I picked this lump up in a book swap on holiday and I can honestly say it's the worst book I have ever read.
The most annoying thing about it is that the first hundred pages or so aren't all bad, there some nice descriptive passages on the disjointed lives of low earners in luxury industries, and the ins and outs of working as a stylist, but it's downhill from there.
It soon reads like a coke fuelled rant by a wannabe fashionista whose mantra is "I'm not only devastatingly attractive, but also actually really intelligent and deep and talented and anyone who meets me quite rightly falls in love with me".
The author seems to imagine that the occasional dip into the 'glamorous world of fashion' is enticing enough to keep the reader hooked for nearly 500 pages. 500 pages of increasingly self indulgent raving, which slips in and out of what I imagine feels to her like a genius Irvine Welsh / Anthony Burgess style of phonetic drug fuelled prose, but it reads like a stress headache.
On several occasions I had to check that this book was actually written by a woman, as parts, especially sexual encounters and the protagonists reactions to them are bafflingly unfeminine.
By the time I was two thirds through I began to get the feeling that something exciting may be about to happen, it didn't. The ending was a dismal grinding to nothing, no resolution, no revelation, no reward for your investment of time.
It left me begging the question, 'where was the editor?' Why were Susan Irvine's amateurish 'I'm actually doing it, I'm writing writing a book! I need to fit as many references to the obscure French poetry I read in my degree in obscure French literature as is humanly possible' ramblings allowed to multiply exponentially until nothing remained but gobbledygook?
When I turned the last page I felt angry and cheated, I was reading it on a flight and I remember thinking I would happily decompress the plane if it meant I could open a window long enough to wang it out into infinity at 35,000ft.
Not recommended.