I read this back to back with its companion - My Name is Lucy Barton. I'm glad I did. I don't think this would've made much sense if I hadn't.
Although it reads like a collection of short stories, if you've read Lucy, you'll realise it isn't, really. It's the filling in the fabric of a life, adding colour and depth to the story and detail to the lives of those we've grown to know and love.
The writing is beautifully done. Loads of gems, like
“society's been drugging its women for years” and
“He took down the curtains that hung in front of the blinds and washed them in the old washing machine. In his mind they were blue-gray curtains, but it turned out that they were off-white. He washed them a second time, and they were an even brighter off-white.”
I loved Lucy, and I enjoyed this one. It's a fairly quiet, gentle book. It didn't have the same emotional impact for me as the other, but a very pleasant way to pass the time, and no regrets for having done so this way.