I bought this book around a decade ago completely based on the back cover description. Specifically what sold the book for me was the part where the back of book blurb alludes to the female protagonist drinking salad dressing alone in her Manhattan appartment. I thought, with a premis like that, it sounded right up my alley.
Turns out that whole judging a book by its cover business, is correct, because seriously, what a dissapointment. To begin with, the real main character isn't even said female protagonist. To continue, neither of them had any qualities that I found likeable, and the most realistic and believable character throughout the entire book, was the shithead roomate to the male protagonist, who'd had an affair with the female protagonist before the two had ever known eachother, let alone begun sleeping together.
I mean, really, what can you expect when the first chapter basically lays out for you that the leading man stalks/manipulates the leading lady? It seems that the entire story is supposed to be Their story, with the roomate and the cook thrown in to balance the foils, but bottom line is, Justine and Barry are boring, and irritating people.
I did read it, and I had to force myself to get through to the end, hoping there'd be something worthwile about Barry or Justine, something I connected with, something profound and educating.
It wasn't badly written, it wasn't even a bad story really. There were parts I laughed at, a handful of situations I recognized as having been present in my own life, but overall it fell short of my expectations. Of course my expectations had more to do with the idea that Justine would be drinking salad dressing, which as it turns out never once happened in the course of the book. So.