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Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Moggach's impressive debut, a gripping psychological thriller, is all the more disturbing for its plausibility. Introverted nerd Leila finds a group of friends of sorts after discovering Red Pill, a Web discussion list that debates philosophical matters in a Randian fashion. For the first time, Leila has people who care what she thinks. Among them is Red Pill's founder, Adrian. After he builds up Leila's confidence, making her feel like she's something special, he asks her to perform a disturbing act: he wants her to take over the online life of Tess, a troubled woman who plans to commit suicide without letting anyone know. As Leila immerses herself in Tess's life in preparation to take it over via Facebook, Twitter, and e-mail, she becomes increasingly attached to the task, relishing creating an imaginary life-not realizing that Adrian's motivations for the identity theft are vastly different than they appear to be. Moggach's skill in plotting means readers won't anticipate the twists and turns built into the story, making for an intensely enjoyable reading experience. Memorable and fast-moving. Agent: Anthony Topping, Greene & Heaton (U.K.). (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Guardian Review
In the summer of 2007, a friend sent me a Facebook message asking to meet for a drink. Even as I pressed "send" on my acceptance, I found myself dreading it. The problem wasn't the friend, who I liked very much, but the thought of meeting in the flesh. I would have to brush my hair and find a clean top. The conversation could go in any direction and I would have to think on my feet, without recourse to Google or time to craft bons mots. There was the potential for awkward silences, faffing over who would pick up the bill. Why can't we just stick to Facebook? I thought. Why endure unpredictable, inefficient real-life encounters, when there is the option to keep friendships alive in the comfort of your own home, with complete control of your image and interactions? In the event, I had a good night, and I'm not yet so pickled by the internet that I've entirely forgotten the value of human contact. But I started to think about how social networking is affecting our sense of identity and connections with others. Virtual relationships may have advantages over messy real-life ones, but they are also based on dishonesty. After all, online we are given the opportunity to present ourselves as we'd like to be, rather than as we really are. Often this takes the form of harmless omissions - not revealing we've spent our weekend watching repeats of Man v Food, or that a good quip was borrowed from a friend - but who knows how far some people go? What I find really interesting is that although we all fudge the truth online, we nonetheless tend to trust our social networks, buying into the images our friends project without question. From these thoughts emerged the tendril of a plot. It occurred to me that I already had a number of contacts on Facebook whom I might never see again: those who lived abroad or to whom I was not particularly close. What if everything one of these "friends" posted was a lie - even the fact that they existed at all? If someone was impersonating them online, would I ever find out? There was my idea: a woman wants to disappear without her friends knowing she has gone, and so hires someone to take over her virtual life. Soon after came the character of Leila, my narrator, an unusual young woman who agrees to take on the job. But even with someone so meticulous at the helm, how long can the deception last? Extract The idea, in a nutshell, was this. The woman - Tess - would inform her family and friends that she intended to move abroad to start a new life in some distant, inaccessible place. She would hand over to me all the information I would need to convincingly impersonate her online, from passwords to biographical information. Then, on the day of her "flight", she would disappear somewhere and dispose of herself in a discreet manner, handing the reins of her life over to me. From then on I would assume her identity, answering emails, operating her Facebook page and so forth, leaving her loved ones none the wiser that she was no longer alive. In this way, I would help to facilitate her wish: to kill herself without causing pain to her friends and family; to slip away from the world unnoticed. "Naturally, your immediate concern will be whether she is of sound mind," said Adrian. "Well, I've known Tess for a while now and I can assure you she knows exactly what she's doing. Is she a colourful character? Yes. Crazy? Absolutely not." After that reassurance, my thoughts turned to practical matters. As long as I had the relevant information to hand, I thought, the logistics of imitating this woman online seemed fairly straightforward: answering the odd email, a few status updates a week. Adrian told me the woman was quite old, in her late 30s: hopefully that meant she wouldn't even write in text speak. Rather, my worries were about the premise and the conclusion of the operation. Was this "new life abroad" a plausible move for Tess in the first place? And, vitally, how long would the project last? After all, I couldn't impersonate this woman indefinitely. Adrian reassured me on both counts. Tess was ideally suited to the project, he said, in both her situation and character. And my involvement would last only for a year or so, during which time I would gradually distance Tess from her correspondents, reducing contact until her absence was barely noticed. "Think of it as acting like a dimmer switch on her life," he said. Of course, I didn't know then that it was the middle bit - those emails and status updates - where the problems lay. And that I would never really reach the end. - Lottie Moggach 36, British The idea, in a nutshell, was this. The woman - Tess - would inform her family and friends that she intended to move abroad to start a new life in some distant, inaccessible place. She would hand over to me all the information I would need to convincingly impersonate her online, from passwords to biographical information. Then, on the day of her "flight", she would disappear somewhere and dispose of herself in a discreet manner, handing the reins of her life over to me. From then on I would assume her identity, answering emails, operating her Facebook page and so forth, leaving her loved ones none the wiser that she was no longer alive. In this way, I would help to facilitate her wish: to kill herself without causing pain to her friends and family; to slip away from the world unnoticed. "Naturally, your immediate concern will be whether she is of sound mind," said Adrian. "Well, I've known Tess for a while now and I can assure you she knows exactly what she's doing. Is she a colourful character? Yes. Crazy? Absolutely not." - Lottie Moggach 36, British.
Kirkus Review
Moggach's debut draws the reader into a series of events that bring together three very disparate individuals and puts them into a bizarre game of chance and deceit. Leila's father left before she was born, and her mother died when she had barely reached young adulthood. Sheltered, socially inept and almost friendless, she secures a job testing software out of the home Leila bought herself: a run-down apartment over an Indian restaurant in Rotherhithe, in Southeast London. But things all change when Leila joins a philosophical discussion group on a website known as Red Pill and is befriended by the site's owner, an American named Adrian. Leila is elevated to one of the site's most trusted commenters, and soon, Adrian approaches Leila with a proposition. Would she pretend to be someone else online for about six months in order to cover up the woman's pending suicide? The woman in question is a dark-haired, hypnotic gamine who entrances men and has many friends, basically the opposite of Leila. Tess, as she is known, has some emotional issues and doesn't want anyone else to realize she's gone off and killed herself, so she plans to do the deed someplace where her body won't easily be found. Leila agrees and begins to correspond with Tess, learning her friends, habits, speech patterns, likes and dislikes, and history. But then things happen that Leila not only hasn't counted upon, but also isn't prepared to handle, and everything starts to tilt, changing the way Leila views what she's doing and the people who are important to both women's lives. In Leila, Moggach has drawn a young woman who is convincingly nave in the ways of the world and incapable of making good decisions. The story crackles with tension until the end, when it inexplicably runs out of steam. An interesting first book that manages to incorporate technology into a sexy psychological thriller that holds the reader's attention until it reaches the oddly tame ending.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
Moggach's taut psychological thriller opens with a video conversation between Leila, a socially isolated twentysomething, and Tess, glamorous and pushing 40. As the pages fly by, Moggach reveals that Leila has been recruited by Aiden, the mysterious owner of a website that focuses on philosophical discussion, to impersonate Tess online so that Tess can commit suicide without her friends and family being any wiser. Leila finds Tess to be quite different from her. She's impulsive, worldly, more than a bit flighty, and genuinely determined to end her own life. After months of communication, Tess hands the reins to her online life over to Leila, and Leila crafts a fictional new chapter for Tess, thousands of miles away on a remote Canadian island. She also communicates with Tess' friends via e-mail, but when an old boyfriend, Connor, makes contact to try to resume his relationship with Tess, Leila finds their correspondence chipping away at her impartiality with the most unexpected result: she's falling in love with him. Moggach's debut is a compulsively readable, complex character study.--Huntley, Kristine Copyright 2010 Booklist
Library Journal Review
This compelling debut from Moggach portrays Leila, a lonely and socially awkward young woman who spends most of her time online on a philosophical discussion forum called The Red Pill. Soon, the website's mysterious owner, Adrian Dervish, gains Leila's confidence and makes an intriguing proposition-would she be willing to take on the identity, via Facebook, email, etc., of a troubled woman named Tess who wants to commit suicide without her friends and family knowing about it? Leila accepts and finds herself more and more absorbed with the persona of Tess, whose life is nothing like her own. Soon, however, complications arise when Leila begins taking more risks and starts chatting with a man with whom Tess was once involved. Imogen Church's mesmerizing narration perfectly fits the novel's somber mood. VERDICT Fans of Ruth Rendell and other authors who delve into dark psychological tales will enjoy this. ["First novelist Moggach presents an intriguing thesis with some solid plot twists and sound characterizations, but the level of suspense is lower than one might expect and peters out at the end. However, enough skill is shown that perhaps Moggach's second effort will be the charm," read the review of the Doubleday hc, LJ 5/15/13.]-Phillip Oliver, Univ. of North Alabama Lib., Florence (c) Copyright 2013. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Excerpted from the hardcover edition. It was a Friday night, about nine weeks into the project. Tess's voice sounded normal, but I could see that she had been crying and her narrow face was pale. For the first few minutes of the conversation, she leaned her head back against the wall behind her bed, gaze turned to the ceiling. Then she righted it and looked straight at the camera. Her eyes were as I'd never seen them: both empty and terrified. Mum sometimes had the same look, toward the end. "I'm scared," she said. "What about?" I asked, stupidly. "I'm so fucking scared," she said, and burst into tears. She had never cried in front of me; in fact, she had told me she rarely cried. It was one of the things we had in common. Then she sniffed, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and said more clearly, "Do you understand?" "Of course," I said, although I didn't entirely. She looked straight into the camera for a moment and said, "Can I see you?" At first I thought she meant, Could we meet up? I started to remind her that we had agreed that shouldn't happen, but she cut me off. "Switch on your camera." After a moment, I said, "I think it's best if we don't." "I want to see you," said Tess. "You get to see me." She was staring right at the camera, her tears almost dried up. She gave a small smile and I felt myself soften. It was hard to resist, and I almost said, Okay, then, but instead I said, "I don't think it's a good idea." She looked at me a moment longer. Then she shrugged and returned her gaze to the ceiling. I will be honest here: I didn't want Tess to see me in case I failed to meet her expectations. This isn't rational, I know: Who knows what she thought I looked like, and what did it matter? But I had examined her face so carefully, I knew every nuance of her expressions, and I couldn't bear the thought that, if I turned on the camera, I might see a look of disappointment pass over it, however briefly. Then, still looking at the ceiling, she said, "I can't do it." "Of course you can," I said. She didn't speak for more than a minute, and then said, uncharacteristically meek: "Is it okay if we stop for today?" Without waiting for an answer, she terminated the call. I admit that that particular conversation has replayed in my head several times since. All I can say is, I said what felt right at the time. She was upset and I was comforting her. It seemed entirely natural for Tess to be scared. And when we spoke the next day, she was back to what by that stage was "normal"--calm, polite, and detached. The incident wasn't mentioned again. Then, a few days later, she looked into the camera and tapped on the lens, a habit she had. "Do you have everything you need?" I had presumed that we would go on communicating right up until the last moment. But I also knew it had to end. So I said, "Yes. I think so." She nodded, as if to herself, and looked away. At that moment, knowing I was seeing her for the last time, I felt a sudden, intense rush of adrenaline and something akin to sadness. After quite a long pause, she said, "I can't thank you enough." And then: "Good-bye." She looked into the camera and made a gesture like a salute. "Good-bye," I said, and: "Thank you." "Why are you thanking me?" "I don't know." She was looking down at something, her leg or the bed. I stared at her long, flat nose, the curve of her cheekbone, the lines around her mouth as delicate as fallen eyelashes. Then she looked up, leaned forward, and turned off the camera. And that was it. Our final conversation. WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17, 2011 There is no Internet here, not even dial-up. I didn't anticipate not being able to get online. Of course I had done my research, but the commune has no Web site and I could find little practical information elsewhere beyond directions on how to get here. There were just useless comments in forums, along the lines of Oh, I love it, it's so peaceful and beautiful. I know that communes are places where people go to get "back to nature," but I understood that they are also where people live and work on a semipermanent to permanent basis, and so assumed there would be some facility to get online. Spain is a developed country, after all. I understand that Tess had to head to a remote spot, but three-quarters of the way up a mountain, without a phone mast in sight--that's just unnecessary. Of all the places in the world, why did she choose to spend the last days of her life here? I admit, though, that the location is not unpleasant. I've pitched my tent in a clearing with extensive views over the valley. The surrounding mountains are huge and colored various shades of green, blue, and gray, according to distance. At their feet is a thin silver river. The farthest peaks are capped with snow: an incongruous sight in this heat. Now that we're going into evening, the sky is darkening to a mysterious misty blue. There's a woman here dressed like an elf, with a top exposing her stomach, and sandals laced up to her knees. Another one has bright red hair twisted up on either side of her head, like horns. Lots of the men have long hair and beards, and a few are wearing these priestlike skirts. Most of them, however, look like the people begging at the cash points on Kentish Town Road, only extremely tanned. I had thought I might not look too out of place here--Mum used to say I had hair like a hippie, center parted and almost down to my waist--but I feel like I'm from a different planet. Nobody here seems to do very much at all. As far as I can see, they just sit around poking fires and making tea in filthy saucepans, or drumming, or constructing unidentifiable objects out of feathers and string. There seems to be little "communal" about it, aside from a collective wish to live in a squalid manner for free. There are a few tents like mine, but most people seem to sleep in tatty vans with garish paintings on the side, or among the trees in shelters constructed out of plastic sheeting and bedspreads. They all smoke, and it appears obligatory to have a dog, and no one picks up their droppings. I've had to use half of my supply of wet wipes cleaning the wheels of my suitcase. As for the human facilities, I was prepared for them to be rudimentary but was shocked when directed to a spot behind some trees signposted shitpit. Just a hole in the ground, with no seat and no paper, and when you look down you can see other people's waste just lying there. I had promised myself that, after Mum, I wouldn't have dealings with other people's excrement and so have decided to make my own private hole in some nearby bushes. It is, of course, everyone's prerogative to live their lives in whichever way they choose, as long as they do not hurt others. But--like this? Back in London, I felt near certain she had come here. It all seemed to add up. But now I'm starting to have doubts. Nonetheless, I told myself I'd spend a week here making inquiries, and that is what I shall do. Tomorrow I'll start showing her photo around. I've prepared a story about how she is a friend who stayed here last summer and whom I've lost track of but believe is still somewhere in the area. It's not actually a lie. I just won't mention that I'm looking for proof of her death. It's almost half past nine now, but it's still sweltering. Of course, I had researched the temperature, but I wasn't fully prepared for what ninety degrees Fahrenheit feels like. I have to keep wiping my fingers on a towel to stop moisture from getting into my keyboard. It was even hotter in August last year, when Tess would have been here. Ninety-five degrees; I looked it up. She liked the heat, though. She looked like these people, with their sharp shoulder blades. She might have worn a little top like the elf woman--she had clothes like that. I've opened the flap of my tent and can see a rash of stars and the moon, which is almost as bright as my laptop screen. The site is quiet now, except for the hum of insects and what I think--I hope--is the sound of a generator somewhere nearby. I'll investigate that tomorrow. Although I have a spare battery for my laptop, I'll need power. You see, this is what I'm going to do while I'm here: write an account of everything that has happened. Excerpted from Kiss Me First by Lottie Moggach All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
