Good Material: THE INSTANT SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLER, FROM THE AUTHOR OF EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT LOVE

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Snob. Once said that she thought people who wear straw hats at the airport on the way to their summer holiday are ‘regional’.

All of Alderton's considerable gifts as a writer are on display here: her wit, her ability to capture exchanges that feel real, and her skilful characterisation ... Alderton's work truly shines when she writes about friendship Sunday Independent You’re the only person I can talk to about this stuff,’ I say, revolted by the baldness of my own love. ‘Please make sure Jane doesn’t tell him before I do.’ Brilliantly observed … Beautifully written, pacy and excellent on rejection, friendship and letting go. Fabulous Daily Mail

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Would never talk seriously about having children, despite knowing how much I want to be a dad, but would sometimes say ‘That’s one of my baby names’ to people in conversation.

His lovelorn misadventures will prove to be the making of him but the novel closes with a short section told from Jen’s point of view. It’s a clever way of tying up loose ends that also accentuates the extent to which this affable, satisfying tale is out to defy some of the most stubbornly conservative tropes of romantic fiction. When digging into modern day manhood, meanwhile, there is perhaps a trace of gender stereotyping – Jen’s female friends take her for a spa weekend to help her deal with the breakup, while Andy’s own blokey friends arrange a night out at the pub, followed by KFC. Yet something about it rings true. We agreed I would call at seven but I wait until three minutes past to make a point that she doesn’t get to call the shots any more. I scroll to her name in my phonebook: Jen (Hammersmith). We found it funny - my chosen life partner, reduced to a borough. It’s not funny now it’s lost all its irony. It’s just a fact. I am about to call Jen (Hammersmith), a woman who I would probably never be friends with, who lives in a part of London I would never visit. No, I’m not,’ she says. One of our favourite jokes, extinguished along with our relationship. We were only allowed to make it when we were in cahoots; when we were so close that her family felt like my family, even though they drove me mad. But she’d crossed over now. I’m not her family any more, we are no longer playing for the same team. I am just a man from the Midlands who she would probably never be friends with, being rude about her sister.Whatever. No point discussing it any further.’ I can’t find my footing in this conversation – I lurch from desperation to indifference. I want her to know how much I love her and I also want her to think that I don’t care about our relationship any more. I don’t know what the desired outcome is. I wish I hadn’t had three beers. ‘I don’t think these phone calls are helping us,’ I say. When she would go for a run in the evening she would come into the living room, stretch in front of the TV and say ‘What’s this?’ and make me explain the programme I was watching even though she knew what it was, just to make a point that she was exercising while I was watching Help, I’m a Hoarder! Alderton is excellent at fusing poignant tenderness with wry observations about modern life, and that talent is on full display here. Good Material is a highly enjoyable exploration of the messy, non-binary nature of many break-ups, and how two people can simply make a terrible couple.” Which isn’t to say Alderton’s take on the breakup novel is unoriginal or not worth reading. With Good Material, she proves herself once again as having both a deep understanding of the intricacies of relationships and the ability to articulate it better than the majority of us ever could. Talked too much and too smugly about coming from a big family, as if it was her decision to have three siblings.

Their demographic is challenged by significant generational conflicts, too – boomer and gen Z characters repeatedly question Andy’s received wisdoms about love and relationships. When Andy retreats to the reassuring regularity of his suburban childhood home, the conversations he has with his mother about accepting rejection prove vital in reframing his self-awareness and vision of what his future might look like. She’s fine, she hates you, her Zumba class are plotting your death.’ Another arctic pause. ‘She’s devastated, obviously.’ Your therapist suggested that I “write a letter to my ego”, so I’m sorry if I’m not gagging to hear whatever she advised.’ The last section is Jen’s point of view, whilst it may not be especially long it is very illuminating and explains a lot. I’m glad we got this as it gives a broader understanding of their relationship. The ending is extremely satisfying. All talk about being some big adventurer but never followed through. Wanted to take a year off to travel because she never had a gap year (‘next year’). Wanted to move to Paris (‘not the right time’). Wanted to get an undercut (‘work wouldn’t like it’). Wanted to go to an outdoor sex-themed rave (‘when my hay fever gets better’).

I think it was very important to have a section from Jen’s perspective at the end of the book. It gives so much clarification to much of the breakup, and pulls the reader from the typical pedestalization of a protagonist that inevitably occurs in fiction. Andy is not perfect. Jen is not perfect. I see bits of myself in both of them. Which, as a writer, I know is very very very difficult to accomplish. The complexity of these characters on such a molecular level is stunning and inspiring, to say the least. It is also not just a shrewd portrayal of lost love, it is genuinely funny – if only more books made you laugh as much as this.