Showcase The Snakes by Sadie Jones

When I read the blurb to The Snakes by Sadie Jones I knew i had to have a copy and I had to showcase it. Read all about it and enjoy the excerpt.

ISBN-13:
 9780062897022

Publisher: Harper Collins


Release Date: 6-25-2019


Length:
 448pp

Buy It: Amazon/B&N/Kobo/IndieBound/Audible

ADD TO: GOODREADS

Overview:

“The Snakes is many things—a parable and an ancient drama where a father’s greed devours his children, a police procedural, an avid take on tabloid venality, and a bitter comedy, superbly observed, where behind a woman’s eyes she is ‘all movement inside herself, like a wasp in a glass.’ I admit that I’m still shaken by parts of this novel. Sadie Jones writes with pitiless aplomb and corrosive intelligence.” --Louise Erdrich

A chilling page-turner and impossible to put down, THE SNAKES is Sadie Jones at her best: breathtakingly powerful, brilliantly incisive, and utterly devastating.
Recently married, psychologist Bea and Dan, a mixed-race artist, rent out their tiny flat to escape London for a few precious months. Driving through France they visit Bea's dropout brother Alex at the hotel he runs in Burgundy. Disturbingly, they find him all alone and the ramshackle hotel deserted, apart from the nest of snakes in the attic.
When Alex and Bea's parents make a surprise visit, Dan can't understand why Bea is so appalled, or why she's never wanted him to know them; Liv and Griff Adamson are charming and rich. They are the richest people he has ever met. Maybe Bea's ashamed of him, or maybe she regrets the secrets she's been keeping.
Tragedy strikes suddenly, brutally, and in its aftermath the family is stripped back to its heart, and then its rotten core, and even Bea with all her strength and goodness can't escape.

Read an excerpt:

1

The night they decided to leave London Bea had a dream. Dreams are like silent films; guns are fired without shots, people talk without voices. This dream was deafening. The noise woke Bea up, shocked breathless, and terrified.

She didn’t think she’d had the dream because they had decided to go away, it was more likely because of what had happened with the Italian leather holdall and the girl with the knife.

The holdall was made of dark red leather and looked too good for its surroundings. Bea had stopped walking when she saw it, in the window of the charity shop on the Holloway Road. It was lying beneath the long pleats of a nylon skirt on a headless mannequin, which had been styled with a pink jumper in a way that was supposed to be retro but was just old-lady. The red leather holdall was glamorous. It looked as though George Clooney had stopped by on his way to meet Julia Roberts at a little airfield somewhere, and forgotten it. Bea could see its quality but could not see its price. There were plastic-amber beads in the display, and some high heels and an enormous-looking evening dress, drooping on another mannequin. Bea shielded her eyes, her face close to the reflecting glass. Dan would love the holdall. It was stylish and cool. She went to the door. When she pushed, it moved, but didn’t open. There were bags of donations piled against it on the inside, and a pair of jeans wedged between the rubber seal and the floor. Looking through the glass she could see a woman and a girl at the back of the shop, talking. The woman was behind the counter and the girl had one hand on a pushchair. It looked like they were arguing. Bea pushed the door harder and put her head through the gap.

‘Excuse me,’ she said.

Neither of them turned.

‘Excuse me?’ said Bea again. ‘Hi.’

‘Fuck off,’ said the girl, still not turning.

Bea couldn’t see them clearly. The air smelled musty and the street was very loud.

‘It’s all right!’ called the woman at the counter, but she sounded frightened.

Bea looked at the passers-by on the pavement, hurrying, unnoticing, then she put her shoulder against the door and pushed it hard, and squeezed through the gap into the shop. The door closed behind her.

‘Fuck off,’ said the girl, turning round to face Bea. She was holding a knife.

It wasn’t a fighting knife, it looked like a kitchen knife, and she didn’t hold it out, just gripped it in her hand. Behind her, the woman opened her eyes wide in a mute distress signal.

‘What do you want?’ said the girl.

‘Are you all right?’ Bea asked.

The girl was tall, with long legs in skinny jeans and trainers that seemed too big for the rest of her.

‘What are you doing? Go away,’ she said. Bea thought she looked high. She was speedy and scattered.

The woman behind the counter walked backwards, silently, disappearing into the darkness of a doorway. Bea smiled at the girl to keep her attention. She had been crying. Her make-up was smudged and her skin was very white. She didn’t look as if she knew she was holding a knife.

‘I just wanted to ask how much that bag in the window is,’ said Bea. ‘The red one?’

The girl was confused, eyes darting from one place to another. She wiped her face and tucked her hair behind her ear.

‘Sorry,’ said Bea. ‘You don’t work here, do you?’

‘I had to get out,’ said the girl. ‘Are you judging me? You don’t even know me.’

‘Can you put that away?’ said Bea. ‘It’s scary. Do you mind? Can you put it in your bag?’

The girl looked down at the knife in her hand. She jabbed it at the empty air, and laughed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not funny.’

Still holding on to the pushchair, she knelt down and shoved the kitchen knife in the clutter of her gaping bag. Bea could see the baby’s feet sticking out but she couldn’t see the rest of its body. She thought the woman must have called the police. She walked towards the girl.

‘I’m on my lunch hour,’ she said. ‘I was just passing. Are you going to be OK?’

‘What?’ said the girl.

‘Are you OK?’

‘What’s your name?’ said the girl.

‘Bea,’ said Bea. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Emma,’ said the girl, ‘and this is Thomas.’ She nodded towards the baby.

‘Like the Tank Engine,’ said Bea.

The girl smiled. ‘Yes.’

Bea took a few more steps, and leaned over to look into the pushchair. The baby was very young, very small. He was asleep. His hands were curled up by his head, his tiny fingers were as clean as freshly shelled peas. Then they heard sirens. Emma tensed and stared towards the sound. Then blue light flashed onto the walls as the police cars pulled up at the kerb. Two cars and a van. Doors opened and police got out in what looked like a crowd, dark, heavy clothes, pulling on caps and jackets, talking on their radios.

‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit –’ said Emma, and scrabbled back against the counter, weak-legged, grabbing at her bag and the pushchair pulling them towards her.

‘I’m really sorry,’ said Bea. ‘It’s OK.’

A policeman forced the door open, another peered in through the glass.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bea again. Emma was backed up, crouching against the counter with the pushchair.

Bea went towards the policeman in the doorway, her hands open in front of her and said, ‘I think a lady called you?’

‘We had a report of a weapon,’ he said, looking past her and seeing Emma.

‘It’s all right, she’s not – dangerous,’ said Bea completely sure, suddenly frightened. ‘She’s just in a mess –’

But then there were six policemen and a policewoman in the shop. Quickly, they closed in on Emma. They asked her where the knife was, and told her to keep still and asked about the knife again. They tried to separate her from the baby but she wouldn’t let go of the pushchair. Panicking, surrounded, she seemed to dissolve in front of Bea’s eyes, transforming from herself into an object. Bea backed slowly away towards the wall feeling sick with herself, and guilty. After a few minutes, a policeman came over and took her name and asked her what had happened, and then the woman who ran the shop came out from where she had been hiding, somewhere out the back, and gave them her details, while the girl, surrounded, began to fight.

‘You bitch, you cunt,’ she said, as the police took hold of her arms. They prised her hands off the pushchair. A policewoman bent to look inside.

‘What’s his name?’ she asked

‘Get off him,’ said Emma, crying.

‘I really don’t think she was going to do anything,’ said Bea to the policemen, but nobody was listening.

They took Emma out into the street, three of them holding her, having to drag her with them.

‘Don’t worry about it. We know her,’ one of the policemen said to Bea, smiling. ‘She’s always around here.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ said Bea. ‘I work in psychotherapy, just down the road.’She wouldn’t normally have said that, like she thought she was important, but she felt embarrassed by her humanity, and interfering, and she wanted him to know she wasn’t just a member of the public being sentimental. Even as she thought it she knew that was exactly what she was.

The police stayed around for a few minutes and unstrapped the baby from the pushchair and put him into one of the cars. They couldn’t work out how to fold it up, and struggled with it, and with Emma, getting her into the van, demonstrating to the small crowd gathered that they were not taking pleasure in overpowering her. It was easy, they were so much stronger. The matter-of-fact way they dealt with her looked more brutal than if they had been angry. They forced her into the van calmly, and slammed the doors on her, then the van and the two cars drove away, and the people on the pavement carried on and the life of the street was normal again, with nothing to show they had been there except for Bea, standing there, watching, until they had disappeared. A violent criminal would have gained more attention. There was no easier person to discard than a damaged girl. The woman who worked in the shop came out and stood next to her.

‘I can’t believe how quickly they got here,’ she said.

‘Only because of the knife,’ said Bea.

‘You were brilliant,’ said the woman.‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘Do you want a cup of tea? I’m Veena.’

They went inside.

‘Bloody donations,’ said Veena, stepping over the bags. ‘They’re the worst part of this job.’ She kicked them away, ‘You wouldn’t believe the rubbish people give us. Bags of dirty clothes, like we’re a laundry.’

They stood together in the silent aftermath, the musty air and shadows of the shop.

‘Do you need a hand?’ said Bea. ‘I’ve still got twenty minutes, and I only work down the road.’

She and Veena drank tea and sorted clothes until it was time for Bea to leave.

‘Thank God you came in,’ said Veena.

‘I was looking at the holdall in the window,’ said Bea.

‘The red one? That’s Italian leather. I’ll give you half price.’

Even at half price it was more than she could afford but Bea bought it to cheer Veena up, and because she knew Dan would love it.

In the afternoon there was the safeguarding meeting with the rest of the practice. Safeguarding was always the same: we can’t be accused of this, because we’ve done that; did you see the letter from the Trust? The guidelines from NICE? Bea took the minutes, and tried not to think about where Emma was or what would happen to her baby. She tried not to remember his defenceless hands. Then, after the meeting, back in her therapy room she waited for her half-past-two clients, a couple with their teenage son. The son gave Bea despairing looks as his father talked. The mother pretended to listen but her hand kept going for her phone, like a gunfighter. Then at four fifteen Bea saw Jill, whose husband had died of cancer, and at five thirty, Lily, who suffered from anorexia and whose family’s distress was nothing in the face of her feeble, unbreakable rage. From half past six Bea wrote up her notes and from seven she was alone. Her colleagues went home to cats and dogs and children.

‘You won’t get a medal,’ they said.

‘Bless you, love.’

A personality quiz had once told Bea to stop being self-sacrificing. Don’t be a doormat, it said. It had struck her as a particularly modern assumption that giving diminished the self rather than nourished it. She didn’t equate giving with sacrifice. And she wasn’t a doormat, she was a psychotherapist. She left her desk with a note for the morning – Chase up Lily’s psych assess. Finish safeguarding mins – turned off the lights, and shut down the office. She went up the basement steps, the pristine hoarding 1

The night they decided to leave London Bea had a dream. Dreams are like silent films; guns are fired without shots, people talk without voices. This dream was deafening. The noise woke Bea up, shocked breathless, and terrified.

She didn’t think she’d had the dream because they had decided to go away, it was more likely because of what had happened with the Italian leather holdall and the girl with the knife.

The holdall was made of dark red leather and looked too good for its surroundings. Bea had stopped walking when she saw it, in the window of the charity shop on the Holloway Road. It was lying beneath the long pleats of a nylon skirt on a headless mannequin, which had been styled with a pink jumper in a way that was supposed to be retro but was just old-lady. The red leather holdall was glamorous. It looked as though George Clooney had stopped by on his way to meet Julia Roberts at a little airfield somewhere, and forgotten it. Bea could see its quality but could not see its price. There were plastic-amber beads in the display, and some high heels and an enormous-looking evening dress, drooping on another mannequin. Bea shielded her eyes, her face close to the reflecting glass. Dan would love the holdall. It was stylish and cool. She went to the door. When she pushed, it moved, but didn’t open. There were bags of donations piled against it on the inside, and a pair of jeans wedged between the rubber seal and the floor. Looking through the glass she could see a woman and a girl at the back of the shop, talking. The woman was behind the counter and the girl had one hand on a pushchair. It looked like they were arguing. Bea pushed the door harder and put her head through the gap.

‘Excuse me,’ she said.

Neither of them turned.

‘Excuse me?’ said Bea again. ‘Hi.’

‘Fuck off,’ said the girl, still not turning.

Bea couldn’t see them clearly. The air smelled musty and the street was very loud.

‘It’s all right!’ called the woman at the counter, but she sounded frightened.

Bea looked at the passers-by on the pavement, hurrying, unnoticing, then she put her shoulder against the door and pushed it hard, and squeezed through the gap into the shop. The door closed behind her.

‘Fuck off,’ said the girl, turning round to face Bea. She was holding a knife.

It wasn’t a fighting knife, it looked like a kitchen knife, and she didn’t hold it out, just gripped it in her hand. Behind her, the woman opened her eyes wide in a mute distress signal.

‘What do you want?’ said the girl.

‘Are you all right?’ Bea asked.

The girl was tall, with long legs in skinny jeans and trainers that seemed too big for the rest of her.

‘What are you doing? Go away,’ she said. Bea thought she looked high. She was speedy and scattered.

The woman behind the counter walked backwards, silently, disappearing into the darkness of a doorway. Bea smiled at the girl to keep her attention. She had been crying. Her make-up was smudged and her skin was very white. She didn’t look as if she knew she was holding a knife.

‘I just wanted to ask how much that bag in the window is,’ said Bea. ‘The red one?’

The girl was confused, eyes darting from one place to another. She wiped her face and tucked her hair behind her ear.

‘Sorry,’ said Bea. ‘You don’t work here, do you?’

‘I had to get out,’ said the girl. ‘Are you judging me? You don’t even know me.’

‘Can you put that away?’ said Bea. ‘It’s scary. Do you mind? Can you put it in your bag?’

The girl looked down at the knife in her hand. She jabbed it at the empty air, and laughed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not funny.’

Still holding on to the pushchair, she knelt down and shoved the kitchen knife in the clutter of her gaping bag. Bea could see the baby’s feet sticking out but she couldn’t see the rest of its body. She thought the woman must have called the police. She walked towards the girl.

‘I’m on my lunch hour,’ she said. ‘I was just passing. Are you going to be OK?’

‘What?’ said the girl.

‘Are you OK?’

‘What’s your name?’ said the girl.

‘Bea,’ said Bea. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Emma,’ said the girl, ‘and this is Thomas.’ She nodded towards the baby.

‘Like the Tank Engine,’ said Bea.

The girl smiled. ‘Yes.’

Bea took a few more steps, and leaned over to look into the pushchair. The baby was very young, very small. He was asleep. His hands were curled up by his head, his tiny fingers were as clean as freshly shelled peas. Then they heard sirens. Emma tensed and stared towards the sound. Then blue light flashed onto the walls as the police cars pulled up at the kerb. Two cars and a van. Doors opened and police got out in what looked like a crowd, dark, heavy clothes, pulling on caps and jackets, talking on their radios.

‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit –’ said Emma, and scrabbled back against the counter, weak-legged, grabbing at her bag and the pushchair pulling them towards her.

‘I’m really sorry,’ said Bea. ‘It’s OK.’

A policeman forced the door open, another peered in through the glass.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bea again. Emma was backed up, crouching against the counter with the pushchair.

Bea went towards the policeman in the doorway, her hands open in front of her and said, ‘I think a lady called you?’

‘We had a report of a weapon,’ he said, looking past her and seeing Emma.

‘It’s all right, she’s not – dangerous,’ said Bea completely sure, suddenly frightened. ‘She’s just in a mess –’

But then there were six policemen and a policewoman in the shop. Quickly, they closed in on Emma. They asked her where the knife was, and told her to keep still and asked about the knife again. They tried to separate her from the baby but she wouldn’t let go of the pushchair. Panicking, surrounded, she seemed to dissolve in front of Bea’s eyes, transforming from herself into an object. Bea backed slowly away towards the wall feeling sick with herself, and guilty. After a few minutes, a policeman came over and took her name and asked her what had happened, and then the woman who ran the shop came out from where she had been hiding, somewhere out the back, and gave them her details, while the girl, surrounded, began to fight.

‘You bitch, you cunt,’ she said, as the police took hold of her arms. They prised her hands off the pushchair. A policewoman bent to look inside.

‘What’s his name?’ she asked

‘Get off him,’ said Emma, crying.

‘I really don’t think she was going to do anything,’ said Bea to the policemen, but nobody was listening.

They took Emma out into the street, three of them holding her, having to drag her with them.

‘Don’t worry about it. We know her,’ one of the policemen said to Bea, smiling. ‘She’s always around here.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ said Bea. ‘I work in psychotherapy, just down the road.’

She wouldn’t normally have said that, like she thought she was important, but she felt embarrassed by her humanity, and interfering, and she wanted him to know she wasn’t just a member of the public being sentimental. Even as she thought it she knew that was exactly what she was.

The police stayed around for a few minutes and unstrapped the baby from the pushchair and put him into one of the cars. They couldn’t work out how to fold it up, and struggled with it, and with Emma, getting her into the van, demonstrating to the small crowd gathered that they were not taking pleasure in overpowering her. It was easy, they were so much stronger. The matter-of-fact way they dealt with her looked more brutal than if they had been angry. They forced her into the van calmly, and slammed the doors on her, then the van and the two cars drove away, and the people on the pavement carried on and the life of the street was normal again, with nothing to show they had been there except for Bea, standing there, watching, until they had disappeared. A violent criminal would have gained more attention. There was no easier person to discard than a damaged girl. The woman who worked in the shop came out and stood next to her.

‘I can’t believe how quickly they got here,’ she said.

‘Only because of the knife,’ said Bea.

‘You were brilliant,’ said the woman.

‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘Do you want a cup of tea? I’m Veena.’

They went inside.

‘Bloody donations,’ said Veena, stepping over the bags. ‘They’re the worst part of this job.’ She kicked them away, ‘You wouldn’t believe the rubbish people give us. Bags of dirty clothes, like we’re a laundry.’

They stood together in the silent aftermath, the musty air and shadows of the shop.

‘Do you need a hand?’ said Bea. ‘I’ve still got twenty minutes, and I only work down the road.’

She and Veena drank tea and sorted clothes until it was time for Bea to leave.

‘Thank God you came in,’ said Veena.

‘I was looking at the holdall in the window,’ said Bea.

‘The red one? That’s Italian leather. I’ll give you half price.’

Even at half price it was more than she could afford but Bea bought it to cheer Veena up, and because she knew Dan would love it.

In the afternoon there was the safeguarding meeting with the rest of the practice. Safeguarding was always the same: we can’t be accused of this, because we’ve done that; did you see the letter from the Trust? The guidelines from NICE? Bea took the minutes, and tried not to think about where Emma was or what would happen to her baby. She tried not to remember his defenceless hands. Then, after the meeting, back in her therapy room she waited for her half-past-two clients, a couple with their teenage son. The son gave Bea despairing looks as his father talked. The mother pretended to listen but her hand kept going for her phone, like a gunfighter. Then at four fifteen Bea saw Jill, whose husband had died of cancer, and at five thirty, Lily, who suffered from anorexia and whose family’s distress was nothing in the face of her feeble, unbreakable rage. From half past six Bea wrote up her notes and from seven she was alone. Her colleagues went home to cats and dogs and children.

‘You won’t get a medal,’ they said.

‘Bless you, love.’

A personality quiz had once told Bea to stop being self-sacrificing. Don’t be a doormat, it said. It had struck her as a particularly modern assumption that giving diminished the self rather than nourished it. She didn’t equate giving with sacrifice. And she wasn’t a doormat, she was a psychotherapist. She left her desk with a note for the morning – Chase up Lily’s psych assess. Finish safeguarding mins – turned off the lights, and shut down the office. She went up the basement steps, the pristine hoarding hanging on the scaffold above, swinging in the wind. 200 Luxury Apartments. Rooftop Terrace. Pool. Gym. 24-Hour Porter. 36 Retail Units. 46,000 Sq. Ft. The cold air hit her face like a drink of water and she saw her bus and ran. Foot in a puddle. Banging on the doors. Thanking the driver, tripping on a backpack, looking out at the crowds and wondering about all the lives and thoughts behind the faces. Holding tightly to the rail. Jostled in the crowded bus her thoughts drained away like a wave from the sand. Air between the grains, quiet in her head as the sounds receded. Peace. A voice, a cough, bus stopped, and off. Bus stop. People surging right when she was heading left. Someone banged her shoulder – stranger, not thief. Off the kerb. Cross the street. Reach the house. Bag. Keys. Front door. Inside. And stairs. And she could smell cooking from the ground-floor flat. Cumin and onions. She hadn’t been to the shops. Her shoes were wet. She would put them on the radiator. She got to her door, at an angle on the landing, and their neighbour’s bicycle next to it, dripping, just home too. Home. She went inside and there was Dan.

He was in jeans and a paint-spattered T-shirt. There was paint all over it. Green and blue from wiping his hands or cleaning brushes, and red, splashed like a Jackson Pollock on the white cotton. She couldn’t see if the paint was wet or dry.Have you been painting?’ she said, happy at the thought and holding his present behind her back.

‘No.’ He sounded angry she would ask. ‘I haven’t been painting, I’ve been at work. I just wanted to get out of that suit. How can I come home and paint, after what I do all day?’

‘Oh. OK,’ she said. ‘How was it?’

‘My day? It was the normal shit. Yours?’

‘Mine was – interesting,’ said Bea. She told him about the girl in the Oxfam shop, and about her clients. ‘I’ve got a present for you.’

She gave him the Italian leather holdall.

‘Oh shit,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, babe.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Why do I always end up apologising?’

‘You don’t need to. It’s just hand luggage.’

‘Yeah,’ he laughed. ‘Hand luggage. But we never go anywhere.’

‘We might.’

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘You’re beautiful.’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Bea.

Bea and Dan had met at the Bussey Building in Peckham on a warm evening in June, in 2016. She was out for a club night with her girls, going up the crowded concrete stairwell, when she saw the metal doors to one of the galleries were propped open, and the small groups of people standing awkwardly inside. It felt mean to walk past as if it were a market stall.

‘Let’s have a look,’ she said to her friends.

She saw Dan the moment they walked in. She tried not to stare. She hated how obvious it was to notice the most attractive man in the room, but she couldn’t help it; he was noticeable. He was standing with his hands in his pockets looking at the floor, not demonstrating himself like beautiful people usually did. He seemed uneasy, and she wondered why.

Bea was right, Dan had been uneasy, more nervous than he’d been at his graduation show, a few weeks before. The night was showcasing a selection of that year’s graduate pieces on the theme of ‘Father’. His work was hanging on a public wall – not any wall – here. He had lived round the corner from the Bussey his whole life. It had been the first place outside the Tate that he’d seen art, and the first time he’d glimpsed it as a possible life, not for the imaginary Them but for him; not just as personal catharsis but a potential future. He’d also just started sleeping with his tutor, and now her husband and child had come along to the party for the show. She hadn’t even told Dan she was married. Caught between her and the other students, who were all younger than he was and seemed so confident of their talent, he found himself staring at the floor. There were painfully bright strip lights hanging from the high-up ceiling, and the art was glaring from plasterboard, eight feet high, both aggressive and vulnerable, waiting to be judged. He saw the five girls stop at his painting with their arms crossed. Despite his nerves, partly just to get away from his tutor’s husband, he approached them.

The painting was a fusion of abstract and figurative images of women – women, in swathes and layers of bodies, hair and faces. Bea saw him watching.

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Is it yours?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘There’s no father in it,’ she said. ‘Isn’t the show about fathers?’

‘Yes,’ said Dan.

She wanted to say, You’re good at women, you like bodies, I think it’s beautiful, but she would never have said something like that.

‘It’s good,’ she said, with no conviction.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking at the painting, blankly.

‘Art’s not my subject, but I really like it,’ said Bea.‘I worked so long at it, I can’t see it any more,’ said Dan. ‘It’s not how I wanted it to be.’

‘Nothing ever is,’ she said, and smiled.

‘I guess not,’ said Dan, and a silence fell between them, then he got caught up talking to somebody else, but when she and her friends left a few minutes later he felt a gap behind him, and when he turned to check, the door to the stairwell seemed particularly empty because she had gone. Later on, up on the roof, he had a beer and watched her, waiting for her to be alone. She stood out, but he didn’t know why. It intrigued him that she had such a presence. Her girlfriends were better dressed than she was and one of them was very nice-looking, but only she stood out – in jeans and boots; not big but definitely not skinny – there wasn’t anything he could pinpoint that made her shine to him, except maybe that her hair was fair. But he wasn’t into blondes. When he knew her, and looked back, he thought it was her character, her inner heart he’d seen, and somehow known he had to try for her. There was a DJ that night, and the bar was glowing pink and green and you could see across all of the city, the small, distant lights dancing in the warm air. Dan stopped her when she was coming back from the toilets.

‘Hey,’ he said, approaching sideways so as not to scare her off. ‘How was your night?’

Good, thanks,’ said Bea, hoping he didn’t think she was there to buy paintings.

They talked. She tried to be particularly forthright, so he wouldn’t guess she was attracted to him, but he knew anyway. It was obvious. He bought her a drink and asked her about herself. She told him she had just joined Stamford Hill Psychotherapy and Counselling, and he told her he had just started working as an estate agent. When he said that she stopped looking into his eyes.

‘My father’s in property,’ she said.

‘I’m not in property,’ said Dan. ‘It’s just a day job.’

She didn’t say anything but her openness had gone.

‘Got to earn a living,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Bea. ‘Sure.’

They talked some more and he bought her another drink, and then she bought him one. He told her he had no future as an artist because he thought conceptual art was bullshit and abstracts were boring and people just got them to go with their furniture. She said he should forget the marketplace and just do the work he loved. He talked about Basquiat and Clemente, and explained his submission for Father had been defined by having grown up without one. He asked about hers.

‘He’s very domineering,’ said Bea.Dan said he hated that. ‘My mum’s the boss,’ he said. And he smiled.

Six months later they were living together. Six months after that, he proposed – old-school, with a rose and a ring. They were married eighteen months from their first meeting, and a year on bought their flat. The deposit was made up from Bea’s savings and guilt money Dan’s father had sent him on his twenty-fifth birthday. Twenty-five thousand pounds. One for every year he hadn’t seen him. They called it the ‘adulterer’s cash’. Once, Dan asked Bea if she ever borrowed from her parents. He knew they were well off.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Never.’

Their flat was a one-bedroom first-floor conversion with a brand-new IKEA kitchen.

‘It’s amazing! We’re so lucky!’ she shouted when they moved in, running up and down to touch the windows like a ricocheting pinball – the front, the back, the front – while Dan stood in the middle of the floor and laughed at her.

He changed his job from Foxtons Peckham to Foundations of Holloway. It was her idea. He was still an estate agent but there was a veneer of morality; Foundations only took 1 per cent, whatever the property value. Ethical or not, Dan hated it, from coffee machine to commute, from suit to traffic stink, to almost every single person he met. A fucking estate agent. Ethical. It was just selling houses, or, more often, two rooms above a newsagent, or a basement needing change-of-use. He didn’t mind so much when he had what were termed ‘traditional’ buyers, but London had a dearth of those. Sales were often to overseas investors, or buy-to-let, or developers, wanting to knock everything down and start over. Sometimes Dan closed the deal on a property and closed the door, and pictured it; lights out, and no more human life for months. Nobody to pop out for milk or children on the stairs; a London that was rows and rows of film-set frontages. Selling houses was shit enough, without selling them to people who didn’t need homes.

On bad days he missed her. He would sit on the train, desperate to be home, staring at his reflection and the other ghostly doppelgängers of his fellow travellers; their possible selves, and he would think of all the things he wanted, that he might never find. Fulfilment. Success. Money. Money – everything in London felt as if it were made of it. Cars were made of rolls of it, and clothes of flimsy sweatshop notes. It was all right for Bea, she loved her work, she didn’t mind she wasn’t paid enough for it, but Dan had taken years to get the courage up to study art, and now he didn’t know where to begin. His portfolio was gathering dust under the bed. At night, he would lie with her in his arms and feel it beneath him, unseen and reproachful. He pictured its dusty fingers reaching out to him as he slept, reminding him of his failings. His life was slipping from his grasp, days he would never have again.

The night Bea came back from work with the Italian leather holdall had been one of those bad days, not because of all the shit that came with selling houses, but the worse shit that came from not selling them; sitting in the office all day, feeling like he was rotting from the inside out. That night, he’d made some pasta while she had a shower and changed, and then they sat eating and looking at the bag she hadn’t meant to buy.

‘I’m so worried about Emma,’ said Bea.

‘Who?’

‘The girl today. In the shop.’

‘You can’t worry about everyone. What about you?’

‘I’m fine.’

They cleared the plates and turned out lights and took the leather holdall into the bedroom. They made love with it on the floor nearby and afterwards Dan reached down to pick it up and look at it.

‘This is quality,’ he said.

‘It should be.’

‘Was it a lot?’

‘No, it wasn’t bad.’

‘Maybe it’s a sign,’ said Dan.

‘I only bought it to make Veena feel better.’

‘Who’s Veena?’

‘The lady in the shop.’

‘Yeah, I think it’s a sign, though.’

They sat up late and talked. He tried to say how much he hated his job without sounding like he was just complaining, digging out the worst part of his feelings. She wanted to join in, and admitted her own stress, and that the responsibility for people frightened her. But then she remembered the reward it gave her, and felt like she was pretending. Her own problems felt unimportant when she thought of other people’s. She didn’t say that, she didn’t want to undermine him. He had no reward, he was in deficit to his life, paying out and getting nothing back. It all seemed tied together, his pain, and the pain of others, the mob greed and unhappiness. If they could take themselves out, somehow, get away, then maybe he could start afresh.

‘We could travel. Just a couple of months,’ she said. ‘Or three.’

‘Away?’ he said. ‘Away?’

He switched on the light and it shone straight down onto the red leather bag, making it glow brightly. She had said it without thinking, but looking at his face she realised she could not now take it back. Her words had voiced a need in him. His need not hers, to go back now would take something away from him. She knew she couldn’t do it.

Bea had a small tattoo of a flame on the back of her neck, under her hair. She’d got it in Prague on her eighteenth birthday, for Dante’s Beatrice. The flame was meant to be a source of inspiration and guidance but she thought it looked like an advertisement for British Gas. Dan loved it. To him, it was a sign they were fated to be together and that she was his guiding light. He would lift her hair and kiss the flame, between the top bump of her spine and the nape of her neck. He did it now.

‘I’d follow you anywhere,’ he said. He would always be able to say it was her idea. ‘Let’s go.’

It wasn’t as radical as it felt. He would have to resign from Foundations but she could take three months unpaid leave from Stamford Hill Psychotherapy. Her post would still be there when they came home, as would the crisis helpline where she volunteered. He would have to find something different. They could get a short-term tenant for the flat and use the Cushion to pay their way. The Cushion was the £4,370 they had in a savings account. When money was tight they reminded themselves of it. We’ve got the Cushion. Sometimes it was the Fucking Cushion. The Tiny Cushion. The Shrinking Cushion.

‘It’ll be perfect, babe,’ said Dan. ‘We can use the Cushion, and everything good will still be the same when we get back.’

‘I know,’ said Bea.

‘Do you really want to go?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You promise?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

She was happy to go. She was. She thought of work, and the constant effort of reminding herself that hard as she must try to help people, she must never fall into the trap of believing she could save them. She had tried to help Emma. She had failed. She was gripping the framework of her life, but she was powerless. Perhaps it would be good to let it go. She told herself she must. Dan was asleep beside her. Imagining their travels, she surrendered. Soon afterwards she fell asleep. She slept deeply for a while but later, in the darkest part of the night, she had the dream. There was almost nothing else in it but noise and terror; just her and Dan on a white road and the cacophonous sound of screaming like the sound of Hell. It woke her, and she lay trembling, staring into the dark as the sound faded. She lay in the grateful silence, with the white road still in her eyes and dread slipping away into the corners of the room. She thought how strange it was to have a nightmare when they had such plans, and she was so happy.

Editorial Reviews

04/22/2019

Jones’s propulsive yet thoughtful fifth novel (after Fallout) grips readers from the first page. Bea Adamson is a 30-year-old psychotherapist living in a modest one-bedroom in London with her real estate agent husband, Dan Durrant, despite her moneyed background. Dan, who is of a much humbler background, dreams of becoming an artist. When Bea and Dan take three months off to travel, their first stop is France, where Bea’s older brother, Alex, runs a hotel. When they arrive, they’re greeted by a hotel devoid of guests other than the snake infestation in the attic and an erratic, newly sober Alex. When Alex and Bea’s extremely wealthy parents, Griff and Liv, unexpectedly arrive at the hotel, Bea, who has long cut financial and personal ties with her severe father and cloying mother, resigns herself to making nice. And with Griff and Liv’s arrival, Dan begins to understand just how well-off Bea is, no matter how much she wants to forsake her upbringing. However, when Alex goes out one night and doesn’t return, the Adamson family is upturned, and their secrets and twisted relationships with each other are brought to light. The campy ending doesn’t quite live up to the rest of the book—but what precedes is a tightly crafted, deeply moving, and thrilling story about how money corrupts and all the myriad ways members of a family can ruin each other. Agent: Stephanie Cabot, the Gernert Company. (June)

Publishers Weekly

2019-02-28

Snakes as temptation, snakes as untrustworthy people, snakes as dangerous reptiles—all present and accounted for in this suspenseful drama of an ultrarich, dysfunctional British family.

After growing up among private jets and criminally narcissistic parents, Bea Adamson has cut herself off from her family and their money and has never been open with her biracial husband, Dan, who has only been introduced once, about the extent of their wealth. The couple lives close to the bone in London off their earnings as a psychotherapist and real estate agent. When they decide to take a break and drive an old Peugeot around the continent, their first stop is to see Bea's ne'er-do-well brother, Alex, who has been set up by their father with a hotel outside Beaune, a town not far from the Swiss border. When they arrive at the Hotel Paligny, they are surprised to find a defunct operation which hasn't seen guests in quite some time. "There are loads of snakes," Alex warns when taking them up to the attic. "Mostly they're just grass snakes. They're sort of company....It's the vipers I don't like." Soon after, the hotel gates swing open and more snakes arrive—Adamson père et mère. As horrified as she is by the appearance of Griff and Liv, Bea has no idea how bad things can get. The most impressive accomplishment of Jones' (Fallout, 2014, etc.) fifth novel—her first with a contemporary setting—is the seemingly straightforward, actually rather complicated nature of the relationship between Bea and Dan. The depiction of the frustrations of dealing with the French bureaucracy is also on the money. However, the rich parents are two-dimensional in their utter repulsiveness, and the violent closing section of the book does not quite fulfill the potential of what precedes it.

A well-executed, character-driven cross between domestic drama and crime thriller.

Kirkus Reviews

A provocative and astute writer…The Snakes asks serious questions about human nature, avarice and justice, wrapped in the fast-paced rhythms of a thriller. It is written with Jones’s trademark economy and a fierce attention to the nuances of familial cruelty…I finished The Snakes with a juddering heart, strangely close to tears.The Guardian

★ 04/01/2019

Bea and Dan, young married Londoners, are taking a three-month break from their work lives. While Bea loves her job as a psychotherapist, she's supportive of would-be artist Dan, who's been miserable working in real estate. En route to Spain and Italy, they detour through Burgundy to visit Bea's brother, Alex, who is supposed to be renovating a derelict hotel. Purchased by their wealthy parents as a postrehab project for Alex, the hotel has no staff or guests. Snakes are only the beginning of what's rotten about the place. Intending only a short stopover, Bea and Dan are delayed at first by a needy Alex and then by the arrival of the parents from whom Bea has long been estranged. Corrosive secrets are slowly revealed as the story comes to a heart-pounding conclusion. VERDICT Don't be misled by this book's title. Although a few creepy reptiles make an appearance, the real snakes in this twisty story are human ones. Another memorable novel from the versatile Jones (The Uninvited Guests). [See Prepub Alert, 12/3/18.]—Barbara Love, formerly with Kingston Frontenac P.L., Ont.

Library Journal

About Sadie:

Sadie Jones is the author of five novels, including The Outcast, winner of the Costa First Novel Award and a finalist for the Orange Prize for Fiction and the Los Angeles TimesArt Seidenbaum Award for First Fiction; Small Wars; the bestselling The Uninvited Guests; and most recently, Fallout. She lives in London.