On page 144 of What You Did, Ali, our main character, the point of view which we are forced to follow and care about, has an epiphany. “If I wanted to keep my home, for my children’s sake, I had to get Mike’s case dropped, and fast.” Here we have a woman who allegedly works at a women’s shelter, advocating specifically for rape survivors, gearing herself up to present her best friend as a promiscuous liar so that the rape charge she has laid against Ali’s husband will be dropped. Why? So that her children can continue going to private school. I must reiterate: this is our protagonist. Keep that in mind as we begin the review.
Six old friends, close since their Oxford days, reunite for a party. Ali and husband Mike live a charmed middle class life just outside London with their two children. Second married couple Jodi and Callum are wealthy lawyers on the brink of having their first long awaited baby. The two singletons are Karen, Ali’s flighty best friend, and the reserved Bill, recently separated from his wife. Late into the night, Ali is roused from sleep. When she gets downstairs, Karen bursts through the back door wild with terror. Blood is running down her legs. She cries out that she has been raped – by Mike.
When I reached page 35, I made a note that predicted the major twist of this novel, including the identity of the rapist and how he had performed his operation. I know it was page 35, because I wrote “let it be known that if I’m right I predicted this on page 35.” And now I’m letting it be known, because as it happens I was right. This book has 284 pages, and its plot is pedestrian enough to be completely guessed within the first 35. Consequently, it immediately fails as a thriller. I can hardly write that the novel contains “twists and turns,” as the cliché goes, because each narrative beat ambles by with exhausting banality, never shocking, never impressive, never in any danger of outsmarting an observant reader.
A novel with a bland plot can often be redeemed by charming characters, or expert prose. Sadly, What You Did can boast neither. McGowan’s style is mostly nondescript, with only the occasional sprinkling of awful to catch your attention. One particularly shoddy excerpt made me laugh aloud:
“She didn’t blink. They probably trained them at teacher school.”
I checked the acknowledgements, and this book had at least three editors. Three people looked over this, saw “they probably trained them at teacher school,” and thought to themselves, “yeah, that’s fine. That sounds like a feasible thing for an Oxford graduate and semi-celebrated journalist in her mid-forties to say.” Teacher school. I am agog, I am aghast. It’s like something an eleven year old would write.
The characters, unlike the prose, do not have a mere sprinkling of awful. Awful has been dumped into them in the same manner as I dump cumin into most of the meals I make. Top unscrewed, right from the jar in a big lump. However, while a good lump of cumin can elevate lasagne, the same amount of awful scarcely does the same for your cast. It takes a master to put utterly terrible people to paper and make it work. Think Nabokov’s Humbert Humbert, Richardson’s Robert Lovelace, or Sade’s entire repertoire. Ali has none of the nuance or the self-consciousness of the aforementioned. She is possibly one of the worst protagonists I have ever had to suffer, and that is not a hammer which I can swing lightly. She is yet another example of an increasingly prevalent trope I am finding in contemporary fiction – that of the frumpy, motherly, self-righteous lead who holds a thinly veiled resentment for younger, prettier, more successful women. For someone whose feminist activism is blasted at the reader from the outset, Ali is an awful feminist. She continually slutshames and demeans women who lead lifestyles which are different to her own, from “yummy mummies” (page 93) to rape and murder victims whose ordeals “did not have to ruin anyone else’s life […] not when you were so pretty you were like a walking wound.” (page 101). These views are utterly inconsistent with someone who is a professional advocate for rape victims, and the fact that her husband is the accused is not a suitable explanation. Nor, indeed, does one sentence saying she’s “upset at what she has become” towards the end of the novel absolve her, especially when she faces no consequences whatsoever for her behaviour. If I was presented that justification in a university creative writing class, I would dry out a red marker by circling “show, don’t tell!” over and over again.
The worst part about Ali’s character is that nothing happens to her to make her realise that her actions have consequences. The confession of the rapist, relayed only to Ali, is taken as gospel despite the fact that she has been caught deliberately attempting to malign Karen’s character in order to have the charges dropped against Mike, and she ends the novel riding off into the sunset with a dream man and a better relationship with both her children and her estranged mother. This is not a satisfying end for a really quite detestable antihero who gets depressingly close to letting a rapist go free because she’s too self-obsessed and bitter. She does not deserve the ending which she is gifted. While I understand that McGowan is deliberately presenting Ali’s actions in such a way that is not meant to be likeable, it’s done with such little thought that it simply doesn’t work. Spending one sentence on Ali having a brief moment of self reflection does not make a novel’s worth of maliciousness disappear.
A shocking premise, one which required far more nuance than what is presented here.