Stylish and assured ... Ebbott’s prose is honed and aphoristic, recalling the work of James Salter and John Cheever ... The authorial stance is confident, and, at times, self-consciously showy ... The sentences go down easy, like a cold gin and tonic on a hot day. The point of view glides from one character to another, backward and forward in time, but there is substance beneath the gleaming surfaces ... Though its timeless, patrician milieu may feel remote to some readers, what Ebbott captures so well is the ever-present risk we take in making connections with others: the risk that our vulnerabilities might be used against us, or worse, that in our desire for friendship and closeness we might overlook the truth about ourselves or someone else.
Probing and insightful ... Ebbott subtly unpicks the luscious tapestry he has so far woven, laying out the more selfish and messy emotions that underlie the characters’ relationships ... Impressively nuanced ... Some aspects are less subtle. The key event is handled somewhat awkwardly, with a jarring attempt at black humour ... Bracingly honest and affectingly intimate depiction of abuse, family dynamics and self-deceit. It is sharply observed and psychologically astute, somehow both passionate and dispassionate, and it upends its characters’ lives so ruthlessly and revealingly that it is hard not to take pleasure in a false facade being finally smashed.
Ebbott digs deep into the psyches of both men but a strong premise suffers from the novel’s lack of narrative development. It might be deliberate, but both couples are so alike that it becomes difficult to tell them apart ... Ebbott can certainly write—there’s a depth to his paragraphs that demands the reader’s careful attention—but it all feels a little old-fashioned, recalling those dead giants while giving a sense that Among Friends would have been a footnote in their bibliographies.
