David Nicholls enjoys a bit of structural scaffolding. In his debut, 2003âs student romance Starter for Ten, it is the TV quiz University Challenge. A European Interrail itinerary forms a backdrop to empty-nester marital crisis in Us, and the love story One Day, which has sold more than 5m copies and is now a global Netflix hit, is made up of 20 years of St Swithinâs Days. His sixth novel, You Are Here, is pinned to geographical locations: a well-planned hike through the Lake District, where route-specific section headings â âDay One: St Bees to Ennerdale Bridgeâ, âDay Two: Ennerdale Bridge to Borrowdaleâ â map out another ferociously likable romance.
Michael, 42, a bearded geography teacher from York, is walking 200 miles across Britain in order not to think about his recent divorce. His concerned friend Cleo gathers a small party to accompany him for the first few days, including her old friend Marnie, 38, a copy editor, also divorced, living in Herne Hill. Marnieâs friends have all married and moved out of London. Working from home, she is seriously isolated, bantering with household objects or âlistlessly foraging on social mediaâ. Loneliness brings shame, though, and when her TVâs streaming device produces a What a Year! slideshow from her photos involving closeups of ingrown hairs and dry-cleaning receipts, she forces herself to accept Cleoâs invitation as âthe kind of potentially awful experience she neededâ.
Matchmaker Cleo also invites a triathlete called Tess for Michael, and a handsome pharmacist, Conrad, for Marnie. But Tess cancels, as does Cleoâs husband, so the party consists of Cleo and her taciturn teenage son, with Marnie, Michael and Conrad. Distracted by Conradâs looks, Marnie barely registers Michaelâs solid appeal, despite neon signs flashing at the reader: âA low voice, slight accent, a jumper, beard and scruffy hair that might all have been home-knitted.â Kicking pebbles by a lake, just before they set off, he hands her a stone. âNothing flash. Understated. Classic.â Youâd think Cleo would have earmarked the incredibly decent nice guy rather than a vapid pharmacist for her best friend, but had she done so there would be no plot. Bright, bookish Marnie therefore initially pursues Conrad, who isnât very smart and doesnât like books, but loves Formula One. What follows, told in alternating narratives by Marnie and Michael, involves witty conversation, weather, overnight stops, mild drunken escapades and tugged heartstrings.
Nicholls knows how to make unpromising characters appealing. Michael is cut from the same sturdy cloth as Douglas, the biochemist narrator of Us. He is practical, witty, self-deprecating and liable to feel foolish. At one point, forced to eat alone in a romantic hotel, his âface set in the expression of someone who has tripped on a paving stone but is incorporating it into their walkâ. Marnie, meanwhile, is doggedly relatable. Exhausted, flirting fiercely with Conrad, she wonders if itâs possible to âkittenishly throw upâ. Backstories are gently woven: unremarkable childhoods, how their marriages fell apart, the arc of their careers. Then everyone else goes home, and we are left with Marnie, Michael, their growing sexual chemistry and Britainâs spectacular landscapes.
Nichollsâs novels often confound narrative expectations â most notably with the shock ending of One Day â but there are few surprises here. Short, pacy chapters are energised by a trail mix of jolly headings: in one section, playlist songs that Marnie and Michael share â âDonât Speak by No Doubt (1996)â, âNo Limit by 2 Unlimited (1992)â. Droll signposting aside, we are following the Jane Austen map of romantic plotting: two wounded but complementary souls, initial indifference, misdirected affections, growing attraction, misunderstandings, obstacles, hope and resolution.
In less expert hands this could feel almost absurdly formulaic. That it doesnât is down to Nichollsâs extraordinary ability to capture the absurdity of modern life in pithy textural details. An inn where âreal-ale drinkers snored and farted, fibreglass duvets billowing like sailsâ, has a shower like âa kettle poured onto the back of his neckâ. A pillow is âfilled with something fibrous, asbestos perhapsâ; Michaelâs hair has a âpermanent exasperated airâ. Almost every page contains these gems, and so the experience of reading involves endless nods of recognition that generate a tender, reassuring bond between author and reader. In the end, Nichollsâs novels all essentially say the same thing: yes, life is a bit cruel but itâs OK because weâre in this together. Bad things happen â people drop down dead in this book, too â but there are ancient rock formations, pubs serving fish and chips, and decent, plucky people falling in love in hiking boots. If You Are Here was an animal, it would be a mildly limping labrador: adorable, very British, poignant but plucky, and certain to heal.
Towards the end, Marnie tells Michael that Cleo warned her he was âwryâ. âAt least I wasnât whimsical,â he says. The line between wry and whimsical can be perilous, but Nicholls stays on the right side. He is also a screenwriter, most recently with the adaptation of One Day, and it is skilful dialogue â Marnie and Michael communicate in witty Netflix-ready exchanges â that keeps everything on track.
There is satisfaction to be taken from this midlife redemption tale, not least because it fills a gap: Nichollsâs novels now cover love and marriage across every age bracket from teens to mid-50s. It may not be challenging â unlike Austenâs Persuasion, quoted in the epigraph, it offers neither visceral desperation nor pent-up agonies â but for many it will be a comforting antidote to the grimness of our grim world, a crowd-pleaser and, surely, a TV hit-to-be.