Blue Ruin opens with the protagonist, Jay, delivering groceries to a palatial home in a rich enclave of upstate New York. On the doorstep his customer stands masked; this is happening in the early days of the Covid lockdown. Thus it takes him a moment to recognise Alice, his girlfriend from another life.
Twenty years before, Jay and Alice lived together in London. He was then an up-and-coming Young British Artist, and she an aspiring curator. They had one of those relationships that made people run their names together: Jayanalice, Aliceanjay. Now she is “radiant with the kind of health that’s made of yoga and raw juices and massage and money”. She’s also married to Rob, Jay’s erstwhile best friend and rival, for whom she left him without a word. Jay, meanwhile, is prematurely aged from poverty and the punishing jobs that go with it. He’s sick with long Covid and filthy from weeks of living in his car. “See me, Alice,” he thinks. “Nothing but a ragged membrane. A dirty scrap of ectoplasm, separating nothing from nothing.” She does see him; she calls out his name. A moment later he collapses, struggling to draw a breath.
