The Lovers by Vendela Vida

San Francisco writer Vendela Vida’s The Lovers is a classic slow-burner. The premise is simple: an American woman, two years widowed, journeys back to the idyllic seaside town in Turkey where she honeymooned 28 years earlier.

She is due to spend nine days at a rented house in Datça before meeting her son Matthew and his fiancée on a cruise. The companionship of Matthew’s erstwhile sister Aurelia, whose troubles with addiction were a source of shame for her parents, is unconfirmed. But upon arrival in Datça, Yvonne’s well-laid plans are set awry by the disinterment of memories and the appearance of her peculiar landlord Ali and his erratic wife Ozlem.

The first thing that occurred to me on finishing the book was that I still didn’t know who ‘the lovers’ were – on the face of it, there aren’t any to be found. Presumably the title refers to Yvonne and Peter on their Datça honeymoon, an event on which Yvonne reflects only intermittently, instead dwelling at more length on the beginning and end of their relationship.

Indeed, Vida’s imagining of the pair’s not-so-chance meeting is the loveliest passage in a book where most of the beauty is found in the writer’s delicate recreation of the coastal environs, the scent of the air and ocean and the flora. (The time Vida spent in Turkey to prepare the novel was well spent.)

None of the other couples are easily seen as lovers, and most are glimpsed only from a distance – we never meet Matthew and his betrothed, or Aurelia’s boyfriend. On a boating trip Yvonne encounters Carol and Jimson, a disengaged but reflexively polite couple with whom Yvonne reluctantly exchanges contact details at the end of the day, knowing that “their time on Cleopatra’s Island, and her story of Peter’s death, would blur into other stories they heard and movies they saw – if they remembered any detail at all.”

Such vagueness permeates – some might say maims – The Lovers. (At times I found myself peering at the pages, trying to make out precisely what Vida was seeking to express.) She sets up potential sub-plots that never quite come to fruition, such as the peculiar relationship between Ali and Ozlem (another of the non-lovers). Yvonne’s discovery of a sex toy in the quiet house is followed by a series of unannounced visits by each, but the embryonic storyline is discarded without a satisfying resolution.

It is as if she had one idea for her story, but cast it aside when she happened upon a more interesting relationship, the one set up halfway through the novel between Yvonne and Ahmet, a young local boy who makes a living as a shell collector. It is their meeting that prompts the single dramatic event of the novel, and shatters the air of nostalgia and muffled grief that threatens to swamp it.

Vida is a writer of exceptional capacity, which in The Lovers serves to outshine her characters. Don’t be surprised if you are left with a strange yearning for the sea.

2.5 / 5 stars: Written with rare beauty, The Lovers leaves you feeling that something has eluded you.

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The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid by Catherine Robertson

Once in a while I happen upon a book that is so mood-lifting, so stonkingly readable and plain fun, that I finish it feeling the urge to surreptitiously drop copies everywhere I go, like a compulsive literary-litterer. When such a book is penned by a Kiwi and therefore just cause for a moment of patriotic pride, it’s all the sweeter.

Though that adjective crops up in the title, The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid avoids becoming saccharine through the deft application of wit and the resolute refusal of the heroine to take anything – including her own grief – too seriously.

Romance novelist Darrell – no, she doesn’t know why her parents chose that name either – is in her mid-30s and has been married for 10 years when her husband Tom drops dead from a heart attack immediately after completing a half-marathon.

Stunned and anchorless, Darrell flees New Zealand for London, where she encounters the first in a perfectly cast parade of supporting characters who add spice and depth to what will become her second life. Darrell strikes a discounted rental deal for a mid-renovation townhouse in Islington, and finds Clare, her hormonally-imbalanced five-months’-pregnant landlady, oscillating comically between tears, fits of jealousy and wild accusations of criminality directed at hapless tradesmen.

In the neighbourhood coffee shop, a haven for lonely and embattled souls, the plot thickens. Darrell espies two intriguing characters who earn the secret nicknames Mr Perfect and Miss Flaky. Upon being formally introduced to each, she strikes up a friendship with Mr Perfect – Claude, short for Claudius (the nameplay continues; Claude’s siblings are Augusta and Marcus).

Marcus, compelling in a way playboy characters rarely are, softens some of the edges of Darrell’s grief, but the hard work is hers alone to do. We know he’s not quite the right fit, and that if the book is as good on the final page as it promises to be throughout, Robertson will find the perfect resolution. She does.

With the confidence of a seasoned scribe, Robertson knows just where to direct her pen, and her choice of Darrell’s occupation gives her reason to reflect on the subtle distinctions of the genre: “Category romances are sold as a packaged line, each identified by a name like Captivate or Smouldering Liaisons, which is essentially a key to how filthy the books are.”

Occasional email exchanges between Darrell and her married-with-children best friend Michelle are alone worth the retail price:

DARRELL: He’s invited me to a garden party.

LADY MO: At Bucky Palais? Yeepers! Get out your hat!

Billed by the publisher as a romantic comedy in the chick-lit genre, The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid does tick those boxes . . . but I’m reluctant to see it categorized too sternly in case it causes some to pass it by. For it’s hard to see how the book could have been any better, more assured or engaging. Robertson is a new national treasure.

3.5 / 5 stars: Astonishingly good. A new Kiwi treasure has been found.

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Goddess of Love by P C Cast

Any genre mash-up risks making unwitting comedy, but the practiced hand of American writer P C Cast lends an air of plausibility to the most unlikely of proceedings (Greek gods descending from Mount Olympus to find their true loves in the American Midwest?).

Earlier books in Cast’s ‘Goddess Summoning’ series have seen mortals elevated to the realm of the gods, but in this fifth installment, Goddess of Love, the fantasy and paranormal romance scribe turns the tables. Here we find that high-profile goddess – known to the Greeks as Venus and the Romans as Aphrodite – lonely and dissatisfied in her marriage of amicable convenience to Vulcan, the god of fire.

Meanwhile, back on Earth Dorreth Chamberlain, known as Pea, is flailing. A resident of Tulsa, Oklahoma (where the author lives when not in Grand Cayman Island or Scotland), Pea has a plum job as director of the city’s community college’s continuing education department, but harbours unrequited lust for a spunky local firefighter, Griffin, whom she meets when he rescues her Scottish terrier from a tree. (The pup who thinks she’s a cat is something of a standing joke, and comes in handy when Venus needs to convince Pea of her immortal and omnipotent status.)

The goddess and the human meet following a chance trip to Borders where, seeking inspiration, Pea happens upon a book titled Discover the Goddess Within – Unleash Venus and Open Your Life to Love, by a writer with the portentous name of Juno Panhellenius. Pea opens the pages, utters a goddess-summoning invocation, and Venus is shortly thereafter at her elbow, vowing as bidden to bring happiness and ecstasy into her life.

Handily, Venus knows what to expect from her earthly descent and is able to settle in fast, having earlier been clued in to the characteristics of modern cities by Persephone, who has been taking diverting mini-breaks in Tulsa via a portal kept open by her mother Demeter (precisely why is not clear).

As Pea and Venus set to the ecstasy task, Vulcan, observing from Mount Olympus, develops a crush on the hapless mortal. Then Venus meets Griffin, and sparks fly. Cue what is surely one of the most raunchy, comical and inventively absurd parties ever to feature in the young-adult-skewed-fantasy-paranormal-romance-set-in-Oklahoma canon, when Venus has an impassioned encounter with Griffin and Pea becomes the delighted object of Vulcan’s ardent attentions.

Things get briefly sticky when Pea learns of Venus’ betrayal and all characters are confronted with the apparently insurmountable hurdle of the fact of human mortality, but Cast does a fine job of maintaining a largely light tone, thanks in part to her wry observations about the eccentricities of 21^st century life (Venus, fond of dispensing and consuming ambrosia, is puzzled when Pea talks of ‘taking a Xanax’, but reassured when it is described to her as ‘ambrosia in a pill’).

Fans of the Goddess Summoning series will no doubt find it pleasing, and newcomers are likely to be both surprised and amused by the explicit extent of the toga-ripping. Entertained new readers should note that this volume was published in the US in 2007 and the series has since seen three further additions.

2 / 5 stars: Strictly for young adults.

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Before the Poison by Peter Robinson

In the depths of winter, nothing beats a mind-bending detective story, and happily, August brings a new edition from one of the best operators in the game. At first, Peter Robinson’s Before the Poison appears to tread familiar ground – lonely man moves into moody old Yorkshire countryside manor and becomes embroiled in decades-old local mystery – but soon we are being led through uncharted thickets and bramble. Is it a psychological thriller? The cracking of a cold case? The tale of a woman wronged?

It’s all of the above, and more. For starters, there’s the tragic glamour of the premise. Lovely and capable Grace Fox is reminiscent of a Douglas Sirk heroine, with her triumphant wartime nursing exploits, her much older doctor husband and young son, and her management of a large, impressive home, Kilnsgate House.

The first sign that the wheels are off emerges one grim New Year’s Day evening when, following a dinner party at their home, Ernest Fox succumbs to what appears to be a massive heart attack. The misery is compounded by the fact that Grace and her dinner guests are snowed in with the corpse for two days before the alarm can be raised, and matters take a turn for Hades proper when it is revealed that Grace has been having an affair with a younger local man, and an autopsy raises questions about the manner of death.

The Crown avers that Grace poisoned her husband in order to be with her lover, the jury convicts, and in 1953 40-year-old Grace is hanged.

The present-day story begins with Christopher Lowndes, an Oscar-winning composer of film scores, buying Kilnsgate House from a mystery seller. Leeds-born, Lowndes has lived in Los Angeles for the past 35 years, raising two children there with his wife Laura, whose death has prompted a return to his homeland.

Setting him up in the house is Heather Barlow, attractive, 15 years his junior and in a joyless marriage. Naturally, some frivolities ensue, but more importantly, Heather furnishes Lowndes with the aforementioned historical data, and there is only one thing for a lonely, inquisitive widower of means and unusual sensitivity to do – figure out whether Grace did it, whether she was framed or the pathologist was mistaken, or if some other oddness is at work.

The inquiry takes Lowndes from Richmond, Yorkshire to South Africa and rural France, as a series of colourful supporting characters is sought out and delicately drilled for information about Grace and her life with Ernest. Each yields valuable clues. The careful pacing makes reading Before the Poison feel at times like opening the cardboard doors of an advent calendar – a treat, and a step closer to paydirt.

The brilliance of the novel lies in Robinson’s refusal to ever allow his reader to feel the ground is stable. Not only is it difficult to pinpoint a genre, it is impossible to predict what conclusion Lowndes will reach about Grace, or what his ultimate discovery will do to him.

Equally, only the most jaded will find themselves unmoved by Grace’s story. Before the Poison constitutes the perfect balance of journey and destination, and is another triumph for the masterful Robinson.

3 / 5 stars: Eerie and unforgettable.

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On Canaan’s Side by Sebastian Barry

Almost as soon as I put down my completed copy of Sebastian Barry’s On Canaan’s Side, my hunch that it would be judged widely pleasing was borne out when it was listed alongside 12 others on the annual Man Booker Prize longlist. It is not the first time Barry has been in the running for the Commonwealth’s most prestigious prize for fiction: he was shortlisted in 2005 for A Long Long Way and again three years later for The Secret Scripture.

The multitalented (plays, novels and poetry) Irishman is due, and On Canaan’s Side would be a worthy laureate not least because it handles the complex subject of grief with rare economy, while showing the seismic power of sudden and premature loss.

The protagonist is the elderly Lilly Bere, a Chicagoan who was forced to flee Dublin with her doomed fiancé at the end of the First World War. On Canaan’s Side opens in the immediate aftermath of the suicide of her 20-something grandson, Bill, and proceeds through her experience of grief until its arresting halt 17 days later.

Which is not to say it is all about Bill – in fact the narrative, stark in content yet laden with Barry’s usual lovely wordcraft, evokes a sombre, reflective mood largely through a series of flashbacks that constitute a biography of Lilly’s 89 years. The loss of Bill – her only surviving relative – is one more in a series, and the story of her endurance of it is powerful in its simplicity. There are few who can craft something so remarkable out of the most ordinary, and Barry lets none of the effort that must have been required be perceived.

Lilly’s life has been no pretty picture. She has lost a homeland, a brother and son to war, and a not-quite-husband to civilian bullets. Her son Ed, though alive, is buried in the post-traumatic stress of Vietnam, and his toddler proves Lilly’s saviour as she devotes her later years to raising him. But Bill’s life unfolds as if in mirthless mimicry of his grandmother’s, and by his early 20s he has emerged from his own divorce and a stint in the second Gulf War. It is as if Lilly’s steeliness loses its potency down the generations, with Ed retaining his life if not his sanity, and Bill proving unable to cling to either.

Throughout, Barry’s prose is jaw-dropping, and the beauty of his writing – “those long-limbed creaturely fogs that walk in against the Hamptons like armies, whether attacking or defeated, whether going out or returning home is hard to say” – will surely contribute to his elevation once more to the Booker shortlist. Indeed, war is a prominent theme, both as a literal reference and perhaps a metaphorical allusion to the daily, subconscious practice of guarding against death.

The ending cannot be objectively defined as either happy or sad, but it is entirely natural. The final lesson of On Canaan’s Side may be that one is never too old or world-weary to elude devastation, and that an aged heart, its defenses weakened by life, is perhaps the kind most afflicted by sorrow.

4 / 5 stars: There might well be a Booker in it.

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The German Boy by Patricia Wastvedt

It is in 1947 London that Patricia Wastvedt opens her latest novel, The German Boy, with Stefan Landau, “this white-skinned, bruise-eyed German”, landing in Dover and journeying to London to be met by his aunt, Elisabeth, the sister of Stefan’s English mother, Karen.

Elisabeth is apprehensive at the arrival of this near-stranger, and for good reason – 16-year-old Stefan, enigmatic, taciturn and only recently freed from the Hitler Youth’s death grip, can barely hide his disdain for his English relatives, the only family he still has. In this, he is very much his father’s son, and the story of what became of his Fuhrer-loving parents in Nazi Germany is just one of the narrative pearls Wastvedt plants for her reader to prise out as they make their way through this rich, absorbing novel.

Stefan remains oblivious to the (perhaps typical) messiness of his family’s evolution since the end of the First World War, but the more fortunate reader has the pleasure of returning, from this opening, to 1927. Here is introduced the novel’s pivotal character, a young artist named Michael Ross, who will become both subject and cause of sisterly obsession and the estrangement of Karen and Elisabeth.

Michael’s family is damaged in a way not unusual for the time: his father Albert was severely disabled in a 1917 mustard attack in France and is cared for by Michael’s mother Vera. Michael’s Jewish ancestry, though it’s of no consequence to the Rosses or their acquaintances, will become a matter of great import later in the story, when Karen (whom, he met, along with Elisabeth, through his sister Rachel in their school years) introduces him to her thoroughly propagandized German husband.

The beastly Artur Landau is a well-drawn, grim echo of the many willing servants of the Third Reich. Karen is in love with him and is thrilled to give birth to their son, but their marriage is one of convenience (not least because, by this reviewer’s reading, Awful Artur doesn’t bat for Karen’s team). As menacing as the Fuhrer himself, Artur’s actions catalyze much of the fast-moving second half of the story, which leaps from the early 1930s and the establishment of Nazi Germany to 1947, following the divergence of Karen and Elisabeth’s familial paths. These passages, crafted with imagination and empathy, make The German Boy an historical novel that is a cut above the rest.

Wastvedt demonstrates a remarkable knack for evoking the many small kindnesses and unexpected fellowships that bolstered the bruised survivors of two unholy wars. One character, striking up a conversation with a night porter at a train station one chilly evening, ends up giving the virtual stranger 20 acres of land he owns in the Romney Marsh.

Years later that kind man becomes Elisabeth’s husband, and we can see that event owes more to her recognition of her need for his goodness than to romantic love. But this is Wastvedt’s point – there is no horror in the mundanity of the everyday, when you have seen the alternatives.

3.5 / 5 stars: A family’s story, told with delicacy and daring.

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Last Summer by Kylie Ladd

A novel about the aftermath of a sudden death shouldn’t be warm and uplifting, but Australian neuropsychologist-turned-novelist Kylie Ladd’s Last Summer is above all a tale of lightness. It’s also absorbing, and harmonious in spite of the many schisms it describes.

The death is that of Rory, a 39-year-old family man who collapses from an aortic aneurysm at a practice for his social cricket team. Rory was beloved by his circle of close friends: his sister Kelly and her husband Joe, James and the aloof Anita, Nick and Laine, and Pete and Trinity. There are small children, jobs and businesses, unvoiced resentments and unfinished or yet-to-begin romantic business. The loss of Rory, whose mischievous, rebellious persona was the group’s fulcrum, creates an immediate and predictable fragmentation.

Ladd opts for probably the best, and certainly the most straightforward, way to tell such a character-driven story – she gives several characters two or three chapters each. It reads as a series, over the ensuing year, of chronological vignettes offering glimpses into lives unified by shared history.

The death occurs in the first chapter and is seen from the viewpoint of Nick, Rory’s oldest and closest friend. In his absorption, Nick fails to notice Laine’s subsequent reconnection with a past love, a subplot which exemplifies Ladd’s close-reading of the effects of grief. She doesn’t care to show us the wailing and gnashing, but rather the real ramifications of loss experienced by those too young to be especially accustomed to it. As one character turns away from their own spouse, they might turn towards another’s – everyone seeking comfort, but causing greater ruptures.

The novel is unmistakably Australian, with every page seeming sun-drenched, from the barbecues to the after-work cricket practices and the Antipodean lingo – one character’s incipient football career ended when he “did his ankle”, while an irate Joe accuses his distracted teammates of playing like a “pack of [expletive] sheilas!”

And in its study of the male-female dynamic – much of the action seems driven by grief-heightened hormones – Last Summer is, unexpectedly, a novel about gender politics. The women are headstrong and self-possessed, at least in domains familiar to them. Laine is an accomplished architect, Trinity a social worker, Kelly a business owner, and Colleen, Rory’s widow, a former head nurse in an A&E department.

Anita, a stay-at-home mother, feels young, inadequate and alien by comparison, but it is she who acts most assertively in relation to her marriage, and Laine who turns out to have the weakest hold on her sense of self.

Women control Last Summer’s middle-class suburbia, if not the world, and whether these marriages fracture or endure will depend on the choices made solely by the wives. Joe is portrayed as lost and yearning, for his wife, whose unusually close relationship with her brother only intensifies with his death. Another husband is spurned altogether.

Ladd’s characters are not especially introspective, and their responses to the tragedy are entirely consistent with the personalities she gives them. The story of grief and its corollaries is one that will never grow tired, and Ladd’s version, vivid and unsentimental, is oddly heartening, and well worth reading for it.

3 / 5 stars: Australian suburbanites get sad, go a little mad.

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State of Wonder by Ann Patchett

Of all the memorable scenes in Ann Patchett’s extraordinary outsiders-in-the-Amazon novel State of Wonder, the passage in which a small boy fights an anaconda might be the most brain-searing. As the protagonist, Dr Marina Singh, struggles to pull the snake from his body as it slowly squeezes away his life, the tail begins “to wrap around her wrist. It was a muscle like nothing she had ever encountered. It did not fight against her. It did not notice her.”

But then, it’s hard to pick just one: it’s a tale in which a Caesarean section is performed on a septuagenarian, and deep in a jungle alive with mosquitoes, a tribe lives free from malaria. That it all makes perfect sense, could be no other way, is testament to Patchett’s inventiveness and dexterity as a storyteller.

The boy in question is Easter, a deaf-mute abandoned by his tribe who has fetched up with the enigmatic, brilliant Dr Annick Swenson, like Marina an employee of pharmaceutical company Vogel. Eight years ago Swenson ventured into the wilds of Brazil to uncover the secrets of a hyper-fertile tribe, and she is yet to present her results. Increasingly impatient, Vogel has dispatched one Dr Anders Eckman to retrieve her, but as the novel opens, Marina receives a letter from Swenson announcing his death from fever.

Stricken both for herself – she and Eckman shared a laboratory for years – and for his wife and sons, and seeking respite from a tentative relationship with another, older colleague, Marina takes over Eckman’s mission to lure Swenson back.

The title may refer to many facets of this treasure-chest of a story: the boundless mysteries of this Amazonian settlement and the fecund Lakashi; the professional obsession that drives Swenson to subject herself to experimentation; the dream-state, a mixture of horror, fear, fascination and joy, that characterizes Marina’s experience in the jungle; and the reader’s absorption in a story of incomparable majesty.

Swenson’s two areas of research are counterpoints: her discoveries about the reasons for the prolonged fertility of Lakashi women (Marina is confronted by the sight of a heavily pregnant 70-something on more than one occasion, and the Lakashi birth rate is five times that of other tribes in the region) will be of enormous value in the West, where infertility is on the rise in some demographics.

Meanwhile, what this research has revealed about the unique local flora leads Swenson to discover an apparent natural inoculation against malaria, still a widely fatal disease in many tropical developing countries.

Patchett’s mastery of a world in which many writers have stumbled is perhaps the most notable aspect of this deeply impressive work. State of Wonder, in theme and nature, is subject to comparison with Joseph Conrad’s seminal Heart of Darkness, but its feminine perspective and distinctly 21^st-century sensibility are among many marked differences between the two.

She creates heart-wrenching scenarios that are neither melodramatic nor unempathetic, merely human. The idiosyncrasies of the Lakashi are presented as no more peculiar than that of Swenson, and watching the latter’s impenetrable cloak fall, her secrets surface, is thrilling. As if infused with the seemingly magic plants she describes in her story, Patchett has put the human condition under a microscope and emerged with a novel of lasting greatness.

4 / 5 stars: A tale of the unexpected, told by a virtuoso.

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A Tiny Bit Marvellous by Dawn French

At last, comedienne nonpareil (as her Oscar Battle might say) Dawn French has turned her prodigious talents towards fiction. Her first book, her 2008 memoir Dear Fatty, met with rapturous applause and triggered, French says in the authorial Q&A that ends her first novel A Tiny Bit Marvellous, a love of writing solo that took her by surprise, and a new desire to write fiction. And the prolific output for which she is known is no less evident in this new medium – even as this delightful family comedy hits shop shelves, she is at work on her sophomore novel, with a fresh set of characters.

A Tiny Bit Marvellous – a Frenchian title if ever there was one – is the story of the Battle family, specifically psychologist mum Mo, stroppy 17-year-old Dora, and her younger brother Peter, who wishes to be known as Oscar in a nod to his hero Oscar Wilde and who may be the most unabashedly, colourfully camp teen character ever committed to the pages of a comic novel.

Mo has hit the wall of middle age, feeling, as her sagacious mother Pamela points out, that she is no longer admired. Walking down the street one day, she catches sight of a nondescript woman in a drab grey coat in the reflection of a shop window. The shock of this vision of herself, combined with a 20-year-old, pleasant but unexciting marriage and life with teenagers, sends Mo spinning in the direction of a tryst with a new colleague, Noel, whose New Zealandness, she amusingly observes, adds to his “exoticism.”

Dora, hopeful, insecure and mercurial, lurches between fad diets and endless Facebook conversations, obsesses over plans for her 18^th birthday party and litters her speech with “like” and “Oh my complete and utter God”, pausing periodically to fire off “I h8 you” texts to a hapless Mo.

Oscar is an utter joy and deserves a novel all of his own. A film too. He is foppish and fearless and exceptionally well-drawn, and his scenes with Pamela, to whose home he decamps for his beloved banoffee pie when the strain of yearning for a proper smoking jacket becomes too much, are as sweet as the pie (for which French includes the recipe).

It is to French’s credit that she finds such depth in what could be dimensionless characters: she plumbs beneath Dora’s monstrous carapace to the vulnerable, appealing girl beneath, contrasting the delicate nature of her ego with Oscar’s unstereotypical sureness of self (I couldn’t watch him shift his affections from Noel to a tragedy-stricken schoolmate without grinning).

It is written in diary form, with brief chapters switching between each of the three primary characters’ perspectives and voices. Mr Battle garners only one chapter of his own, but it’s a doozy, and brings to a climax a storyline that takes a while to gather steam. As French notes in the Q&A, she realized she was “a third of the way through and hadn’t started the main part of the story yet . . . I had to go back and start threading in a bit of tension.”

This does show in the finished product, but no matter – the slow-burn effect adds oomph to the affecting resolution of this story of the Battles. It’s more than a bit marvellous.

3.5 / 5 stars: A great comedienne’s detour into fiction is a treasure for the reader.

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Afterwards by Rosamund Lupton

A mother, her two children and a fire at their elite private school. It’s another stomach-churning premise from English writer Rosamund Lupton, following last year’s bestselling missing-person drama Sister.

Afterwards is a curious mélange, part quasi-ghost story, part family drama and part suspense thriller. It works – sort of.

When the fire breaks out, 17-year-old student nurse Jenny is in the highly flammable art classroom at the top of the building. Grace, attending the school sports day in which her son Adam is competing, sees the flames and rushes into the building in search of her daughter. Both are badly injured.

That the fire was caused by arson is established, as is – in Grace’s mind, at least – a short-list of suspects. (Momentarily we will come to how Grace can be acting as private detective when she is comatose in a hospital bed.)

One is Donald White, the husband of Grace’s friend Maisie and father of Jenny’s schoolmate Rowena, who suffered burns to her hands while attempting to rescue Jenny. Another is Annette Jenks, the dippy new secretary who is found to have been careless about her upkeep of the school’s comprehensive security protocols.

Then there is the woman Annette replaced, Elizabeth Fisher, recently forced into retirement. Finally, there is Silas Hyman, a disgruntled ex-staff member whose circumstances scream motive and who Lupton dangles in front of her reader like a carrot for much of the novel’s 470 pages.

Silas was fired from his teaching position over a playground incident in which a child suffered two broken legs. Though we are never encouraged to believe that he was guilty of the negligence of which he was accused (and Lupton comes up with an extraordinary child-sociopath for an alibi), his messy marriage and the suggestion of an entanglement with Jenny consume much of Grace’s attention – even as we know she should be looking elsewhere.

Afterwards is a book in which the darkest things happen. The backstory of Silas Hyman’s sacking is savage, the tale the principal spins to parents to explain the departure of the much-loved secretary is downright cruel, and the climax is designed to leave you feeling a little less safe in the world.

But whether you find Afterwards absorbing or irritating will largely depend on your ability and inclination to suspend disbelief, for the plot trick that allows Lupton’s two principals, Grace and Jenny, to exercise omniscience despite being unconscious and immobile in hospital beds is their evolution into living ghosts. They can roam the halls of the hospital, eavesdrop on conversations and even venture outside in the company of their loved ones, who are unaware of their sub-spectral presence.

They sit in on the interrogations conducted by Grace’s policewoman sister-in-law and spy on those Grace has pinpointed as suspects, meeting periodically to review their findings. It’s not dissimilar in spirit and mission to Audrey Niffenegger’s Her Fearful Symmetry and will seem preposterous to some, but Lupton’s empathy for her characters and engrossing narration of what becomes a search for justice is admirable.

2.5 / 5 stars: An engrossing mélange.

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