There were things I loved about this book, and things I hated. It felt a lot like a Netflix sitcom or something, and a lot of the characters felt really tropey. A gay man who loves princess Diana, super pretentious arty New Yorkers. I didn’t find them relatable at all. But there were some parts, and some characters that I did find relatable. I think Eleanor was probably the best character in this regard. She seemed much less one-dimensional than the others. 

And although to begin with, the overdone, witty quips from Frank and Cleo felt fake and tiring, their doomed relationship developed to the point that I felt quite emotional reading about how fiercely they loved each other, yet could not connect. Seeing them come to that realisation was moving, despite how pretentious their lives seemed in other ways. 

I suppose I wish the author had written about characters that didn’t feel the need to name-drop and live high-flying lives. Why couldn’t Cleo have been working in a cafe or something rather than be an unemployed artist wife to a guy who built up his own ad agency? People this broken do not have such glitzy lives. And this book would have really been incredible if the characters had seemed more real. The author has a real talent with words. But she chose to write about such unrelatable, movie-like characters. I wonder why she made that decision.