I really struggled with this one — it was such a slow read, and I found myself checking how far I’d got through far more often than I’d like to admit. The pacing was glacial, and about 80% of the book felt like the same two chapters on repeat. Fiona spends endless pages fretting about how to make Rich hers for good, while Lydia worries just as much about keeping hold of him. It became exhausting after a while, not because of the drama, but because nothing ever really happened. I don’t mind a slow burn when it’s layered or psychologically tense, but this felt like it was going in circles.
The biggest issue for me, though, was Rich himself. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why either woman was so obsessed with him. He had no charm, no humour, no edge — just a bland, self-centred personality that made him utterly forgettable. I kept waiting for that “aha” moment that would explain the attraction, but it never came. It left the entire premise feeling a bit hollow, because the central love triangle just didn’t make sense when the man at the centre had the charisma of a damp sponge.
What really grated was how Lydia was portrayed. As a middle-aged housewife myself, I found it quite insulting. The narrative seemed to suggest that once you’re over a certain age, you’re automatically dull, frumpy, and desperate to cling to what little you have left — which is such an outdated and damaging trope. Middle-aged women are not invisible, and we’re certainly not lesser beings just because we have laugh lines and don’t spend our days worrying about whether we look “fresh”. The constant comparison between Lydia and the younger, glossier Fiona felt unnecessarily cruel, as if the author wanted to make a point about fading beauty rather than explore anything deeper about relationships or self-worth. It honestly made me quite uncomfortable at times.
The only saving grace was the final 20%. Once the real story finally started to emerge, it was noticeably more engaging. There was tension, some actual plot movement, and a glimpse of the psychological thriller I’d been expecting all along. Unfortunately, it came far too late. After all that slow build-up, the ending felt oddly rushed — like the author had suddenly realised she needed to cram the real twists into the final few chapters. It could have been a much stronger book if that balance had been reversed.
By the time I reached the last page, I felt more relief than satisfaction. I can’t say it was a good read for me, and I doubt it’ll stick in my mind for long. I’m not sure why I persevered, maybe just stubbornness, but it’s one I’ll probably forget within a week. I’ve read and enjoyed Valerie Keogh’s writing before, but this one just didn’t hit the mark at all — too repetitive, too shallow in its characterisation, and too dismissive of women my age to ever really sit comfortably.