The careless middle classes butt heads generationally, sexually and artistically in Jo Hamya’s The Hypocrite. Apparently, the writer’s aim was to create “a massive grey area” and that she succeeds is proof of her subtlety as a writer. The main character one of those relationship obsessed and borderline nasty white-bloke writers most of us are either bored of or offended by these days. His daughter, Sophia, seeking and achieving ice-cold literary revenge while her mother watches on with a furious disdain. This is a family engaged in low level psychological warfare and though there’s an air of Edward St. Aubyn and Deborah Levy about The Hypocrite you never ever feel entirely comfortable with (or even particularly like) any of Hamya’s characters. The mother and father are never named which gives Sophia a possible advantage with the reader she can’t quite claim as she’s enough of a chip off both blocks to make her as irritating as her parents. Her revenger’s play focussed on a holiday she had with her father when she was a teenager and was embarrassed by his, apparent, one night stands and lack of interest when she wasn’t typing out bits of his latest novel, “You had me write that shitty book, and then instead of talking to me about it, or spending time with me, you made me listen to you having sex with different women every night - did it ever occur to you to at least try acting like a parent?” Which leaves them all where? And who’s The Hypocrite? Well, maybe, everyone, and maybe even you and I. Jo Hamya’s second novel, now in paperback, is perfect. Totally recommended.

Steven Long