It is a quirky story about a mother and a son and a cat, and possibly a cautionary tale about how money does not necessarily make you happy. Frances is in her sixties, a wealthy Manhattan social butterfly, suddenly widowed and penniless. She lives with her fairly useless and to me, waste of space son Malcolm, who is dependent on his mother for everything. The annoyance factor was beginning to show itself. The cat is called Small Frank and is Frances' dead husband Frank reincarnated - quite a clever character, who holds the entire novel together.
With the money rapidly running out, Frances selling everything she owns, the three of them decamp to Paris by cruise ship, to an apartment owned by Frances' oldest friend. There, they continue to spend the rest of the money, until there is none left. Along the way in their downhill journey to poverty, they meet an interesting collection of Parisians, also damaged and interesting.
Commentary about this novel talk about it being brilliant and darkly comic - it certainly has some very funny and ridiculous bits in it - witty, clever, bleak and funny, very much a modern comedy of errors. Much of Frances' existence is processing the death of her husband, who does not come across as a very nice person. But he has been a part of her life for many years, and so is inextricalbhy woven into the the person she has become - dependent and unhappy, with a son who has never felt loved or wanted by his parents. You see how money cannot buy you happiness - these lives have been wasted.
It is the characters whom I did not like or warm to in any way that have coloured my reaction to this novel. For funny, clever and really good writing read this. But if you want to engage with the people you are reading about, for me this was not a good choice. I must be too happy.
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