In at the deep end

Review by Booklist Review

After a long dry spell, some terribly ""unsexy sex"" with a man, and a sparks-flying encounter with a woman, Londoner Julia realizes that perhaps, after all, she's a lesbian. Suddenly everything makes sense, and her coming out is as joyful and untraumatic as a self-rupture can be. It's exhilarating to finally feel that she has a uniqueness to explore and wear proudly. She soon does both with Sam, a super-hot artist who specializes in nude portraits of women from a queer female gaze. Self-deprecating puppy dog Julia happily succumbs to assertive Sam's considerable charms in the bedroom and also, a little less happily, to her controlling behaviors outside of it. Can her intense sexual awakening and all-consuming love for Sam balance out her blinding jealousy over polyamorous Sam's longtime French (of course) girlfriend? Is she just being old fashioned? Surrounded by a crew of first-rate secondary characters, companionable Julia is a twentysomething heroine for today. Davies' pitch-perfect adult debut, a spiced-up companion to Camille Perri's When Katie Met Cassidy (2018), is equal parts sexy and introspective.--Annie Bostrom Copyright 2019 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

---

Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Davies's not-quite-romantic debut showcases a good sense of comedic pacing, but undermines itself with a judgmental, distancing attitude and an unwillingness to lean into either a happy ending or a zanily catastrophic one. Three years into a sexual dry spell, civil servant Julia accepts an invitation to accompany the couple she lives with to a party. There, she has one last terrible hookup with a man, and then, after a single romantic encounter with a woman, dives into a lesbian identity. She soon meets Sam, a butch painter whose connection to the underground scene appeals to Julia, but their relationship is stressed by Julia's discomfort with Sam's penchant for BDSM, sex clubs, and nonmonogamy, particularly her ongoing involvement with her married French girlfriend, Virginie. Secondary characters, such as Julia's work buddies, her thoughtless "semi-amateur" therapist, and her parents, are mostly substanceless. Unquestioned, introspection-free positivity around Julia's instant lesbianism is coupled with strong negativity about well-negotiated polyamory, and the story arc ties nonmonogamy tightly to Sam's abusive behavior and the collapse of Sam and Julia's relationship. This story may arouse and amuse straight and monogamous readers looking for a window onto other lives, but queer and polyamorous readers are likely to be deeply unimpressed. Agent: Sally Wofford-Girand, Union Literary. (June) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

---

Review by Library Journal Review

DEBUT Davies's first novel is by turns funny and darkly serious as one young woman finds her sexual footing in a new world. Twentysomething Julia lives and works in London and struggles to figure out her dating life. She hasn't had sex in three years but has to listen, almost nightly, to her roommate and her boyfriend. Julia's in a rut and determined to change that. Her social explorations lead to a hookup with a woman and an epiphany. Perhaps all those encounters in her past weren't mediocre just because she hadn't met the right guy; perhaps she doesn't want a guy at all. Julia throws herself into her newfound life as a queer woman. But what starts as an exciting exploration of her own sexuality turns darker as she dives into the deep end with her first lesbian relationship. While Julia doesn't always make the right choices, readers will certainly understand them. VERDICT Touted as a "Bridget Jones for 2019," this might be more aptly compared to the television show Girls with its combination of humor and a frank exploration of contemporary sexuality. [See Prepub Alert, 12/17/18.]--Jane Jorgenson, Madison P.L., WI

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

---

Review by Kirkus Book Review

In Davies' exceedingly charming debut, a romantically frustrated 20-something Londoner realizes maybe the problem isn't hermaybe the problem is men.It's been three years since Julia has had sex herself, although she is frequently privy to sexadjacent to sex, subjected to sexliving with her best friend, Alice, and Alice's boyfriend in a flat with unfortunately thin walls. But her own sex life has been, to date, lackluster. "I'd always preferred the idea of sex to sex itself," she muses. "The thing is, sex had never been particularly high on my list of priorities." Dance had been her priority, but then she was injured, and so, instead of the ballet career she'd dreamed of, she has an uninspiring government job, a very opinionated therapist, and a total lack of romantic intrigue. Until, at a cool warehouse party, she meets Jane. Sex is different with Jane; everything is different with Jane. Julia is overcome with ecstatic relief: She's a lesbian. "I felt like I belonged, at last, in the world of the sexually fulfilled," she declares. "Now I had a sense of purpose. I was going to find someone to be a lesbian with." And quickly, she doesnot one of the women from her new queer swing-dance group (she immediately joins a queer swing-dance group), but Sam, an artist she meets at a club. But as their relationship intensifies, Sam's one-sided demands start to feel increasingly stiflingleaving Julia to define the kind of relationship she wants for herself. Davies recounts the progression of Julia and Sam's relationship in such detail, and with such focus, that it's occasionally exhausting, like listening to a friend obsess over the plodding minutiae of a fundamentally doomed relationship for years. (And who among us has not?) But Davies' writing is so breezy and effortlessand her characters so delightfulthat to spend time in her world is a pleasure. Sweet but never saccharine; a literary rom-com about the importance of knowing yourself. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

---

Sex Noises One Saturday morning last January, Alice pointed out that I hadn't had sex in three years. I knew I'd been going through a dry patch--I'd been getting through vibrator batteries incredibly fast, and a few days previously I'd Googled "penis" just to remind myself what one looked like--but the full force of how much time I'd wasted not having sex hadn't hit me till then. The last time I'd had sex was nothing to write home about either, let me tell you. He was a twenty-one-year-old editorial assistant from Alice's office with an unusually large forehead, and it happened after a terrible house party that left our flat stinking of pastis. I tried to take him to my room, but a couple were already in there, dry-humping on top of the duvet, so we did it on the fake leather sofa in the living room. I kept getting stuck to the sofa, sweat pooling in the gap beneath my lower back. I don't think he'd ever fucked anyone before, so it was a bit awkward and thrusty, and he cried and hugged me for too long afterwards. It comes back to me in flashes all the time--I could be boarding a bus, washing my hair, or sitting on a particularly squeaky sofa when suddenly I see his clenched red face or his sweaty pubic hair and flinch involuntarily. Enough to put anyone off sex for, say, three years. To be honest, I'd always preferred the idea of sex to sex itself. In my imagination, I was experimental, confident, uninhibited, a biter of shoulders, a user of words like "pussy." I could think about sex in the filthiest terms and speak frankly about it to friends, but when it came to actually doing it, or talking to someone I might do it with, I clammed up. I struggled to think of myself as sexy when I was with another person. I struggled to say sexy things with a straight face. It all felt performative to me, ridiculous, too far removed from the way I behaved in a non-sexy context, like I was playing a part in a porn film, and playing it badly. I couldn't even flirt convincingly, certainly not when I was sober. Which might go some way towards explaining why it had been so long since I'd fucked anyone. Alice and Dave, on the other hand, did have sex. A surprising amount of it, actually, considering they'd been going out for five years. The Friday night before that Saturday morning, I was alone in the living room, trying to ignore the sex noises coming from their bedroom. Our flat had incredibly thin walls, so it was almost as if I were there with them. How can something that is so much fun when you're doing it (though not always ​-- ​see previous note about sweaty sofa sex) be so repulsive when overheard? I didn't mind living with a couple; having three people in the flat brought the rent down. Also, Dave had several Ottolenghi cookbooks and some very tasteful mid-century furniture, so we were better fed and more stylish than we would have been without him. But sex-noise-wise, I'd had enough.   The next morning, I heard Alice walk Dave to the door. They whispered to each other revoltingly and kissed wetly. I sat on my bed, picking the dry skin on my fingers, practising my speech in my head. Alice walked into my room without knocking; people tend to do that when there's no risk you'll be shagging. She sat on my bed, her hair rumpled, a post-coital smile on her face. "Do you fancy brunch?" she said. "I'm starving." "I'm not surprised," I said, which wasn't how I'd intended to broach the subject. "What?" "Nothing." "Why aren't you surprised? What do you mean?" "Well, you and Dave sounded like you had fun last night." "You listened to us having sex?" "I didn't listen. I heard. It wasn't an active choice." "We weren't that loud," said Alice, as though asking for reassurance. "You asked him to--" "To what?" I looked away. "You know what you asked him to do." "How do I know if you won't say?" "Fine. You asked him to stick a finger up your arse." "Julia!" "You're the one that said it!" "That's private!" "So keep your voices down!" Alice's cheeks were pink. There was an unpleasant silence. "Did you really hear us?" "Yes! I always hear you!" "You can't always hear us. We don't even have sex that often any more--" "Three times a week isn't often?" "Not for us." "Well. I'm very happy for you." Another silence. "You wouldn't care so much if you had a boyfriend too." "I don't want a boyfriend, thank you." Excerpted from In at the Deep End by Kate Davies All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

---