Anyone who has read Freud’s first novel, Hideous Kinky, will know how superbly she captures the thrills and frustrations of childhood. Fast forward a few years, and Lara is the essence of early 1980s adolescence, a bundle of hormones, naivety and impulsive bravado, at once opinionated (she detests Lady Di’s pre-wedding hair-cut) and tongue-tied. Reading this, I found myself wistful for those heady teenage days when you could be satisfied with hours of kissing: ‘Anything more would have involved talking. Contraception, a lock for the door.’

But there’s something unattractive about Lara and Kip’s acutely observed self-centredness, neatly highlighted when Kip drops an egg on the floor and can’t be bothered to clear up the mess. Lara’s loyalty to Lambert is tested when he breaks a toe, but there are no prizes for guessing the choices she makes. The adults are no better. Lambert’s absent parenting, his dalliance with married Isabelle, father-to-be Roland’s rape of Lara, and Andrew Willoughby’s ongoing infidelity reflect a pattern of casual emotional cruelty which left me feeling as queasy as if I’d spent too long in the sun. After the rape, Lara’s subsequent self-loathing rings true, but I struggled more on her repeated unprotected sex with a chap who may or may not be her half-brother. There’s easygoing, and there’s irritating recklessness.

Love Falls brings out Esther Freud’s terrific sense of place and her scenes at the Palio in Siena are full of passion and clarity. I also revelled in her delicious descriptions of the meals prepared by Ginny, the hired help. But in the end, like after a good long holiday, I was happy to close the book and leave her characters behind. (The following day, like a travel junkie booking her next trip, I rather fancied I might like to read about Lara and Kip in a sequel).

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