Let yourself by whisked along by a novel that is at times a heady, intoxicating blur and at others, funny, honest and charming. It follows Liam as he escapes to Buenos Aires, far away from the mess he's made of both his relationship and his job with a London publisher (not a good idea to be held responsible for the death of your most celebrated author). But in spite of all his mistakes it's hard not to end up rooting for Liam.
Cockburn and I had become friends a various ceremonies and private-members clubs during the two years when the books I published from Birmingham were winning prizes. A hedonist easily recognises another hedonist, often in the queue for a toilet cubicle, and as we were both from the North, lads in a feminine industry, we became friends quickly. At book fairs he'd introduce me to the funniest and drunkest of the foreign editors and agents. I don't believe European women are naturally more alluring than British, but at the time their accented English and the fact I hadn't met any before made them seem so. As men we were outnumbered and popular, despite the limitations of our looks and characters. I won't pretend I didn't enjoy it, that it didn't give me an impression of my attractiveness and charm I could never have believed in as a teenager; but I was in the first glorious wave of love with Sarah and never did more than flirt.