Like punters eyeing the runners and riders before a horse race, publishers and readers are on the look-out for the next Sally Rooney. With her debut novel Wet Paint, Chloë Ashby places herself towards the front of a crowded field in the Rooney stakes.
Consider the similarities between Eve, the main character in London-based Wet Paint, and Frances in Rooney's debut Conversations with Friends. Young, artistic woman in the big city (like author, like protagonist), alcoholic father, precarious finances and love life, mental health consequences. Early on, there's an incipient triangle. Eve's landlord-flatmates Karina and Bill are 'kind to everyone except each other'. But Eve and Bill stop at the semi-naked stage, and the romantic interest soon pivots to an on-off relationship with Eve's school boyfriend, echoing Rooney's Normal People. Max is handsome, thoughtful, and loves his Irish mam. Jane Austen fans will note that he inherited enough to put down a deposit on his flat in north London. (Ashby leaves it at that; Austen would probably have told us the flat's latest estimate on Zoopla, and the ratio of Max's mortgage to his salary as an assistant bar manager).
Female friendship, in Rooney's books and in Ashby's, is at least as important as sex. Eve's best friend Grace looms all the larger because she's dead. That doesn't stop Eve talking to her. Eve's mother is worse than dead - she's out there somewhere, and Eve has heard nothing from or about her since she left when Eve was little. Bereft of the two vital women in her life, Eve spends an hour a week, psychotherapy-style, confessing her anxieties to a Manet portrait of a barmaid at the Courtauld Gallery.
Eve's conscience, like that of her biblical namesake, is a puzzle. She feels mortified about her one-off, drunken fumbling with Bill, but her habitual kleptomania is apparently qualm-free, even in her innermost thoughts. It started as borrowing - she wears her mother's clothes, so why not wear her flatmate's? Maybe Eve told herself she was only borrowing the fruit from the tree. It's then a small step to borrowing a stranger's headphones permanently, and a big step to borrowing a child.
When Eve she says 'every woman for herself,' she's touching on a theme. Her bewilderment as to why her mother left is heart-breaking, and leaves one sympathising more with the mother than with the father, whose only explanation is that she was 'artistic' and 'loopy'. She follows her mother's example and leaves her father alone in a decrepit flat with his chipped mug full of whisky. Nina, Max's steely boss at a City cocktail bar, hires Eve on the spot when she finds out she has just lost her restaurant job after slapping a regular who groped her. Eve, with clear theological overtones, was almost saved by her friend Grace. That she must now live without Grace, stealing and lying and wrecking relationships, is not her fault. Grace died because of her predatory boss-turned-boyfriend, one of a cast of villains who make up the majority of the male characters. The plot's latter stages complicate the feminist theme, however, with Max turning into a saviour because Eve can't look after herself.
The story is told in the first person, and in the still more intimate second person when intrusive memories of Grace sprinkle the story with unprocessed grief. There are occasional shifts between past and present tenses, which can feel like clunky gear changes. In one paragraph, Eve is having a past-tense conversation Karina in their London flat. In the next, without a break, we're in the present tense, and Karina is in Norway. It made sense the second time, after I restarted the chapter like a learner driver after a stall.
Despite tension with tenses, Ashby's prose is funny, perceptive, and immersive. She makes the reader feel present in the scene with her attention to physical and psychological detail, from the drum-roll of a boiling kettle to the myriad reasons why Eve is not fine when she says 'I'm fine.' Ashby has more jokes than Rooney, but she also goes to darker places, in the violence that her characters inflict on each other and on themselves.