of the old and the new in this novel as a result.
That mix correlates nicely with the Red Hag’s request: to receive her inheritance, present-day Kate must post Seven Steps—really poems, some dark and some whimsical—in a public place. These poems involve fairies. Being the 21st century, modern Kate chooses the internet as her preferred publication media, a blog site for a rock group. Unfortunately, she becomes the rock star as the Seven Steps more than capture the public’s fancy. It seems that many Irish people still believe in banshees and the little people. The paparazzi start chasing Kate. Moreover, she has strange moments of intuition; when that intuition is applied to people’s problems, it sometimes helps them, and they call it a spell, thus reaffirming she’s a witch just like her 19th century relative.
I’m not allowed to quote from the prose because I read the preliminary edition of the ebook, but I can say that Ellie O’Neill is a new and entertaining writer. The plot keeps me interested; the characters have entertaining quirks; the dialog is snappy, albeit very Irish at times; and the settings are marvelous. For a first book, there aren’t many technical or stylistic glitches.
Readers will find this is a fun book to read. It’s a marvelous start for this author. I wish her many more successes in her writing career. Do I hear the fairies whispering about a sequel? Kate still has to learn about the mysterious Blue Bottle! Maybe Kate and Hugh on an adventure together?
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Kate McDaid is a delight.
By pippa1847
Twenty-six and still getting her life together, she inherits a set of letters she must publish in order to inherit the estate of her long dead aunt who was a witch. What Kate doesn’t realize is that the act of publishing these letters, even on a website with no traffic, will turn her life upside down and drag her friends and family on a merry chase around Ireland. This was a charming Irish tale. The explanations of how a young Irish lass would see the world was enough to get a lovely taste of how the main character thinks and responds, and yet it was never too much. O’Neill does a lovely job of inviting us into McDaid’s world. Funny, charming and never twee, this book was a joy to read.
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