Source of book: NetGalley (thank you)
Relevant disclaimers: none
Please note: This review may not be reproduced or quoted, in whole or in part, without explicit consent from the author.
And remember: I am not here to judge your drag, I mean your book. Books are art and art is subjective. These are just my personal thoughts. They are not meant to be taken as broader commentary on the general quality of the work. Believe me, I have not enjoyed many an excellent book, and my individual lack of enjoyment has not made any of those books less excellent or (more relevantly) less successful.
*eyes collection of 5-star reviews*
Sooooo…this is a me problem, then? Basically this is a very good book—ambitious, well-written, full of meaningful emosh and top-class bants—that just didn’t happen to work for me. I picked it up because I liked, um, the name? And to give it credit, it really does deliver on the “evoke thirty years of London” vibe.
The basic premise is that Jen and Nick meet at school when they’re sixteen. Jen is desperately insecure and Nick is desperately pretentious, but they strike up an unlikely friendship. Jen, of course, is secretly in love with Nick—a truth that comes out in with what felt to me like authentic teenage messiness. From there, they proceed with their lives, although emotion and geography keep drawing them back together, until eventually, in their early thirties, having lived through various significant life events, both personal and global, found friends and lovers, made mistakes and grown as people, they confess their mutual love and commit to being together.
So, theoretically, I like the whole love story told over twenty years thing and I liked the heroine. It was a pleasure to watch her grow from a confused adolescent to a confident adult, her missteps and anxieties felt understandable, and I kind of hardcore related to her attempts to navigate a middle-class world from a working-class background. But where the wheels came off for me was … uh. Nick. I mean, he’s fine? I think he’s fine? I just kind of think maybe a man needs more than a leather jacket and beauty mark next to his mouth to earn the love-of-your-life trophy? For me, while Jen changed and grew and learned who she wanted to be and how to be it, Nick was essentially static for 80% of the book.
As an adolescent, his primary character trait is “pretentious”. We first meet him at an English class where the students have been asked to pick a poem that spoke to him from a collection, and he insists on playing ‘I’ll Be Your Mirror’ by The Velvet Underground: this was probably, for me, his most charming moment in the entire book. Because, yes, this is infuriating and pretentious, and his teacher must have been rolling her eyes so hard, but I mean. Can’t argue with his taste? Except “pretentious” sort of remains his primary character trait. He really doesn’t seem to be able to make up his mind about Jen (right to the end, he’s telling her that he’s in love with her but wishes he hasn’t – dude, that’s Mr Darcy at the 40% mark not Mr Darcy at the end of the book). And kind of the point is sort of … he hasn’t really grown up, and Jen tells him so. Which serves at the catalyst for him to start making changes to his life.
Which, I guess, is supposed to be romantic?
But, from another perspective, what we have here is a book about a woman who has to wait over twenty years for a bloke to get his shit together.
And … I dunno. That feels less a lot less romantic and more kind of … incredibly depressing? And is one of those glimpses into heterosexuality that make me legit worried. Like, are you guys okay?
I think I might also just be personally resistant to the whole “love of life meant to be together” wossname. Because while I get, in abstract, that it’s a thing, in practice it just seems to invalidate every other relationship someone has. There are three other men in Jen’s life besides Nick: there’s an actively abusive academic, a sweet-tempered Black artist who gets all resentful when his career doesn’t take off, and a steady, supportive older man who wants Jen to move to the country and make babies with him. And, obviously, I knew I was reading a romance and Nick was the hero, but it never felt for a moment possible to suspend my disbelief over these other relationships, almost as if Jen herself wasn’t able to.
And maybe that was the point. Jen wavers constantly between “some part of her would always be in love with Nick as a form of nostalgia for her adolescence” and “she loved Nick, and would always love Nick” and, while I’m sure you could interpret the former as a necessary self-deception that allowed her to live with the latter, I did sometimes find myself thinking uncharitably, “well come on, lady, which is it?” And it doesn’t help that each of Jen’s other relationships follow the same pattern, which is that they seem initially to be an antidote to Nick (even abusive guy) which leads Jen to conclude that she’s in love with them. Whereupon Nick re-enters the story and it turns out the relationships had deep-seated flaws all along—usually with the men turning out to be selfish or unsupportive in some way. And, again, it was hard to see if this was Jen specifically torpedoing her relationships because she secretly, or not so secretly wanted to be with Nick, that the relationships fell apart naturally becomes sometimes relationships do (and Nick’s proximity was irrelevant) or the narrative was abruptly conspiring to present the other relationships as inherently flawed so the reader continued to root for Jen and Nick getting together.
Although, frankly, this particular reader was not rooting. This particular reader really seriously felt someone should have told Jen to move the fuck on with her life instead of clinging to the fantasy of this man it takes twenty years to decide he wants to be with her. Or at least be with her in the fully heteronormativity-embracing way she seems to see as mandatory for the relationship to be valid: like they spend at least twelve years taking turns to be the one who rejects the sexual advances of the other, then Nick is like “we should be together, we just work” and that isn’t what Jen is looking for, until he pops up again later being all “I have a pension plan now” and then she’s like “OKAY I LOVE YOU.” Personally, I was less concerned about the pension plan and more concerned about the twenty years of dicking around?
Like, if it took someone twenty years to figure out they wanted me, I think by that stage I wouldn’t want them? And, yes, yes, I’ve seen When Harry Met Sally (there’s even a section in the book where Jen in NYC and visits the café) but, firstly, that’s 12 years, not 20, and for at least half that time they’re not even sure they want to be friends.
This is twenty years. Twenty years of watching a cishet man doing the emotional equivalent of picking his teeth.
I’m sorry, but that just doesn’t sweep me away on swoonsome clouds.
Also, and I’ve kind of written about this before, but this is one of those m/f books that just feels indelibly straight to me—a quality that isn’t actually connected to the presence or absence of queerness, so much as some … fundamental view of the world that runs so contrary to how I perceive and experience the same world that it feels actively alienating. Like, for example, Nick’s failure, in the final section, to offer Jen sufficient heteronormativity for her to believe his declaration of love to be sincere: this is termed as her wanting “everything” but the idea that “everything” automatically and unquestioningly translates to a pension and two children is … is, I dunno. It’s weird to me. Maybe because the whole notion that relationship endgame = a pension + two children is not how I think about relationships. Or indeed pensions. Or indeed children, in whatever number they occur.
There is, I should note, a single queer TM in the book itself: his name is George and he starts life as a shy, overweight teenager, morphs into a promiscuous drug-fuelled party queen in silver trousers, then moves to New York where he becomes a successful advertising executive obsessed with Botox. I mean, props I guess for the book manging to evoke three shallow stereotypes of gay men instead of restricting itself to one as is traditional?
Sample of George’s dialogue: “Suck that cigarette down like it’s a juicy cock, that helps,” George said.
Because, you see, the thing about gay men—and you might not know this—is they’re romantically and sexually attracted to other men. And sometimes (though not exclusively) other men have cocks!
Speaking of other men, and the presence or non-presence of their cocks, there’s a fair bit of casual, I suppose I wouldn’t call it transphobia exactly, perhaps casual cissexism? Not in a way that’s unusual for the genre, I hasten to add, but in a way that’s pretty typical for it. I’m talking about phrases like, when two characters are discussing how they couldn’t be lesbians, “We like dick too much” or “the same predilection for little blond things that Nick did. Though George’s little blond things came with a penis as standard.”
And, look, I’m aware these books are set in decades where …y’know, I’d say we were less evolved in how we spoke/thought/talked about trans people but my country is fucking transphobic right now so I can’t. But, yes, there was less awareness and different words were used, and obviously one of these examples is dialogue and that’s a choice about how a character thinks and talks, not a reflection of the author, and no I don’t think every character in every piece of fiction should sound like the latest social justice discourse etc. etc. etc. But, still, choices are choices, you know, and to me choices like this always feel … unnecessary. Like why is romance so committed to centring the penis in both its depictions of masculinity and its expressions of female desire?
And, yes, for all we know George IS one of those gay dudes for whom absence of a penis is a dealbreaker in the men he wants to be with but is it an important facet of his character? No. Because his character is getting high and getting botox i.e. he has no character. And the line about “liking dick too much” – I know it’s a throwaway comment (unless we’re really arguing that unexamined cissexism/transphobia is VITAL to our understanding of this secondary character—which it clearly isn’t), meant to be amusing and subversive/empowering because women are stereotypically supposed to be attracted to eyes and a sense of humour, and here is a woman emphasising she likes men for their dicks! Wow, my mind is blown. And I do recognise that ‘dick’ here is meant to be a shorthand for ‘sex’ but why are we still using that shorthand? Like I’m sure there are people for whom presence of dick is the major pillar of attraction for them but those people aren’t heterosexual. They’re people with a penis fetish? Like if all you care about is a penis, then it shouldn’t matter if the penis is attached to a man, a woman, or a non-binary person, you know?
So, ultimately, what it comes down to for me is that none of those lines are witty, important or characterful enough to pay off the “potentially hurtful to some readers” debt they incur. You could have taken them out of the book and lost nothing—either in terms of representation of the era (I mean, when I think of the 90s, which is when I was mostly growing up, I remember britpop and pedal pushers) or in terms of representing the characters. I think that’s why such moments bug me so much: obviously we all say and write hurtful things occasionally (I do not consider myself exempt from that by any means) and it is absolutely not the case that every piece of prose and dialogue has to be 100% “politically correct” at all times. But when your choice is be hurtful or not be hurtful, and not being hurtful costs nothing, personally or artistically, why not … not be hurtful?
Just? Why not?
And I don’t mean to single out one author here. It’s a question I’m asking the genre in general.
Look, I’m sorry it might be coming across that I’m really dunking on this book. But the other thing I should probably mention—and this is out of my lane, so take what I say under advisement—I wasn’t personally super comfortable with the role POCs played in the book either. There are two. There’s Gethin, the Black Welsh artist, who Jen dates for a while. His whole arc is trying to be an artist, while working at an art supplies shop, sort of in parallel to Jen interning with a terrible agent as she’s trying to break into publishing, and then getting resentful/huffy and fucking off back to Wales. All of which would be fine but intersects, for me, uncomfortably with Gethin’s Blackness? There are references to his “quiet brooding fury” which doesn’t seem like a … completely unproblematic way to describe a Black man. And while Jen notes that she and Gethin sometimes receive harassment on the street for being an interracial couple that’s kind of as far as her understanding (or the book’s interest?) goes in terms of exploring the racial dynamic of both their relationship and the fact that Jen, ultimately, does succeed in breaking into publishing whereas Gethin is not able to access the art world. The book just sort of shrugs about that, but … like. A white person finds success in their chosen field, whereas a Black person does not? I mean, I dunno. Could maybe race be a factor there? Shouldn’t we care that it’s a factor, rather than just blandly accepting as inevitable that this Black guy gets his dreams ground to dust as an afterthought in someone else’s life story?
The other POC is a South Asian school friend of Jen’s – well, I say friend, she ends up treating Jen really badly over a boy. I have of say, I do kind of question the choice of casting the only other POC in the book in what is essentially an antagonist role—and a very narrow mean girl antagonist role, at that. We do meet this character—Priya—again later when she has moved to New York, found love, happiness and a successful career. She apologises to Jen and the two commit to meeting up again—which, okay fine. One of the things I enjoyed about the book was the way relationships develop, and old conflicts fade into irrelevance, when explored over a long timeframe.
Because, yes, I’m in my thirties now and I can’t be arsed to hold grudges against people I went to school with.
Except then 9/11 happens and Priya, like, literally dies. The chapter after she has been redeemed into the eyes of a white girl, she is KILLED. I mean I … I don’t know what to say. I don’t have standing to talk about this but … like. That doesn’t seem … okay? Like the South Asian fulfils her narrative function and is promptly wiped out in an act of global terrorism? And then never mentioned again.
Speaking of the, um, 9/11 bit … I honestly don’t know what it was doing in a book called London with Love. I know 9/11 had a big impact on the world at large, but it felt like a weird and uncomfortable stretch for this random British woman to just happen to be in NYC and in the South Tower when it happens. I don’t know, it just felt a bit crass to me? Especially because she is also present at the London bombings in 2005: at this point I’m starting to think Jen might be some kind of international problem? Since socio-political upheaval seems to be actively following her around. I know the book is a sort of whistle-stop-tour through the last thirty years so, of course, she’d be present at some of the events that happened, but I found the book easiest to connect with when Jen was indirectly experiencing rather than bearing explicit witness to. I guess it just felt more authentic to the way most of us experience the world? Like, one of my favourite sections was when she and her friendship group decide they want to bring in the millennium on Primrose Hill but they mistime it and end up stuck at an out-of-the-way Tube station as midnight strikes. There was something really endearing about this to me, because it felt recognisable: the reality that life is mostly missing important things.
(I remember when 9/11 happened, I’d just moved into an incredibly shitty student house, and there was no internet yet, or anything, and the electricity was spotty, and we had no hot water—and so there was this plumber round, just doing plumber stuff, while I was just sort of waiting for him to finish, and this was 2001 so mobile phones were rubbish, and I couldn’t afford one anyway. And then the plumber came white-faced out of the bathroom was like, do you have a radio, I think something’s happening. And I was like … uh no. So he had to turn the radio on his van, and leave the door open, and me and this plumber just sat on the front steps of this hovel-I-was-trying-to-live-in, listening to these crackly incoherent radio reports)
In terms of the 9/11 stuff in this book, though, don’t get me wrong, I think the role of 9/11 in our global consciousness is a complex one. And the idea of “appropriating” something from a nation with such profound culturally imperialistic tendencies as America seems laughable. But using 9/11 as a catalyst for a Brit to shag a boy she’s had a twenty-year crush on is … well. It didn’t sit right with me. Your mileage may vary.
Ultimately I think “didn’t sit right with me” is probably a fair summary of my response to this book. Obviously I’m not the target audience, and I’m aware of that, but I read books I’m not the target audience for all the time and don’t struggle to the degree I struggled with this one. I’m not disputing that the book had excellent qualities, in terms of writing, and characterisation, and I did love—if nothing else—it’s portrayal of London. It just kind of … lost me on pretty much everything else.
PS – why on earth would you name your kid after your emotionally abusive granddad? I don’t get straight people. I just don’t.