The Awkward Art of Socialising

There was a lot of discussion about white writers writing as black characters (Kathryn Stockett’s The Help, for example); this novel is about a man who writes the entire novel in the voice and first person narrator of a 57 year old woman. I am not intending to jump on any bandwagons, but I must say from the very outset, I thought the narrator’s voice was either quite masculine, or slightly autistic, or both. Not that these traits detract in the least from the merit of a piece of writing, nor even from the authenticity, just it was noticeably not very feminine in its consciousness or voice.

We soon find out that Barbara has been twice married and divorced, has a grown up son, Ezra, and daughter in law, Erin, and a grandchild, Scottie. She lives on her own in an apartment which is furnished with antique furniture she loves very much, but she has no real savings or pension. She also by her own standards has come down in the world, from proper office jobs, to being employed (by the Arahalls) in a very up market deli in Market Hall. The novel begins with Barbara preparing a dinner for her best friend, Susan, who comes, but instead of dinner, they have a 5 hour break up argument, which Susan had prepared for with a list, and which Barbara seemed to have had no inkling of. Thereafter, the novel is all about Barbara looked for a best friend replacement.

The search is quite unrelenting and deliberate. Barbara makes a list of where she can meet new people to find a Susan replacement, and she realises, there are not many places. So she sizes up the people in her orbit, especially work, as possible candidates for the newly vacant best friend position, almost like a job interview for them. Of course, she thinks about what might or might not suit her; she is not really asking about what the other person may want or prefer. That said, Barbara is not completely unself-aware:

“It’s not a mystery to me why I have trouble keeping people around. I know I am difficult, and at my age, I’m unlikely to change substantially before I die. I just want to find someone I can be difficult with, without turning on each other” (p102).

The novel also includes many stories of Barbara’s 8 previous best friends (Susan was the 9th) in the course of her life from school days onwards, who are now no longer her friends, and why. Moreover, Barbara herself does not seem the best of friends:

“Just as often, maybe even more often, I’ve realized I‘m sick to death of some woman I used to be crazy about, and dumped her. I’ve ended friendships with women for switching to natural deodorant; for always forgetting to eat lunch and then getting too hungry to make a prompt decision about where to get dinner; for taking me to a local production of he Nutcracker out on Long Island […] Once I completely gave up on a perfectly charming woman because she started taking it incredibly personally whenever she saw a man our age out with a younger woman” (p72).

The age factor is by far the strongest theme in the book, however, even over and above the gender identity. Barbara is always very aware of her own age, and always commenting on how the world has changed, how social norms have changed, and aware too of how she is seen and the judgements and assumptions people make about her. Or at least, so she thinks, and she plays up accordingly.

“It’s not always unpleasant, being an older woman. People appreciate it when you agree to things begrudgingly, especially if you put up a fight at first. It makes them feel cozier, even safer somehow. And putting in just the slightest bit of effort into your appearance, at my age, it makes young people treat you like you’re Grace Kelly. They go wild for it. And they’re very effusive with their compliments, the young people” (p193).

This is one of those books where your narrator is not a likeable person, and not a comfortable character either, deliberately so. Of course this literary device has been around since Jane Austen’s Emma and probably before, but it has seen a recent spate of popularity, with Ottessa Moshfegh’s Eileen, and other such novels. It is not precisely the unreliable narrator, but a subgenre of this: sometimes, it is called the Anti-hero(ine) and more unkindly, the Unhinged Heroine. I am not entirely comfortable with this last, because it has such disturbing echoes of The Madwoman in the Attic. Of course, from the start, the point about creating these women who make uncomfortable protagonists is the pushback against needing to create a perfect and admirable heroine, and the worthy desire to present a flawed and realistic character instead. When I asked AI (Gemini, in this case) about this subgenre, it pointed out it is part of a move away from the likeability culture and into the raw, unfiltered psychological realism, which I suppose is this 21st century craving for authenticity. AI also suggested the popularity may be because of the “Sad Girl” Aesthetic on Tik Tok and such platforms. AI also suggested this kind of genre is a catharsis for modern anxiety, amongst other possibilities.  

Lavery is very much on point with his anti-heroine’s unfulfilled desires, and also her tendency to wish to manipulate others for her own selfish ends, while concealing this as far as possible under a show of niceness – such as when she ‘gives in’ after a show of resistance, and ‘allows’ her co-worker to stock overdose medications in the deli, when she has already discovered the co-worker has gone ahead and done this already. There is not much altruism in Barbara, and she even utilises religion for her own ends only; Barbara goes to church occasionally, for brief interludes then lapses for years. As she puts it,

“Usually I don’t stick around very long [in church, or in a ‘church phase’]. It’s like taking a course of antibiotics: It helps with whatever problem is currently to hand, but it always comes with a vague sense that overdoing it would only cause greater trouble a little further down the line” (p146)

Barbara uses church for what she can get out of it – temporary comfort, for example – rather than because of any faith or desire to be part of a community or fellowship.

It is also very interesting how Lavery writes about how an older woman lives alone. He captures the feeling of needing to control her immediate surroundings, due to a sense of her own vulnerability, and the tight control is for her sense of security. Also, she has arranges things with great care ahead of time, to try to make sure things run smoothly, such a pre-warning invited guests that she lives on a 6th floor walk up with no lift. She holds herself to certain standards even when living alone:

“I can’t sleep knowing there’s a sink full of dishes and a counter full of crumbs. When you live alone, the dishes and the crumbs are always yours, so you don’t even have the sadistic pleasure of blaming someone else for the mess. Cleaning at night always feels like a little gift I can leave as an offering for Morning Barbara, a version of myself I imagine as something between a roommate and a cousin of mine – someone I know distantly, and slightly admire, and don’t want to inconvenience, someone whose comfort and sense of order is important to me” (p171)

This is quite a telling passage, that Barbara habitually thinks of how she looks from the outside, to others, and also that she actually admires herself quite a bit. Also of course, that her comfort and convenience is very important to herself.

In this search for a best friend, Barbara makes clear she wants a woman friend, not a man friend,

“at this point in my life, it’s only women who matter to me” (p124)

However, this best friend is for companionship and understanding, not for any sexual intimacy. Barbara does address the issue of lesbianism, tells us she has tried it once and it did not work at all well, and seems quite prudish in her way,

“There’s not a thing about pussy I ever want to be that close to again. Frankly, I’m too close to my own for comfort. It’s not that I’d rather have any other set of genitals, either, mind you. It’s just that I’d feel better if mine were another ten or fifteen feet away” (p124)

We learn a lot about Barbara in this novel, although Barbara would herself probably be disdainful of the confessional mode which is also popular nowadays, but she confides a lot about herself in her first person narrator voice as she goes about her normal days, searching all the while for a new best friend.

Overall, I did enjoy this book quite a lot, and Lavery has been very consistent and kept the narrator’s voice compelling. But I admit I had to take a break midway through, unusually for me, because the narrator did become so wearisome a companion – as she is designed to be, of course, so the book was remarkably effective in what it set out to do!

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