Set at some unmarked time post-perestroika, Snowdrops is the written confession of an English man, Nick, to his unnamed fiancée. The long-delayed explanation of the years he spent in Russia. At the time depicted he is a thirty-something lawyer, living in Moscow, working as an intermediary between the unscrupulous businessmen of the new Russia and the Western banks who are almost desperate to lend these new Oligarchs vast amounts of money. Putting lipstick on a pig, as his colleague refers to it.

The story revolves around two main relationships, both of which end up bringing Nick’s judgement into question as they progress and both of which seem intended to reflect the amorality of the country itself. The first is with powerful businessman and escaped Bond villain, The Cossack, who is after a large loan to establish an oil pipeline. The other, more important relationship is with Masha, a much younger woman, whom he meets when he rescues her from a mugger in the subway. Through Masha he becomes involved in a shady deal to trade her Aunt Tatiana’s expensive inner-city unit for a new unit in the country.

The book’s prose is skilfully written, with some lovely turns of phrase, and it does a good job of propelling the narrative along. The depiction of Russia is also interesting and occasionally feels insightful, particularly in the conversations with the cynical and bitter reporter Steve Walsh. Given author A. D. Miller’s background as a reporter in Moscow, perhaps it is to be expected that these brief interludes ring the truest.

Once you get past the writing and into the actual story though, things begin to fall apart. Nick is a self-absorbed and uninteresting protagonist, floating through life in a haze of vague disappointment. He spends a significant amount of time justifying himself and explaining away his foolish mistakes and it all makes it very hard to care about him. Regrettably, the majority of the surrounding characters are so sketchily drawn, such caricatures, that there’s really no one else to focus on instead.

Additionally, the dark secret Nick is hiding is so banal and so obvious that when it is finally revealed, you find yourself wondering what the fuss has been about. At the same time, the pay-off for Nick is non-existent, so he’s neither villain nor victim in his own tale, but instead a sort of ancillary character accidently elevated to primacy. The power of the reveal is also limited by the unconvincing emotional timbre of the novel. Nick’s moral descent, such as it is, is predicated on his obsession with Masha; an obsession that the reader is consistently informed of, but never convinced by. It feels something more like mild lust, a one-night stand that lingers for six months, and it makes for poor justification.

Snowdrops has been billed as a riveting psychological drama; suggesting a portrait of how the subtle, yet omnipresent selfishness of this wintery city drew its protagonist in, overwhelmed him and left him eternally compromised. It sounds like a fascinating novel, especially given its position on the Booker shortlist. Instead, what we get is a disappointing and largely forgettable piece saddled with expectations that it can’t live up to.

- Sky Kirkham