This is quite unlike French's later books, and owes more to the Barbara Vine school of crime novel, with its emphasis on family history, the layers of experience that make up a self and the unreliability of memory. It's not as good as Vine by any means, with a huge number of characters you just don't get a chance to care about, and some very unappetizing descriptions of food (though the heroine seems to know her way around an afterwork drink!) The posh English families at the novel's heart never really come to life, which is a disaster for this kind of novel, though the heroine felt real to me, and not too perfect. There is no point at which this book becomes thrilling, and I'm afraid what might have been its main selling-point at the time, the recovered memory scandal, is now so far in the rear-view mirror that it feels a bit stale, though I still thought the sessions between the heroine and her psych were the most interesting part of the novel. Some of the sexual politics have aged far worse, with some off-the-cuff remarks made about underage sex sounding really shocking to modern ears. Ultimately I wouldn't recommend anyone go out of their way to acquire this book, though it kept me reading to the end.