This book completely bowled me over for the first 250 pages. There's a lot to admire, and I could sense the relish with which Elizabeth Lowry must have written it. It fizzes with energy. Some reviewers have criticised the 'overwrought' language, and I can see what they mean; just occasionally it irritated me, too. (Finding it necessary to describe a garden as 'green' is a case in point! Better judgement was needed in terms of what to omit.) And yet it wasn't inappropriate for a narrator as bombastic as Thomas Lynch, and mostly it was pure delight. Here are some examples of the imagery that packs the pages. If they do something for you, you'll at least enjoy the prose:
* describing a vacuum cleaner: "a psychedelic machine, covered in neon plastic piping, which sat lifelessly in the kitchen like a clone of the Pompidou Centre."
* "Here was a dressing room smelling of senile face powder; a modern built-in wardrobe sheltering an arthritic wire hanger, and an upended white melamine footstool with stiff dead legs. A William Morris paper of morose willows was losing its grip on the wall."
* "I can see her heart through my closed lids, the berry-like heart of a seahorse [...] a doll's purse of crimson threads, cradling its miniature throbs."
It's a book for those who like to wallow in rich description. If you don't, it would drive you nuts.
Some have expressed astonishment that this is a first novel. I agree up to a point, but there were too many respects in which the author showed inexperience. The pacing was a problem: the mysteries of the location of the painting and the nature of the characters' relationships and motives were so static that by the time they were resolved I'd lost interest; the extracts from the diary found by Lynch are too similar in tone to his own voice to be persuasive; and I didn't care enough about the characters (I don't need to like characters to enjoy reading about them - far from it - but I do need some kind of emotional engagement). It's also unwise to introduce superb characters and then dump them: Ludovico Puppi and Maddalena Roper were hilarious, and seethed with malevolence, but sending them off-stage early on left me with withdrawal symptoms.
That said, it was a rattling good read until it wore me out in the final quarter, and I've rarely been so excited by a first novel in terms of its promise for the future. So I eagerly await her next one. I just hope it's tighter and more satisfying, without losing any of the astonishing verve and beauty of this first attempt. Give it a try. The language, characterisation and mischievous humour are wonderful, and you might even enjoy the resolution more than I did.