A buttoned-up Dutch spinster does little more than inhabit her dead mother's house, which came into the family's possession fully furnished in 1944. Her brother drops off his latest flame, an extroverted bleach-blonde, to stay for a few weeks when he's suddenly called away on business. If you're moderately intelligent, you will guess everything that happens in this not-much-of-a-story. There are no outright gaffes but it's workmanlike in the extreme. Accidental touches linger a moment too long, hearts pound in ears, one mouth melts into another, fruit metaphors—you've read it all before; it puts the ropey in tropey. The only departure from convention is the author's fondness for the verb fisted in non-sexual contexts. The tension between the two principals is built up and then the novel flounders through 40 wearisome pages of sex scenes. They're not bad as such (looking at the author's picture I assume they're somewhat authentic) but they're no higher-quality than a Literotica 4.5. It's funny that the Booker Prize committee shortlisted this. Would they have if enemies to lovers and forced proximity were embossed on the cover? I doubt it—but that wouldn't undersell the writing.