Ten studies of intimacy and love in the internet age
Written like a kind of sexy relay race, this novel explores both issues and emotions, writes Emily Watkins
Holly Williams’ second novel The Start of Something chronicles instances of intimacy, harder than ever to come by in the internet age, and asks universal questions about loneliness, identity and love.
Set around Manchester and Sheffield, it tells ten individual stories via their interconnected sexual encounters, spanning existential crises and fresh heartbreak as well as hot hook-ups and exploratory adventures. Each new chapter focuses on someone who was introduced in the last – a kind of sexy relay race.
We begin with disillusioned welder Will, whose run in with bi-phobic bar manager Manda propels her encounter with barman Sy; who is so shattered by having cheated on his beloved girlfriend Bella that he breaks it off abruptly, pushing her into the arms of newly polyamorous Prisha at a house party; whose partner JB is left reeling after a bad hook-up with old friend Soo; and so on.
Operating more like a series of discrete short stories than a novel – although the characters do reappear in each other’s chapters, little Easter eggs for the diligent reader – The Start of Something makes the most of its format to explore as many hot-button topics as possible. The result is a patchwork of contemporary #Discourse, largely compelling – can objectification ever be empowering? What does ethical non-monogamy look like? – but occasionally a little forced.
Amidst his angst about
hiring a sex worker, university professor Anthony’s deaf daughter proves a good excuse to talk about accessibility
(or rather, the “many, many occasions where access requirements are woefully unmet”), while a student protesting his Gauguin module (“because of his ‘morally reprehensible actions as a coloniser, and as a man’”) offers a neat segue into cancel culture. But two characters conflicted about growing up in the shadow of successful fathers
The result is a patchwork of contemporary
#Discourse
extend the book’s conversation to encompass class and privilege, without having much bearing on its plot.
Williams’s characters might at first seem chosen for their convenient proximity to zeitgeisty themes, but their author deals with those ideas with sensitivity and self-awareness: “And who should you source to help you look woke – oh, a Northern genderqueer spoken-word poet! Perfect”. Complex rather than cartoonish, her protagonists are constantly finding their lofty ideals tested against real-world forces in a
way that feels refreshing (“And I have a BLOODY CHILD to look after BY MYSELF do you know how hard that is,” Soo texts JB
nd during an argument about the ethics of sex work.)
The characters arrive at their various trysts jangling with anxiety, making bids for oblivion and trying to rewrite the stories about themselves that they’ve been telling all their lives. For some, the moments of connection are meaningless, means to an end; for others, they mean everything.
And while Williams deals compellingly with the ins and outs (pun intended) of her plot, she’s at her best when tapping into the inherent vulnerability that makes sex such a useful vehicle to talk about other things – whether it’s Anthony’s sense of inadequacy, or JB’S radical bid for freedom. As Oscar Wilde said: “Everything in the world is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.”
The book’s denouement, a music festival attended by many of the characters, ties up several of the overlapping stories in one satisfying swoop; but despite the moral quandaries tussled with along the way, its end offers no grand revelations. Instead, it is quieter, more elegant. Using her characters and their entanglements to ignite conversations as diverse as they are, Williams shows us that it is in the overlaps – of bodies and ideas alike – that life’s most precious things grow; where you might spy the start of something.