A Hollywood divorce with all the trimmings: luxury real estate, lawyers, TMZ, plastic surgery, an Oscar, and a night in jail.
It begins at the narrator’s 48th birthday party, where her A-list movie star husband, Trevor, toasts her…work ethic. “My fertility is on its last heaving throes, my eggs scrambled and crapping out, waving the white maxi pad. All that’s left for me is flushing and sweat. Soon, I will be all dried out, a human tumbleweed, rolling along Sunset Boulevard to guzzle martinis at the Polo Lounge,” she says. Rushing along in a torrent of inner monologue, snappy dialogue, puns, memes, and wisecracks, the narrator of Levangie’s (Seven Deadlies, 2013, etc.) latest goes from the birthday celebration to a book party with signature cocktails called “Tres Deadlies” and “Deadlies on Arrival”—suggesting that the author, a former Hollywood wife herself, knows whereof she speaks. When the narrator gets home, she finds the code to the gate of her “mid-century California ranch-style estate in the famed Palisades Riviera” has been changed. After she climbs over, the guard, ordered to keep her out, tasers her. “I’m putting this marriage in turnaround,” announces the extremely self-absorbed Trevor. “You know, like when I had that cartel project I was really in love with but then we couldn’t get Guillermo to direct and then I kind of fell out of love and I fired everybody?” The narrator digs in her heels—after all, she needs a place to raise her daughter, Pep, hide her ex-con sister, Fin, and entertain her book club, currently reading “a multigenerational family saga set in the Burmese mountains in the winter of 1806, written by a queer-leaning Bangladeshi paraplegic.” This means war.
A high-thread-count sheet of jokes swathing a plot as slender as its eating-challenged narrator.