The Price of Inheritance: A Novel

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Your local Waterstones may have stock of this item. View other formats and editions. As you'd expect from Eclair, there's plenty of humour, some very dark. But what might surprise is the achingly poignant sadness of some of the characters, who are incredibly well drawn. By comedian Jenny Eclair. It is SO immersive, atmospheric and compelling.

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I loved Jenny's last book Moving but this is in another league. Jenny Eclair said one of her favourite sub genres of literature is "posh people behaving badly" and this absolutely delivers. Smart, heart-breaking, moving and captivating with plenty of deliciously waspish social commentary -- Daisy Buchanan Jenny Eclair once again kept me glued to the page with Inheritance.

Such a brilliant writer, so sharp and yet so forgiving. It is witty as you might expect but it's much much more. Added to basket. The Handmaid's Tale. Margaret Atwood. Nine Perfect Strangers. Liane Moriarty. The Sun Sister. Lucinda Riley.

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The Price of Inheritance

Martina Cole. Killing Commendatore. Haruki Murakami. Philip Pullman. The Testaments.

Inheritance – Epigram

The Familiars. Stacey Halls. In a House of Lies. Ian Rankin. Girl, Woman, Other. Bernardine Evaristo. Find Me. Andre Aciman. Normal People. Sally Rooney. The Cockroach. Ian McEwan. Of course she was the first to call and congratulate me, because the Dalbys were first at everything. There were two Dalby girls, very pretty and smart, with thick brown hair with blond streaks framing their faces and Irish Catholic roots. I went to Princeton with Jane, though she was a year above me, and her sister, Brittan, was a freshman when I was a junior.

I told my parents I went to Princeton because they were alumni, but it was really because Jane was there. I could leave Rhode Island, but there was no way I was leaving the Dalbys. I just heard! This year, she was spending the winter there with her husband, Carter, and a partially blind Labrador who won best in breed at Westminster a decade ago. She was right.

You better be. And I was.

I was one of two kids who lived in Newport year-round who boarded. Alex was the other. I missed having a house full of Dalbys next door. I put my phone and keys on the table, took my blazer off, hung it in the hall closet, and walked over to the bedroom. Alex was covered in blankets and I could only see a few strands of hair sticking up from under the quilt, refusing to be hidden with the rest of him.

I took my clothes off, folded them, put them on the leather armchair next to the bed, and got in next to him. We broke the record for a single piece of American furniture. I can finally take a deep breath again. There is oxygen left despite what I kept telling you about fraudulent science and our impending doom. All those nights chewing my nails—my hands really—until my fingers looked like strips of bacon. It was all worth it. I was terrified, but it actually happened. Twelve five. But happy shock.

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Or even a hug. Anything really except some garbled sleep talk, which I forced out of him. But still, a little congratulatory screaming and fainting with pride would have been nice. I would scrapbook it, laminate it, and possibly sleep with it under my pillow for the next decade. The next evening was Saturday, and quickly noticing that I was a tad pissed by his nonreaction to my big life-changing news the night before, Alex promised to take me to a celebratory dinner at my favorite restaurant in New York, Daniel, on East Sixty-Fifth Street.

During our first few years in New York, Alex and I tried hard not to be together. He had dated a series of emaciated blondes who worked in marketing or magazines and he found them all fascinating. But no one ever really stuck besides me, and vice versa. Were we crazy about each other, or were we just used to each other? We had ease, and that often mattered more to me than romance. When Alex came up, he gave me a kiss and an Edible Arrangement, which I much prefer to flowers because flowers are just elegant vessels for bugs to enter your home and stay forever.

I once had giant red ants invade my kitchen and I swear they rode in on a large, comfortable sunflower. I was happy. When we were outside, I started to do an adult version of skipping down the sidewalk. I had energy, life, joie de vivre. Or funny at all. Actually, I once presented him with a drawing of a funny bone and suggested that he have it inserted by a doctor. He did not heed my advice. But he was very successful, was kind when no one was looking, and was incredibly sexy. Take-your-underwear-off-with-his-teeth sexy. Alex had kissed me three weeks into the year and declared that I looked like a fragile rose.

That won me over a little and when he whispered in my ear that his mission in life was to give me an orgasm, that won me over entirely. He did. My nerves around auction time, my need to be very successful at everything I gave a morsel of energy to. I knew he wanted me to be steadier, more stable, just like him and his emotionless family. I looked at Alex, still so perfectly handsome. He was a bulky six feet tall with muscles that refused to be well defined but were somewhere under there. When we got to Daniel we both forgot that he actually wanted a different version of me, the me that existed before I had my dream job, before I understood what real pressure was.

Instead we ate, talked about people we knew from home, and kept floating down the line of shared experiences. We would always be connected because of school, because of Newport and falling in love there when we were very young, and for now, that was good enough. After dinner, Alex suggested that we go back to his apartment, take off our underwear, and drink heavily. I thought that sounded like an exceedingly good idea. Well, on the right side of his face, anyway. You should be a criminal.

I want you naked for the next twelve hours. She demanded that I meet her for coffee in thirty-five minutes and that I better have a bag packed because her assistant had just booked me a flight to Texas and I might have to stay for a few days.