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By Helen Smith

After her husband leaves her for an additional lady, twentysomething Londoner Alison Temple unexpectedly applies for a role on the very P.I. company she employed to catch her philandering ex. She hopes it is going to be the switch of scene she so desperately must flow on along with her shattered lifestyles. on the all-female Fitzgerald’s Bureau of research, she spends her days monitoring misplaced items and her nights shadowing untrue husbands. yet it doesn't matter what the case, none of her consumers can examine to the attention-grabbing characters in her own existence. There’s her boss, the estimable and tidy Mrs. Fitzgerald; Taron, Alison’s eccentric ally, who claims her mom is a witch; Jeff, her love-struck, poetry-writing neighbor; and—last yet now not least—her psychic postman. Her relationships with all of them turn into entangled whilst she joins Taron for a street journey to the beach and stumbles right into a misadventure of epic proportions! smart, quirky, and infused with only a trace of magic, this funny literary novel introduces a memorable heroine suffering from the standard complexities of recent existence.

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Ik onderdrukte de aanvechting om ‘Dat weet ik want dat is precies wat ik heb besteld’ te zeggen, en concentreerde me op de pink. Dichterbij dan dit was hij vanavond nog niet gekomen, ook niet bij het inschenken van de wijn. De gerant had ten slotte voor de makkelijkste oplossing gekozen en was uit de open keuken teruggekeerd met een nieuwe fles waar de kurk al half uitstak. Na de wijnkelder en het reisje naar het Loire-dal was de zesweekse wijncursus gekomen. Niet in Frankrijk maar in een leegstaand klaslokaal van een avondschool.

Als de historici over een paar eeuwen willen weten hoe achterlijk de mensheid was aan het begin van de eenentwintigste eeuw hoeven ze alleen maar een kijkje in de computers van de zogenoemde toprestaurants te nemen, want al die gegevens worden bewaard, dat weet ik toevallig. Wanneer meneer L. de vorige keer bereid was om drie maanden op een raamtafeltje te wachten dan wacht hij nu ook wel vijf maanden op een tafeltje naast de deur van het toilet – dat noemen ze in die restaurants ‘het bijhouden van de klantgegevens’.

Ik denk eerder dingen met school,’ zei ik. ‘Hij heeft net die proefwerkweek achter de rug, volgens mij is hij gewoon moe. ’ Klonk dit geloofwaardig? En vooral: keek ik er geloofwaardig bij? Claires ogen schoten heen en weer van mijn linker- naar mijn rechteroog; daarna bracht ze haar hand omhoog naar de kraag van mijn overhemd, alsof er iets verkeerd zat dat nu nog kon worden recht gestreken, zodat ik straks niet voor gek zou lopen in het restaurant. Ze glimlachte en legde haar hand met de vingers gespreid plat op mijn borst, ik voelde twee vingertoppen op mijn huid, op de plek waar het bovenste knoopje van mijn overhemd openstond.

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