LUCKY DOGS

Two women—between them, survivors of the Bosnian genocide, a Hollywood rape, the American media, and a career with the Mossad—face off.

You might think that a book inspired by the role of Rose McGowan in the fall of Harvey Weinstein would have a fairly predictable story arc, but this barn burner of a novel handily incinerates that assumption. With an ambitious story structure recalling the work of Anthony Marra, Schulman has engineered a series of breathtaking aha moments, set to go off like timed explosives located in Paris, Sarajevo, Tel Aviv, Los Angeles, and a retirement community in Florida. It begins on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, where a violet-eyed 24-year-old fugitive named Meredith Montgomery has come to hide from a media shitstorm and career implosion she incited by complaining on Twitter about her rape by a Hollywood mega-creep she calls the Rug—to hide from it, but also to write a memoir about it, nondisclosure agreement be damned. Schulman’s creation of Meredith is perfect. For example, describing her flight to Europe: “For exercise and to prevent blood clots, occasionally I’d prop up on an elbow to flag down a flight attendant so I could order additional mini-bottles of whiskey—waving an arm in the air burns more calories than not waving an arm in the air—and when I actually stood, I swayed (that does, too). Whether the oscillation was from an inborn sense of rhythm, turbulence, or a history of drug abuse, it’s hard to tell—time is running out now, and I have more existential problems than the fact that maybe I shouldn’t have done so much ayahuasca.” When a lawyer tells her she can’t bring charges against the Rug—“Way too late for that. His word against yours, you lose. Forget about it”—her first thought is: a haiku! Before we meet her counterpart, a woman of many names and careers (including a humorously evoked stint with Birthright), the second section opens with an extended guessing game, a bravura tactic introducing a city and a character whose relevance is not immediately clear. It's like Meredith, the novice memoirist, says: “That’s what I like about book writing, you can play around with time, find its most meaningful iteration.” Schulman has certainly done that here, in her finest work to date.

In a word: Wow.