also by simon van booy

fiction

The Secret Lives of People in Love: Stories

Love Begins in Winter: Stories

Everything Beautiful Began After

The Illusion of Separateness

Tales of Accidental Genius: Stories

Father’s Day

The Sadness of Beautiful Things: Stories

Night Came with Many Stars

nonfiction

Why We Need Love

Why Our Decisions Don’t Matter

Why We Fight

children’s fiction

Gertie Milk & the Keeper of Lost Things

Gertie Milk & the Great Keeper Rescue

the presence of absence

Title Page

Dedication

Always, for C.E.D.

Epigraph

Then love, love will tear us apart again . . .

Joy Division

Prologue

Some years ago, I received a letter from a woman in New Jersey. She wanted to talk on the telephone regarding her late husband, the author Max Little. I had attended the odd reading of Little’s over the years and had four of his books on the shelf at home⁠—one of which he signed for me in San Francisco at the beginning of 2007, when we chatted briefly about the absence of tea kettles in American hotel rooms (Max was also British).

After talking with Hadley Little for two hours one Sunday afternoon, it came to light that her husband had left a small journal of his last days, and Hadley wanted to see it published posthumously. Max Little’s book editor Carrie K. at Sipsworth House had already examined the work and felt it too fragmented in its original form and not indicative of the whole story, which continues to this day. Eventually it was decided that Hadley would approach me with the idea of incorporating the fragments of her husband’s final thoughts into a novel that I would write and publish under my own name with an introduction explaining the circumstances of our collaboration.

Shortly after our conversation, a package arrived from Sipsworth House with a copy of the manuscript. As I started reading, it was soon very clear that Max Little had intended his thoughts to be shared, despite the intensely personal nature of this work. But the book wasn’t much more than a short collection of notes, with no dates to indicate any intended order. Despite the challenges, I found that I was soon emotionally attached to the work, and agreed with Hadley and her late husband’s editorial team that the only way to convey the story in the way Little may have intended was to incorporate the dying author’s feelings and observations into something with structure. Like many authors I know, I believe that a story will often choose a particular writer to bring it into the world, by some mysterious process that is both instinctual and deliberate. This is why a work of fiction seemed like the best way forward.