Four of Fiona Walker's books are formative texts for me: this, Well Groomed, French Relations, and Kiss Chase. I still remember seeing the cover of Well Groomed in the library, the hardback version with the gilt lettering and the photorealistic headless shots and primary colour backdrop. I appreciate that writers have little to no control over their covers, but honestly Walker should have burned her PR firm to the ground before she let them switch her from that classic, eau de Cooper design to these shitty, anatomically incorrect, five-year-old aptitude illustrations with the bland blocks of colour that are neither one shade nor the other.
Anyway, Snap Happy was definitely my fourth favourite of the four, because Jay is not remotely as tortured or beautiful as Hugo or Felix, and Juno is less enchanting than Tash or Phoebe. All the same, it's still a fabulous frothy concoction, and one which few modern romances - including Walker's own later work - can match for scope or characterisation.
It was published in 1998. I first read it in 2002, going by the inscription. I was surprised - given that I haven't re-read it at all this decade - at how certain things held up. Unfortunately, Juno's experiences of being a female comic have little improved in the intervening 22 years.
It was oddly jarring at to read people handling cash so much. In the last two years my main reasons for holding small change - taxis and buses - switched over to being cashless transactions thanks to apps and Leap cards. And it was SO weird that people didn't just Google things they didn't know (like song lyrics) and spent an evening watching soaps rather than proper television on Netflix. It reminded me of how long Sundays felt in my childhood, when shops weren't open and cinemas were closed and there was nothing good on terrestrial TV. Grim AF.
Overall, though, the thing that stood out was Juno's blithe disregard for the fact that, despite earning 16,000 pounds a year in print media, she could afford a mortgage in Clapham AND rent in Belsize Park. She is not remotely worried about this! Sure, at one point she has a conversation with her ex about how he needs to get the Clapham house sold, but there's not a single reference to how she eats too much avocado toast to deserve this. The fin de siecle mood of the nineties is definitely one of a protracted childhood: people doing lots of drugs, wearing body glitter, and assuming they could write a newspaper column and use it to buy a nice house in a nice part of London, and that none of this would ever collapse under the weight of its own implausibility.
Plus, she smokes, and I guess people thought that was cool and not a) dumb and b) gross in 1998.