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400 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 2021
Wellington, sometime in the future. Thirty-seven-year-old Alice, who has an IQ of 159 (missing the ‘genius’ mark by just 1 point), is stuck in a dead-end job and frustrated of the change wrought about by the climate change. The situation is worsened by the wealthy immigrants – ‘wealthugees’ – who are flocking to New Zealand and affecting the local economy by purchasing land and driving up prices, making the situation worse for residents. But Alice is a slacker, and does nothing to change the situation except complain.
When one hot wealthugee asks Alice to take care of his fifteen-year-old daughter Erika for a few days in exchange for a large sum, Alice readily quits her job. But she doesn’t realise that Erika is a fellow genius, and carries many more secrets. Alice’s life isn’t going to be the same anymore.
The story comes to us in the first person perspective of Alice.
Like many people throughout my life, Nick had seen a lot of potential in me. Nick loved my potential and believed that through careful attention and care he would free me of whatever it was that was obviously holding me back from fulfilling it. He would say things like, You’re so clever, you should join MENSA. You have such original ideas, you should write a novel. Nick mistook his love of my potential as love for me. I understood right from the start that this was the case, but I did not try to disabuse him because there was no point. Saviours are very determined people. Also – I was still young enough to feel a kind of pride in someone loving my potential. It was almost like having someone love me.
Since the wealthugees had started pouring into the city more than a year earlier, I’d had a number of casual encounters with men, new arrivals at the end of the world. The problem with them was that they mostly wanted to talk about living in a new country and where they could get good coffee and their trauma and which was the best gym to work out in. I didn’t want to hear their stories and I couldn’t help them. They’d paid for a nice bottle of wine and mistaken me for someone who listened. Their stories were all the same. Their countries were flooded, burning or in drought. They ran from civil wars and useless governments, and they all had the money to leave. I got fed up with them. I pointed out to one guy that he was lucky. He’d been able to come to New Zealand because his family could offer large amounts of money in return for residency; they could afford a small piece of land on which to build a house. He didn’t like that. He slapped my face and yelled at me, saying I didn’t understand what he’d lost. Then, to make it worse, he sat on the floor and cried and begged me to forgive him because he had PTSD. It took me ages to get him out of my house.