It was Ernest Hemingway who once encouraged writers to begin with “one true sentence”. There are many such sentences in Charlotte Levin’s debut “If I Can’t Have You”, but this is her first: “Everyone stared.” Simple, effective, true, because, above all, this is a novel not about looking but rather, about the desire to be seen.
When a lonely young woman, Constance Little, develops an infatuation with Samuel, the new doctor at the private medical centre where she works, she is thrilled when he reciprocates. But when he ends their brief and passionate affair, the emotional wounds from her past come fully to the fore, turning her love into a dangerous obsession. The reductiveness of its premise - designed, no doubt, by the publishers to appeal to readers’ tireless appetite for thrills, is both a pity and a mistake. A mistake because this is not in essence a traditional psychological thriller; a pity because there is a danger that it will be overlooked by others. And that would be a shame, because this is a smart, compelling and utterly fascinating novel that lingers.
One thing it does have in common with others of its purported genre is its readability. There is a creepy compulsiveness to the story, a sense from the start that things are going to go tits up. You just don’t know how and when. In this sense it shares something in common with Harriet Lane’s Alys Always which also features a woman insinuating herself into the lives of others. What makes this protagonist’s journey so seductive, however, is both its plausibility and its possibility. We might like to believe that Constance Little is none of us, but in reality she is all of us, for who can tell what lies around the corner of our lives, what particular synergy of experiences, or accidents of birth will presage the perfect storm towards tragedy?
It is these past experiences which the book is really about, and Levin shows considerable skill in doling out the breadcrumbs that lead us to the complete picture at the end. Writers are often told to be selective in revealing backstory, but here it IS the story, the method of its telling illuminating yet again the novel’s themes of appearances versus reality; of grief; of longing; of loss.
Samuel’s inability to really see beyond Constance’s surface is where the problems begin, an opportunity for Levin to also explore - in often excoriating detail - the issues of class and gender. Samuel’s heedless sense of entitlement to both Constance and other women in the novel is governed by both these issues. Samuel comes from a world of expensive brandy-swilling, back-slapping bonhomie; a social butterfly used to getting what he wants, and whose idea of justifying his deplorable actions is to decide that women are sulking, clingy leeches who don’t know the meaning of a “good time” and dare to mistake shared intimacies and intense sexual acts as a “relationship”. Stereotypical, maybe, but we’ve come too far into the age of “me too” to not also understand the truth and damage in these seemingly natural abuses of power and influence.
This is not, of course, to suggest that Constance is merely a victim of Samuel’s circumstance. Protagonists are - or should be - extremes of their theme, and as her disturbing actions gradually escalate, Levin allows us to see at first hand the depths to which Constance will sink in order to achieve her desire to belong. These include, although are not limited to, manipulating the other men who come into her orbit, especially the eccentric and quietly grieving Edward and her creepily sweaty flatmate Dale. The authorial trick in this regard is to make most of the other characters so unpleasant by comparison, that you can’t help but weirdly root for Constance as the most likeable unlikeable character. One particular instance, involving a foot massage, had me physically squirming with its unpleasantness, as though watching Mike Leigh on acid.
What lends Levin such power in these moments is her inability or her refusal to shy away from the pain of these characters, detailing their idiosyncrasies with a bald, flat prose style that also lends itself to Constance’s increasingly fractured inner dialogue; the psychological and verbal ellipses that show her gradual loss of touch with reality. There are no ten dollar words here, and the novel is all the greater for them as we are allowed to simply sit back and watch her world implode, unencumbered by authorial lectures or agendas. Levin writes with the ear of a screenwriter and the timing of a stand up comedian and there were several laugh out loud moments, interspersed with the reading equivalent of peering through my fingers out of sheer discomfort. If Zoe Heller and John Osborne had a literary love-child, Levin would fit the part perfectly. Though not quite as nuanced as Barbara Covett in her obliviousness, nor as ranty as Jimmy Porter, Constance Little is nonetheless a novelistic tour-de-force to be reckoned with.
To those readers who come for a psychological thriller I say stay with this book, and it will repay you in far greater riches. To those who overlook it as not sounding quite serious enough, I urge you just to come. A rare five stars from me.
My thanks to NetGalley and to the publishers, PanMacmillan for a copy of the ARC in return for an honest review.
Content warning for references to self-harm and suicide.