On the first morning of their holiday in a remote area of Scotland, Sarah, 42, convinces her sister Juliet to climb onto the roof of their mobile home in search of a better phone signal. Juliet has wrapped her hands and feet in layers of tinfoil and wears a hat, along with a watch she bought in a moment of whimsy. This quirky scene sets the tone for Emma Jane Answorth’s new novel, *Slug*, which explores the desires, frustrations, and fierce loyalty of sisters. As Unsworth points out, their bond is unbreakable—no fancy technology needed.
During a Highland road trip for Juliet’s birthday, the sisters uncover a secret and reflect on their younger selves. The narrative is infused with humor akin to *Thelma and Louise*, minus the camper van, as the two navigate their complex lives. There’s a distinct contrast between sexual escapism on one side and the justice challenges on the other.
The focus is primarily on Sarah, oscillating between her teenage years filled with raw honesty and the bewilderments of adulthood. Currently single, she’s sardonic and weary of social gatherings, feeling alienated in a world overly preoccupied with health trends and the economy.
It’s genuinely an enjoyable read, and the lightheartedness often underscored by empathy and kindness is evident.
In contrast, Juliet is married with children and lives in Manchester. Her husband, Johnny, is obsessed with Ice Plunge activities and Andrew Huberman’s podcast. Answorth offers a nuanced portrayal of modern masculinity here. Sarah reflects, recalling, “Life seemed pointless, especially when boredom struck like it did with Johnny.” Although Johnny is a minor character, his presence highlights the sharper aspects of the narrative.
The sisters’ mother, Deanna, hovers in Sarah and Juliet’s memories—an embodiment of neglect and abandonment, with fleeting moments that cast a long shadow. Sarah contemplates her mother’s approach to life, including her attempts to escape suburban monotony. In this context, suburban life appears trashy and suffocating, defined by trivial competitions and mundane domesticity.
Sarah doesn’t want that life, but her own urban existence leaves her feeling empty. Unsworth illustrates Sarah’s late-night experiences, where she often hosts alone in a digital void after calls with the East Coast of America. Her reflection suggests a strange beauty in the chaos: “It’s not lonely; it’s a beautiful kind of devastation. I just don’t want to figure everything out.”
One of Sarah’s defining characteristics is her uncertainty about her desires. She identifies as part of a “lost generation,” grappling with sexual liberation and constantly searching for something meaningful. Unsworth’s past works captured the wild hedonism of youth and the complications of adult life, yet Sarah stands out. Not a mother herself, she sidesteps the traditional anxieties about fertility or menopause, instead confronting the challenge of self-discovery without relying on substances.
Teenage Sarah also wrestles with her sexual experiences, often brushing off awkward encounters and indecent exposures. Answorth skillfully navigates the complexity of how these experiences shape adult Sarah’s views on sex. The focus is more on humor than tragedy—perhaps revealing a broader truth within women’s stories. Comedy might act as a coping mechanism in a world filled with confusion, though the narrative culminates in a chaotic peak rather than a tidy resolution. Overall, *Slug* is a delightful read, buoyed by genuine empathy and warmth, making Answorth a refreshing companion.
