Rozie Kelly's frank and feisty debut novel, shortlisted for this year's Women's prize for fiction, begins with a case of lust at first sight. The unnamed narrator is a 'beautiful' 35-year-old writer in a complicated but loving relationship with the equally beautiful but somewhat boring Michael. The object of his attentions is a famous poet, 17 years his senior, running a popular course at the same university where he is also attached. He hardly knows her, but he knows that he wants 'to be inside her'. It is all a bit of a shock. 'A woman! What was the world coming to?'
So what is so special about this one? She is smart, good-looking, well-dressed, not to mention rich and famous. This last fact seems to exert the greatest hold over the infatuated narrator. 'I wanted to be her, to be like her, to have her success and to know the people she knew.' But also, as he admits to himself while sitting quietly on a park bench watching ducks, he would like to subjugate her, 'to push her down, to render her imperious intelligence stupid with the weight of my body, with my younger, harder form'.
This novel is not afraid to shock, and it gets off to an attention-grabbing start. Told in close first person, Kingfisher recounts the complicated relationship between the narrator and the poet, or 'Kingfisher', as he later names her due to her love of birds. They begin by meeting to discuss the narrator's forthcoming (and nonexistent) poetry collection. One thing leads to another, and the night passes with poetry left undiscussed. The narrator is still surprised: 'I thought she thought I was gay. I thought I thought I was gay.' But over time, hastened by a terminal cancer diagnosis, they settle into the rhythms of a regular loving relationship.
That is not to say things are not still messy. The narrator's relationship with sweet but dull Michael worsens. Fed up, Michael disappears to Mexico for two weeks and returns with a much younger model. The narrator spirals into drink, drugs, and impromptu sex with strangers. 'Polyamory', suggests a friend. 'Many loves. That is what you are doing.' Meanwhile, the narrator must contend with his racist and homophobic mother, Hetty, confined to a care home. 'And you are still living in sin, are you?', she asks during a reluctant visit, which is one of her more polite utterances.
Kelly shrewdly and bravely explores the different forms love and lust can take, made sharper by a power dynamic skewed first one way (older woman; younger man), then another (patient; carer). The narrator constantly questions, and a wise friend asks directly: 'Who is using who here, do we think?' The answer: they are both using each other. They are writers on the make; everyone is potential copy.
Unfortunately, despite a confident start and intriguing premise, Kingfisher fizzles out after the first few chapters. Interesting characters are established then forgotten; narrative threads are lost or never picked up. The novel seems uncertain which way to go. The bracing language and violent desires that open the book quickly give way to bedside solicitude and quiet domesticity. There is an uncertainty of style and tone throughout, most clearly signalled by a late-stage change of genre into gothic fantasy. The ending comes dangerously close to 'it was all a dream'.
Kingfisher has a lot of verve and energy. It is not afraid to take risks or look absurd. It crackles and sparks, but it never quite catches fire.
