When a book’s main character is named Piglet, certain things are implied. Appetites, for one. For another, perhaps, a cast of others who, in their dearth of shame about using that nickname in reference to our hero (a grown woman, I might add), might well love her, but might also fall down a bit in the ways they choose to demonstrate that love.
Piglet, a taut debut written by Lottie Hazell, is about a London cookbook editor who is engaged to be married to Kit, who is picture perfect. They’ve just moved into a brand new, picture perfect home (purchased for them by her future in-laws) in Oxford, and mark the occasion with a lavish dinner party showcasing several recipes from her books and which is attended by two couples; Piglet’s best friend Margot is one half of one of the couples, and she is pregnant.
Right off the bat, we see Piglet’s preoccupation with appearance. We see her feeling squidgy about the way her friend’s life path is diverging from hers. We see her feeling shame at her own middle-class upbringing, her family, and being a bit of a brat about it. We see that she has something to prove—that she is deserving of the perfect picture she has created around her.
Also right off the bat: Hazell deploys the most time worn yet most reliable way to build tension: the ticking clock. Chapters are marked by the days that remain until the wedding, and, on Day 13, a bomb goes off: Kit confesses a huge betrayal to Piglet. We are never told what the transgression is (another tension-building choice by Hazell), but we can guess. As the days tick by, Piglet unravels, sabotaging her performance at work and experiencing disturbing hallucinations and binge eating everything from the entire menu at an Indian restaurant to the spilt pastry from the ridiculously ambitious wedding cake—a tower of profiterole called a croquembouche—that she has opted to make (/bragged about making) herself. On the morning of the wedding. (Apparently croquembouche cannot sit. I myself had never before heard of croquembouche. I’m more of a pie girl.)
Piglet stuffs the secret down, denies her feelings and pushes those who are closest to her away, until she finds herself (literally) bursting at the seams. Never has there been a cringier scene than the one in which Piglet’s entire family—including her younger sister’s boyfriend—must help wedge her into her wedding dress. It’s the one expense her parents have covered, and they are not thrilled—nor quiet—about the price tag.
“You—this dress—greed,” [her father] said, his words failing him in his displeasure. “What is it about you and more, more, more?”
The writing is sharp and skews spare (except when food is involved). The word that comes to mind—ironically, given the book’s preoccupation with appetite—is restraint. But it’s the questions that simmer beneath the words that linger. How much are we beholden to the stories we’re told about who we are? What’s the price of truth? And how much are women allowed to want?