Marian Keyes and I are having a cup of tea. We’re sharing a squishy sofa at a chic London hotel, a place where everything is pretty – even the teacups. “God, it’s all so beautiful,” the Irish author says, agog. It is. I wouldn’t mind stealing one of the teacups... but I won’t. “No, I will!” Keyes insists, not even joking. “I’ll steal them for you. You see, I have poor impulse control. And I like to be liked. And I probably would do it. If you dared me.” OK, OK: Marian, I dare you. “Please don’t, no, please don’t,” she squirms, as though she’s being held down and tickled. “God!”
I don’t actually believe Keyes is a thief – but I do believe she’s generous. In a career spanning three decades and 16 novels – as well as short stories, novellas and non-fiction – the Limerick-born writer has given readers hours of pleasure, writing chunky, chatty books that you can sink right into. Warm, funny and wise, they’re also roadmaps for how to overcome life’s inevitable hard times, bustling with worlds in which lightness dances gently with the dark.
