I almost read this in a Sunday. A novel about a few hours, ambered in the resin of memory. Swift plays with the question of how much can be recalled or remembered or reinvented, and whether you can recognize the difference. The juxtaposition of remembered youth and sex and loss calls to mind Martin Amis and Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach. Gorgeously written.

So I may have stayed up early into the morning to finish this book. 1922 London after the War, where so much has been lost and yet so much stays brutally the same, particularly for women like our protagonist, Frances. Half domestic intrigue, half police procedural; half heat heat heat, half holding your breath, waiting for the consequences.

This slim novel radiates heat -- the tropics, fevers, a love triangle. The writing is excellent and fast moving, with changing points of view that layer the twining narratives like a shared fever dream.

What an oddly titled yet wonderful book. "Nothing happened to him. Nothing but success." Old Filth, legendary barrister, reflects back on the traumas and triumphs long gilded over by his life's success. "Old person looking back" can be a tired trope, but Gardam's narrator's memory is a prism, his reflections illuminating small, nonlinear scenes that slowly reveal the arc of a life. The ending was so strong, I clapped.