Our protagonist observes the other freelancers she works with, sipping coffee, eating expensive pastries, complaining about their treatment in a banal, half hearted manner. An intimate exploration of class, precarity, sex, power and, above all, of the fragility and exuberance of love.

I refuse to perpetuate the stereotype that all female written fiction is autobiographical – of course it isn’t.

Here we’ve got an unnamed female protagonist who had a very average yet happy upbringing in the north of England. much of andrews' skill lies in her ability to subvert our expectations and challenge us with devastatingly sharp, sporadic sentences laden with rich, lyrical images, metaphors and motifs that immediately disarm us emotionally. For a novel that is so sharp and often written with such linguistic utility, it isn't at all sparse. This is for those with teen angst, those in first-love relationships, those surfing along the honeymoon waves, and everyone stuck in suburban sensationalism thinking they know and feel everything after watching a single Youtube video essay on internet culture.

Like many girls from my generation, raised on a diet of Arturo Bandini's oranges and shiny tinned dreams of post-feminism, I have wasted too many years trying to fit into small, muted spaces. This is reflected in the language, each sentence feeling like a bevy of sensation without a single word wasted. She’s meandered from job to job, much like a down to earth version of Plath’s fig tree, charading a lifestyle beyond her means in various settings.

As Helen Gremillion has noted, anorexia nervosa has ‘been described almost exclusively as a white, middle-class phenomenon’ despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Where one sense of denial in a socio-economic context is foisted upon the protagonist, the answer is often controlling the only thing one can: one’s body.