This is the story of Fay’s might-have-been younger sister, Frances.
It’s 2013, and 80-year-old Frances (has-been writer) is sitting on the stairs of No.3 Chalcot Crescent, Primrose Hill, listening to the debt collectors pounding on her front door. From this house she’s witnessed five decades of world history.
While she waits for the bailiffs to give up and leave, Frances writes. She writes about the boyfriends she borrowed and the husband she stole from Fay, about her daughters and their children. The problem is that fact and fiction are blurring in Frances’s mind.
this was an enjoyable book, but i found it reasonably hard to concentrate on it at times. i suspect that the waspish style of narration was precisely right as the voice of the author, but it did get on my nerves sometimes.
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