This excellent first novel tells a simple story, the odd friendship that develops between two women with nothing in common: the un-named narrator and her new babysitter, Olivia. The first is a well-educated single mother with everything going for her: two charming kids, a nice apartment, a lucrative job. The second is a basket case, an abused child who was raped by her foster father, semi-literate, with no skills and a serious drug habit. "Of the prize-winning lineup of liars and addicts life had thrown at me, she took the palm, the laurel wreath, the entire triumphal arch," the narrator reflects. "It was also clear on the day after we met that I felt as if I'd known her forever." Olivia is a mess, but she is also cheery and charming. And the kids love her. The narrator helps her back onto her feet, and we slowly realize that of the two women, Olivia may not be the most in need of help. It is a very good novel, one of the best I have read in a long time. It is cosy and intimate, a slice of modern city life, acutely observed and full of what the French call les petits riens, the little nothings of daily life, our banal fears and tragedies and search for happiness. And the dialogue is superb. The critics that compared Desplechin to Raymond Carver and Dorthy Parker are not wrong.