Christensen follows The Great Man with this slightly lesser work, a coming-of-middle-age novel that explores the sexual lives of three women in their 40s. Best friends since their college days, trust-funder Indrani, therapist Josie and L.A. rocker Raquel are like three very different but close sisters. After flirting with a man at a New York party, Josie realizes that she is sexually starving and decides to leave her husband, though Indrani thinks it's a terrible move. Meanwhile, on the left coast, the nearly washed-up ex-junkie Raquel becomes embroiled in a scandal when she's smeared as the other woman to a young actor with a pregnant girlfriend. Raquel hightails it to Mexico City and begs a less than-reluctant Josie to join her. From here the novel takes a predictable route as the women drink their way across the city, Raquel spirals further out of control, and Josie's inner vixen is awakened. The novel loses some of its mojo in the location change-Mexico City seems just out of focus-but the characters are marvelously realized, and when Christensen's on a roll, her wit is irresistible. (June)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Troubleby Kate Christensen
Josie is a Manhattan psychotherapist living a comfortable life with her husband and daughter. Raquel is a Los Angeles rock star with a platinum album and the attendant money and fame. When Josie realizes her marriage is over, and Raquel finds herself at the center of a scandal, these old friends take off for Mexico City where sweltering heat, new acquaintances, and
Josie is a Manhattan psychotherapist living a comfortable life with her husband and daughter. Raquel is a Los Angeles rock star with a platinum album and the attendant money and fame. When Josie realizes her marriage is over, and Raquel finds herself at the center of a scandal, these old friends take off for Mexico City where sweltering heat, new acquaintances, and tequila-fueled nights rapidly spiral out of control. In this vibrant novel, award-winning author Kate Christensen has crafted a bewitching tale of lust, loyalty, and the limits of friendship.
Christensen follows up the award-winning The Great Man with this tale of girlfriends on a wild adventure. Manhattan psychotherapist Josie realizes that she must step out of her staid, platonic marriage. The same week Josie tells her husband that she's leaving, her famous rock musician girlfriend, Raquel, gets caught in a scandal. The two flee to Mexico, where Josie, after so many years of being a good wife and a mother to a difficult teenage daughter, really lets loose, drinking and smoking to no end. She also meets Felipe, a beguiling artist, and experiences a sexual reawakening. But it's not a perfect holiday; Raquel, a recovering drug addict, starts a steep descent into her old habits. Though Josie tries her hardest to help her oldest friend, tragedy is in the air. Christensen's sparse, clean writing style captures the scintillating Mexican night life, and one can almost taste the greasy street tacos and mescal. The compelling plot will keep readers turning pages, even as clouds of tension and despair drift ever closer. [See Prepub Alert, LJ2/1/09.]
“You may experience feelings of exhilaration while reading Trouble. This is normal and is caused by the fact that Christensen is the kind of writer who’s willing to say things most people don’t dare to. And she knows exactly how to say them.” —Time
“Sharp, clear, and often hilarious.” —The New York Times Book Review
“This is Kate Christensen, which means crackling prose, sharp dialogue, and a sly, fanged humor calculated to make Jane Austen sit up and grin.” —The Oregonian
“A stylish . . . suspenseful story of middle-aged sexual awakening and female friendship.” —The New Yorker
“Kate Christensen [has] established herself as a wise, wry voice on the byzantine ways that women’s ambitions and erotic lives conflict.” —The Washington Post
“[A] zinger of a look at matters of the heart.” —USA Today
“Biting and voluptuous. . . . Resonant [and] surprising. . . . A sumptuous banquet of vicarious thrills.” —Bookforum
“Christensen writes beautifully.” —Los Angeles Times
“Witty, zestful. . . . Christensen has a knack for words. She describes vividly the sights, sounds, and smells of Mexico City, the tastes of Aztec food, bite by bite, and the glasses of mescal, tequila, sangria and such, sip by sip. . . . A razzle-dazzle tale of sensual pleasures.” —The Virginian-Pilot
“Kate Christensen knows women—indeed, she knows all of us.” —The Anniston Star
“Marvelous. . . . Wonderfully acerbic, and true to women's sensibilities, Trouble delivers the goods.” —New York Daily News
“Christensen’s sexiest book and among her wittiest. . . . A savvy blend of commercial appeal and literary flair. . . . [Christensen] is a contender for the title Best Novelist You Haven’t Been Reading.” —The Daily Beast
“[Trouble] shares many virtues with [Christensen’s] previous novels: strong situations, compelling plot development, accessible prose. . . . Smart, satisfying fiction.” —AARP Magazine
“The bond between the friends is perfectly felt—nuanced, intimate, believable to the point that you’d go for drinks with them in a heartbeat.” —The L Magazine
“A smart and sexy look at the way libido plays into the female midlife crisis, and many of Christensen’s observations . . . sparkle with acerbic wit. . . . It’s refreshing to read about middle-aged women who are given not only agency, but also vivacity and desire.” —BookPage
- Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
- Publication date:
- Product dimensions:
- 5.80(w) x 8.40(h) x 1.17(d)
Read an Excerpt
On a Thursday night in late December, I stood in my friend Indrani Dressler's living room, flirting with a man I had just met.
"Oh, come on," Mick, the Englishman I was talking to, was saying, "business acumen and a finger on the zeitgeist are not the same as innovation or originality. She's a clever parasite."
"I heard one of her songs the other day in a deli," I said. "It brought back that feeling of being young and wild and idiotic. You just can't take her too seriously."
"She's got a fake accent," Mick said, his mouth gleaming with mirth and wine, firm and half-sneering. His breath smelled like corn. "She irons her hair and she's had too much plastic surgery and she's pasty. She looks like an emaciated Wife of Bath."
"She's got the body of a thirteen-year-old gymnast and she's almost fifty," I said.
"She's a maggot," he said. He was not much taller than I, but broad in the shoulders and solid. His head was large, his face half ugly, half handsome, more French-looking than English, nose too big, eyes narrow, chin jutting forward. We were talking as if the words themselves didn't matter. I had forgotten this feeling.
"A maggot," I repeated, laughing, egging him on.
"Tunneling her way through personas till they're totally rotten and riddled with holes, then moving on to the next one. She went from soft white larva to shriveled maggot in twenty-odd years."
"Obviously," I said with mild triumph, "you're obsessed with her."
"I'm writing an opera about her," he told me in a way that made it impossible to tell whether he was kidding or serious. "Back before she made it. Back when she was young and soft and nasty. I'm calling it Madonna of Loisaida. Madonna when she was a newborn vampire, a baby whore."
I realized with a shock of surprise who he was. About a year ago, one of my clients, a pale, severely chic young concert violinist named Alison Fisher, had precipitously quit therapy after five years and moved to Canada to take care of her dying aunt. She had spent many sessions complaining eloquently and, I'd thought, with very good reason, about her boyfriend, Mick Logan; he was British, he wrote avant-garde operas that told melodramatic fictional stories about famous people, and he made Alison feel clumsy and plain and dull with his devastatingly sharp but subtle put-downs. With much guidance and feedback on my part, she had finally managed to get rid of him. According to what Alison had told me, he was in his mid-thirties, about ten years younger than I was; he was very bad news. She'd said once that breaking up with Mick felt like being let out of jail. And now, here he was at a Christmas party, bantering with me, leading me into a sexually charged, ultimately nonsensical argument that seemed to be rapidly leading somewhere I knew I couldn't go, somewhere I hadn't even thought of going in a very, very long time.
Just then, I caught sight of a reflection of a woman in the tilted gilt-edged mirror across the room. She was dressed similarly to me, so I tilted my head to get a better look at her. As I did so, the woman tilted her head to match the movement of mine. I raised my wineglass; she raised hers along with me.
It was then, in that instant, that I knew that my marriage was over.
My heart stopped beating. I almost heard it squeak as it constricted with fear, and then it resumed its steady rhythm and life went on, as it usually does.
"She's not a villainess, though; she's not interesting enough," Mick was saying. "That's the challenge of this opera. She's all too human, just quite vile really."
"Vile," I repeated, laughing, mouth open, neck bared, my rib cage pulsing with my hard-beating heart. My laughter had a freaky sound in it, like the yelp of a wild dog. I had to move out, I thought with horror. Or Anthony did. No, I did. Our apartment was his when I married him. And I had to take Wendy with me. Where, though? Where would we go? She'd hate me even more than she did already. Of course, she'd blame me, because it was all going to be my fault. "Then why would you write an opera about her?"
"Because," he said, "like a maggot, she's got under my skin and it's the only way to get her out. That revoltingly nasal little voice. Those dead-fish eyes. Those ropy muscles . . ."
I felt the vastly gigantic, frightening wheels that drive the world begin to turn. Lawyers, custody, settlement, alimony. I'd always been someone who made decisions with agonizing thoroughness and caution; to have such a momentous realization thrust upon me with no control whatsoever felt the way being in an earthquake or avalanche might have felt.
Anthony had stayed home that night, ostensibly because he had a lot of research to do for his new book, but in truth, he was relieved not to have to go out. He hated parties in general and didn't much like Indrani; he thought she was boring, which she wasn't, but you couldn't argue with him when he got an idea about someone. Right then, he was probably sitting in his armchair, happily engrossed in some book about post-Communist Eastern Europe, his current preoccupation, sipping at a water glass filled with neat whiskey, reading glasses on the end of his nose, frowning, gently scratching and rubbing his sternum under his shirt in that abstracted way he had. Anthony was a political scientist and New School professor. When I first met him, he had been a dynamic, passionate man, but over the past years, as he got closer to death and the world continued to go down the tubes, his old fired-up passion had been gradually replaced by bitterness, fatalism, and weariness. I had watched it happen, powerless to stop it.
This attitude of defeated resignation now extended from his work to everything in his life, including our marriage. He was becoming, somehow, an old man. I was apparently still a youngish woman; I looked at my reflection again to make sure I hadn't been mistaken about this, and there I still was, radiant, my hair upswept, my eyes wide and sparkling. If that reflection had belonged to a stranger, I would have been intimidated by her. I had had no idea.
"You wrote an opera about Nico," I said giddily to Mick, just to say something; I had just realized that he seemed to be awaiting a reply from me.
He looked surprised. "How did you know that?"
"Oh," I said, realizing what I'd just revealed. "God. Well."
He looked at me, waiting.
"I just realized who you are," I said. I had never before made a slip like this in eighteen years of being a therapist. "I know a friend of yours."
"Alison," he said, as if he were hoping it weren't that Alison.
He shook his head. "How the hell do you know her?"
"Oh," I said, waving a casual hand sideways. "You know, New York."
"Right," he said.
"I haven't seen her in ages," I added by way of reassurance.
"She dumped me cold. Never happened to me before or since. Little witch." He looked briefly into his empty glass, then took my half-full glass from me, grazing his knuckles against mine so all the little hairs on his crackled electrically against all the little hairs on mine. He drank from my glass, his eyes audaciously on mine over the rim. "Enough about Alison. What do you do, Josephine? Doesn't everyone here ask that question before the topic turns to real estate?"
"Oh, I'm a painter," I lied. I had always wanted to be a painter, and I couldn't tell the truth after that slip about Alison; he might have put together that I was the very therapist involved in that little witch's cold dumping of him and surmised that I therefore knew certain things about him, certain highly unflattering things. And that would have been awkward, and the last thing I wanted in this conversation was awkwardness. What I did want, I wasn't yet sure.
Mick handed my glass back to me. My body curved to match the curve of his, as if we were two commas separated by nothing but air. "What sort of painting?"
"Abstract," I said.
"Abstract," he said.
"Abstract," I replied. Repeating each other's words was like sex, I was remembering. My reflection, I noticed, was leaning alluringly into him. I hadn't realized how willowy I was, how darkly elegant. I had to leave Anthony: I owed it to this woman in the mirror.
"Painting is sexy," said Mick. "Writing operas, on the other hand, is lonely and pointless. Who gives a fuck? Aria, schmaria."
"Painting is sexy," I repeated. "You stand in your studio half-naked, smearing paint all over the canvas until you explode from the sheer pleasure of it."
He laughed; there was a glint, a predatory edge, in his laughter, and I noticed that he was standing a little closer to me now. "Alison Fisher," he said malevolently, looking at me as if I were now inextricably associated with her, but he was willing to overlook it. I had a sudden urge to suck his cock.
"I need some more wine," I said. "You rudely guzzled my last glass."
"Wait here," he said, and plucked the glass from my hand. I watched him walk over to the dining room table, where all the bottles were. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and well-fitting brown jeans and black Doc Martens. He had a good ass. I glanced over at the mirror and again beheld my reflection. My new best friend, I thought with tipsy seasonal sentimentality.
"Josie," said Indrani, standing at my elbow. Her cheeks were flushed. Her blond hair shone. She wore red velvet. I had known her since college, and to me, she still looked exactly the same as the day I'd met her. She smelled of expensive, slightly astringent perfume. "Hi! Where's Anthony?"
"Hi," I said, kissing her. "He's swamped with work. He's so sorry to miss it. You look so beautiful!"
She looked at me. "You do, too," she said. "I mean it."
"Thanks," I said. "I've been talking to your friend Mick. He's a big flirt, isn't he?"
"Is he? I hardly know him; he's a friend of Ravi's." This was her much younger brother. Her parents had had a penchant for exotic names; the two older brothers were Giacomo and Federico. Ravi was a handsome, cheeky, disreputable Lothario type who was at that moment getting sloshed on vodka in the kitchen with Indrani's teaching assistant. "Seriously, you look really good, not that you don't always look good," said Indrani. "What's going on?"
"I'm flirting," I said recklessly. "I haven't flirted in about ten years."
"Are you going to fuck him?" she whispered. She was tipsy, obviously, and kidding; Indrani tended to be idealistic and even moralistic about marriage, probably because she was single.
"No." I laughed, but I did not say it emphatically.
Mick handed me a full glass of wine, which I took without looking at him.
"Hello, Indrani," he said. "Your apartment is lovely."
"Well, thanks. I was lucky; I bought at the right time." Indrani had a soft, round, open face and doelike brown eyes. Her shoulder-length hair was golden and shiny and straight, like a little kid's; her tall body was charmingly ungainly, slightly plump, and breasty. Although she was now a middle-aged professor at an Ivy League school, she had never lost the disarmingly naive ingenue quality that had instantly endeared her to me and won my trust when I was a shy eighteen-year-old in a strange new place.
She was not Indian; she was English and Danish. She had been born in Costa Rica to hippie parents who had later moved to the Bay Area, where she had grown up. Unfortunately for Indrani, given this upbringing, she was by nature deeply reserved and emotionally conservative. As a kid, she had chafed with embarrassment and discomfort at all the naked tripping adults at happenings, the peach-and-lentil burger suppers, the patchouli-scented, jerry-rigged VW vans, the peace marches, having to wear used clothes from the People's Park free box. Her mother was the only daughter of a very rich man, but Indrani hadn't fully realized this until she was given access to her trust fund at the age of twenty-one.
"Hey, Josie," she said, turning her lambent gaze on me, "I've been meaning to ask, have you heard anything from Raquel lately? What's going on with her new boyfriend? She wouldn't even tell me his name, but she said he's exactly half her age."
"So it's Josie, then, not Josephine," said Mick. "Suits you, actually."
I was so turned on by the sound of his voice in my ear, I could have raped him right there. I was feeling loose and wild and punchy. I had spent the past ten years, it seemed to me now, with my muscles clenched, eyes narrowed, shut up in a dark, too-small, sterile room, trying desperately but vainly to make it feel homey and capacious. The door out of my cage, my cell, had been right there all along and I had just flung it open; now that I could see outside to light, color, life, freedom, I felt that there was no closing it, ever again.
"Yeah," I said, almost giggling like a kid. "I haven't talked to her for a couple of weeks, but she said the thing with the new boyfriend is very hush-hush for some reason, and she wouldn't tell me who he was, either. And she's got a new album in the works. It's her big comeback. Apparently, she's put together an amazing band, and they've been in the studio all fall." Raquel had also told me that she was getting a little sick of Indrani's earnest, self-involved E-mails, but I didn't mention that bit of news.
"Raquel Dominguez?" Mick asked.
"The very same," I said.
He looked impressed, the starfucker. "How do you know her?" he asked.
"College," I said.
"We were all three best friends," Indrani added warmly.
I thought of what Raquel had just said to me about her and felt guilty and complicit, even though I was innocent.
In the fall of 1980, more than a quarter of a century ago, Indrani and Raquel and I had been newly arrived freshmen with consecutive alphabetical last names at a small liberal-arts school tucked away in a leafy suburban corner of a small northwestern city. Sensing a shared ironic yet romantic outlook, we had immediately formed a solid, seemingly permanent triumvirate. The three of us had rented a ramshackle old house together off campus. We majored unanimously in English, wore one another's thrift-store clothes, cooked big meaty dinners, and threw parties at which we all took mushrooms or MDA and played the Talking Heads, the Specials, Elvis Costello, Al Green. We passed boyfriends around amicably and casually-at least two and sometimes all three of us had slept (but never at the same time) with Joe the chem major, Stavros the history major, Dave the anthro major, Jonathan the anthro major, and Jason the anthro major (we'd had a thing for anthropologists, for reasons we could never quite fathom). We never slept with one another. Straight girls sleeping together just for youthful sport was, we all tacitly agreed, a clichŽ, and of course we called ourselves girls, not women-feminist didacticism, along with earnest vegetarianism, was emphatically not our aesthetic, which set us somewhat apart from the majority of the student body, which suited us fine.
Meet the Author
Kate Christensen is the author of the novels In the Drink, Jeremy Thrane, The Epicure's Lament, The Great Man, winner of the 2008 PEN/Faulker Award, and Trouble. She lives in Brooklyn.
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I loved every part of this book. It was rich on so many levels. I felt like the characters could have been my friends. And the character development really advanced the plot well, instead of veering away from it. Every chapter divulged a pleasant surprise, a new treasure for the reader. This is the first Kate Christensen book, and I will definitely read more.
I must admit that I had preconceived notions about this book when I glanced at the reviews and ranking, but Kate Christensen is one of my favorite authors and deep down I knew that this was a special book no matter what anyone else thought of it. Trouble is different than her other works, for a change the main character is a woman, so the writing felt much softer, it was properly rounded and followed female insecurities and cravings , making this feel like a completely different work than one would expect from the queen of bringing eccentric men to life in her previous novels. I love that about Kate's book, you never know what to expect, other than a sheer feeling of joy when I hold each of the new books for the very first time. On top of the fact than it's an intense and full bodied tale, the sticky and sweet, sweaty at times atmosphere of Mexico made me hold my breath a few times. The story seems simple from the birds point of view, but when dissected more closely it's about two very different women and their way to find a happy place that either makes them feel alive or relieves them from their pain. The books is not one dimensional, it deals with the search of fulfilling some deeply buried lust and also with female friendships which can be as bizarre, draining and difficult as a marriage or a family situation. There is an art theme running though the novel and the usual good eating of spicy new foods and drinks, which give the novel life and authenticity, the luxurious charm of Kate's hidden little gems shines through in vivid and charismatic way as she sneaks in brilliant descriptions that make the reader go back and re-read many of the great lines. Josie who's a forty something NYC therapist decides to do what's right after fifteen years of marriage and focuses on her own selfish needs, her inner woman finally unleashed is faced with a two week vacation and what better way to escape the cold Christmas saturated streets than to a lush and tropical Mexico where Raquel, one of her best friends awaits. Free of men, kids and work worries, the two very different women let go and submerge themselves into a different world, one that holds release, pleasure but also darkness. I didn't feel the need to completely relate to Josie, Raquel or the third of the close knit group, Indrani, in order to like the book, in fact the way their lives seem to fall apart in front of my eyes was more like watching a play that was both tragic and sensual. This might not be for everyone, but I enjoyed it. The heavy drinking gave the book such opulence, such a high pedestal for the women to fall from that it would make most of us think twice about overindulgence which only seemed to lead to more depression or unusual behavior from someone who appears grounded, making Josie very human and vulnerable, bit tough and little selfish but with child like curiosity inside that added warmth to the all ready steamy novel. I was lost in this book for two days and after finishing it I still feel tangled in its aura, now I must patiently wait for the next book, which from what I read online is in the works. - Kasia S.
Don't listen to any negative reviews! This is Kates BEST novel so far! I have read all her books, and the characters seemed to jump off the pages in this book. There is a special bond with all three main female characters, and the new found friendships with those they meet in Mexico. Though the language is a little graphic for my taste, the storyline, her characters discriptions and their heartfelt everyday lives and troubles is what makes this book a GREAT read! Its heartwarming the way the friends pull together. Even when they are fighting, they are still supportive of one another. Josie's distant or troubling relationship with her daughter, and the way they seem to work thru that and seem closer than ever in the end. Its a story how two best friends are there for each other when they need each other the most! How can that be a bad book? Its a very touching and moving story! We should all be so lucky to have friends like that, that would support us in this way. Rachel's life is tragic and she needs Josie's support and groundedness to get thru the scrunity of being in the publics eye... The ending left me wishing for more!!!...and thinking what is in store for the characters. I just wanted more to read!!! Keep up the great novels kate!!
I have loved all of Kate Christensen's books. Trouble starts and seems to be going to an interesting place but does not deliver. The characters are never developed the relationships are not interesting with overemphasis on the visual. very disappointing.