I’ll admit I bought this book because it was written by Alexander McCall Smith. I had heard of the Isabel Dalhousie series, but McCall Smith and his The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency was the main reason I wanted to read this book.
The story centres round middle-aged divorcee Isabel Dalhousie, a philosopher (and editor of a literary review on applied ethics) who lives in Edinburgh. In love with her oblivious friend Jamie (who is fifteen years or so younger and is still deeply in love with ex-girlfriend Cat, Isabel’s niece), Isabel goes through life wondering if a second chance at love awaits (her first marriage was disastrous). In the meantime, she goes about getting to the root of an odd problem: a chance stranger she gets talking to tells her that he’s recently had a heart transplant—and is now seeing what he thinks are memories of the (unknown) donor.
Considering I’ve read almost all the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency novels and know their style and their characters very well, it’s perhaps unsurprising that even as I read Friends, Lovers, Chocolate, I was unconsciously looking for similarities between the two series. At first, it seemed as if the books were written by two completely different people. The settings couldn’t be more different (the portrayal of the setting, by the way, is one of the best things about this book—McCall Smith brings Edinburgh and Scotland and Scottishness brilliantly to life). The style of writing is different. The atmosphere, it seemed to me, is different.
And not quite, eventually. Besides the superficial details—single woman protagonist with a bad marriage and a cheating husband in her past; a confident female associate with decided views of her own (interestingly, also called Grace, though Isabel’s housekeeper is a school dropout, unlike the 97%-awarded Mma Makutsi). A not-quite-criminal mystery. Some blundering, some help from unexpected quarters. A lot of philosophy (though Precious Ramotswe’s philosophy comes across as more earthy and more rooted in everyday life than Isabel’s).
This isn’t a bad book, but it’s not a terribly interesting one either. The plot’s a bit weak—I get the message, but I don’t see the need to devote most of a book to it—and besides the main thread of the plot, there’s not enough to really hold one’s attention. Isabel Dalhousie is a likable character (though I’ll admit I like Precious Ramotswe more) and the quotes from WH Auden’s poetry enhance the Scottishness of the book, but I doubt if I’ll be looking out for the next book in the series—or the previous book.