Friends close, enemies closer… husband closest
Strangers in the Villa
by Robyn Harding
New York: Grand Central Publishing, 2026
$24.99 / 9781538774014
Reviewed by Jessica Poon
*
I’ve been encouraged to watch Couples Therapy, but I fear doing so for a couple of reasons; one, if I start, I may not be able to stop at a responsible juncture; two, I am quite certain I will be continuously outraged, a state of mind that, while helpful for spawning reality television and intentionally hyperbolic, one-note newspaper headlines, is one I’m uncomfortable being comfortable in. In other words, continuous outrage is a hell of a drug—it’s virtue without having done anything good; it’s thinking about donating money and sewing your wallet shut.
When I read and reread Strangers in the Villa by Vancouver-based Robyn Harding, I was reminded of her frankly disturbing panache for rendering despicable, morally bankrupt men who expertly pretend to be upstanding—often fooling themselves. In other words, the kind of men I’m strenuously wary of seeing on Couples Therapy.
Harding’s Strangers in the Villa centres on Sydney and Curtis, a New York couple who decide to turn the hypothetical—what if this unhappy marriage changed locations to Costa Brava, Spain and we start a vineyard?—into their actual life, a move requiring upheaval and, conveniently, for Sydney to lose access to her support system, who are all aware of Curtis’ recent infidelity. Will their idyllic ambitions be blissfully realized, or will a series of frightfully horrendous things transpire? This is a Robyn Harding thriller, so we can safely assume the latter. Get ready to stay up late.
Sydney is a public defender whose mother recently died, which makes Curtis’s infidelity—with a woman he claims not to have cared for—all the more calamitous. Interspersed in the novel are notes from their couples therapist, Dr. Ellen Dwyer: An example of Dwyer’s notes: “Curtis tends to diminish his culpability for cheating (he was on drugs, stressed, drinking heavily). He’s dismissive of the other woman and her emotions. This seems to be an attempt to reassure Sydney. Or he may be trying to minimize his transgression.”
I couldn’t help but read these and wondered how much of Dwyer’s opinions were shared with Sydney herself. Dwyer is almost a stand-in for the reader, who is privy to Sydney’s point of view, as well as Curtis’s.
I would posit that Curtis may well be trying to minimize his transgression to Sydney, but also that he’s telling himself there was not much of a transgression. Curtis understands that, to Sydney, to valuers of monogamous marriage and society, and the values he claims to have, that he has transgressed. But he believes too that he ought to have everything he wants. He’ll go along with atonement—he was the one who suggested Spain. But naturally, his plan, while ostensibly romantic, is a classic tactic of isolation in an abusive relationship.
From Curtis’s perspective, evaluating Sydney for I-totally-trust-my-philandering-husband vibes, his third-person perspective is rendered as such: “Some days, she’s fine and everything feels almost normal. Other days, she’s sad, or sullen, or outright angry. But she’s here. And he’s going to make her love him again.”
Make her love him again? I cannot run away fast enough. Alas.
As for Sydney, although she goes along with Curtis’s romantic idea, her introspection betrays ambivalence and doubt:
… Sydney wonders why she accepted the arduous task of forgiveness. Does remaining her marriage mean she’s weak? Or does it mean she’s strong? Everyone back home had an opinion. Staying meant she was a doormat; leaving was giving up on a lifelong commitment after one mistake. She’d blocked them all out and made her own decision. But did she stay because she truly loves her husband? Because she knows their relationship is worth this monumental effort? Or is she simply afraid of being alone so soon after losing her only parent?
Harding (The Haters) has always been able to skillfully write sufficiently differentiated third-person perspectives for her various characters, but part of me felt that Sydney’s complicated feelings deserved an even closer perspective—first person (I admit, I was probably spoiled by the first book of Harding’s I ever read—The Swap. If you haven’t read it, go and get it, thank me later).
Another example of Dr. Dwyer’s notes: “When asked what he values about Sydney, Curtis said: She makes me a better person. This is a very self-centered response. Are the reasons he’s fighting for his marriage coming from a place of love for his partner? Or from his ego?”
On the one hand, I was heartened that Dwyer for being able to could see past Curtis’s persona, but on the other hand, I desperately wished that Dwyer would privately give Sydney a copy of Why Does He Do That?
Four months into their new life in Spain, knee-deep in renovations and marital ambiguity and bereft of a social life outside each other, Sydney and Curtis hear the door knock. Bianca and Damian, an Australian couple, explain they’re having car trouble and need to charge their cell phones. Anyone who has ever been alive for more than two seconds will understand that Bianca and Damian are not kindly people genuinely asking for help. They are, as plot requires, serious shit-disturbers, serving multiple glorious functions.
Damian and Bianca appear to be deeply in love and lust, whereas Curtis notes, bitterly, that he has “been deprived of sex for six months.” Damian and Bianca appear carefree. For instance, in one scene, Bianca nonchalantly wears nothing but bikini bottoms. Sydney accuses Curtis of staring and flirting; Curtis denies it and points out Sydney was the one who extended hospitality toward Bianca, effectively blaming her. (In a parallel universe, Curtis could have admitted it an, apologized, and reaffirmed his dedication to Sydney, instead of resorting to denial, defensiveness, and deflecting). In Curtis’s eyes, Sydney is rendered overly sensitive, i.e., hysterical.
There’s one scene where Curtis and Damian are having what can only really be described as a figurative dick measuring contest. How to impress a heterosexual man? Talk to him about all the sex you’ve had with women, as casually as possible, and see if he’s impressed. For reasons arguably best left to Freudian-inspired psychoanalysts, a sticking point of male heterosexuality appears to be currying the favour of other men, based on the perceived quality and quantity of bedded women, i.e., conquests. The external validation is not a seemingly unattainably gorgeous woman—it’s from another straight man knowing. Is any of this behaviour remotely secure? No. Masculinity is the most fragile stardust I have ever encountered, and in this passage, Harding has nailed this component of male heterosexuality, which seems awfully bereft in actually centring women:
“I had plenty of sex with women before I got married,” he says instead, wondering if six women would qualify as “plenty” in Damian’s mind. “And now I’m with the love of my life, so I’m good.”
Damian snorts. “You’ve never had a bit of action on the side?”
The question is rude, intrusive, and a little suspicious. … He doesn’t want the Aussies to know what he did, doesn’t want them judging him, casting him as the villain, Sydney as the woman scorned and betrayed. The woman in need of comfort and understanding.
“Nope,” Curtis replies, because one mistake does not make him a cheater. One fucked-up night that he’ll regret forever does not define him.
How awfully convenient, Curtis. Though Damian may be more at ease with his performative masculinity than Curtis, the two of them share entitlement and swift aesthetic judgment of women. In an arguably life-endangering scene, from Damian’s perspective, he still registers a woman’s inevitably compromised appearance: “God, she looks like shit.”
Although Sydney is the protagonist, and Bianca is revealed to have an interesting backstory, I wanted more interiority from them, especially since I was so inundated with the repugnantly vile male characters Harding excels at portraying. Sydney’s brother, Reid, was mentioned multiple times, but barely existed, perhaps exemplifying Sydney’s isolation in Costa Brava. Still, given the death of their mother, I would have appreciated learning more about Reid. Sydney is most appealing when she comes into touch with her anger, upon learning what she finds out.
A nightmare of troubled (euphemism) male psyches, fraught (euphemism) marriages, an immersive, entertaining thriller.
*
Jessica Poon is a writer in East Vancouver. [Editor’s note: Jessica Poon has reviewed recent books by Pamela Anderson, Daniela Elza, Andromeda Romano-Lax, Linda Cheng, Neko Case, and Karina Halle for BCR.]
*
The British Columbia Review
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Publisher: Richard Mackie
Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an online book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.
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