A FEMALE NOVELIST, a writer whose books are full of subtle, often uncomfortable insights into the human condition, was talking to a male friend. Here was a man of action, a person who, while by no means devoid of feelings, did not consider them a daily priority.
The problem, mused the novelist, was that while her books received critical acclaim, they failed to sell in any great numbers. Aha, exclaimed her friend, eager to help in his solution-centric way; that’s because not enough happens in them. What do you mean, said the novelist, all kinds of things happen in my books: people die, they fall in love - what more is there?
Yes, yes, said her friend, but you have no real action, no real plot. No gunfights, or car chases, or - oh, I don’t know - submarines. Tell me, when was the last time someone shouted “Dive! Dive!” in one of your novels?
Not unreasonably, the novelist gave him a hard stare; nevertheless, being a highly intelligent person and always open to new ideas, she eventually concluded that there might be a grain of truth in what he was saying. Searing insights into the human condition are all very well, but if you are exploring them in the context of a novel they need to hang on a compelling plot. Make the action too subtle, and you lose momentum.
There will be those who, while acknowledging the existence of many wise and accurate human observations in Joanna Trollope’s new novel, Friday Nights, will nevertheless point to the almost complete absence of submarines, real or metaphorical. And they would be right; very little of what goes on in the lives of the protagonists is likely, were the book ever to be televised, to require the services of a special effects crew. However, in the context of the characters’ universe (and that, surely, is what matters), the events are no less than seismic.
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The action centres around a group of women eking out a genteel existence in London. There is a matriarch, Eleanor, who is the recognised source of Feminine Wisdom. Then, in no particular order, there is a widow, a career girl, a frazzled working wife and mother, a single mum and a young funkster (an aspiring female DJ).
There are assorted husbands and ex-lovers, and a selection of children. All in all, it’s a representative cross-section of middle-class urban life.
Into the mix comes - yes, you guessed it - a man, boyfriend of the single mum; a cock among the hens. As you might expect, all hell breaks loose - in a Trollopian sense, mind, not in a Skins sense. Which is to say, some people accidentally kiss the wrong people, too much white wine gets drunk and many home truths are revealed.
There are few writers who understand the psyche of Middle England as well as Trollope; fewer still who can articulate the sentiments of the women of Middle England. The literati have a habit of belittling such preoccupations, which is presumably why Trollope gamely - and surprisingly deftly - has introduced the DJ character, and written in a lot of stuff about football.
She needn’t have: her precise portraits of the places people come to in marriages, of the guilt that working mothers feel, of the resentment and rivalries between friends and lovers are strikingly apposite.
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If there is a problem here it is that it’s all so neat. All the loose ends are dutifully and diligently tied up, everyone’s insecurities folded away, and any extraneous bits banished to the composting bin. But even among the polite, reasonable middle classes, there has to be a degree of messiness.
There just has to be. Otherwise people really do start longing for loud explosions.
Friday Nights by Joanna Trollope
Bloomsbury, £18.99; 331pp