Quentin is the queeny best friend, with a Polish heiress for a grandmother, who can’t tell his family he’s gay. Mellors dips into and out of their perspectives, as well as those of others in their circle, each character dancing around, trying to find meaningful relationships. The novel asks whether they will ever be able to break free from those influences. Cleo struggles with the death of her mother, while Frank’s mother was an alcoholic.
The hapless couple must come to terms with the realities of the world around them, as well as with their attempts to dispel the hereditary demons that haunt them. As a gesture of reconcilement, Frank buys Cleo a sugar glider and yes, the tiny marsupial ends up functioning as a symbol of their dying relationship, poor thing. As the months progress, not much they do goes right.
If it feels too idyllic, it’s because both Cleo and Frank are too self-aware, aiming towards impossible versions of themselves. Their party is pure New York fantasy, complete with a gay best friend whose wedding gift is a Fabergé egg with cocaine hidden inside it, and a chef buddy who does all the catering. Frank wears a white top hat to his wedding (he’s kooky like that), and Cleo a nightgown she bought unwittingly, believing it to be a dress. Soon, the pair are married (“don’t do it, Cleo!” the reader shouts), partly, their friends believe, because Cleo needs a green card but they do seem to be in love. Many of the lines sound like they’ve been picked up from parties around town, and all contribute to a sense of a city both beloved and ridiculous. It’s laced with poignancy, since Frank is telling the truth about himself: he is kind of an asshole.
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