A Disappearing Act, by Jo Dixon

Four artistic friends are reuniting for a relaxing holiday in Tasmania, instigated by the most successful of the group – bestselling author Marnie. The four were housemates 25 years ago, sharing a bohemian warehouse in Melbourne while they established their careers in art, literature and design. The Tassie trip should be a blissful catchup of scattered friends, but there are simmering tensions around finances and long-buried secrets and then one of the four goes missing on a bushwalk. Was it an accident, an escape, or something more sinister? The story alternates between the points of view of designer Sarah in the present day and writer Marnie in 1999, slowly revealing events and consequences, past and current. Unfortunately most of the action is flagged and is based on a highly suspect premise, so there are few surprises and the four women are so unpleasant it is difficult to care. More than one character lierally gets away with murder, so it is ironic that the final word of the book is ‘justice’.

Your Friend and Mine, by Jessica Dettmann

Twenty years after the death of her best friend Tess, Margot receives a legacy and a quest. Leaving her busy Sydney restaurant and complacent husband for a short visit to London to chase a lost dream, Margot finds a new friendship and the space to question her life and dare to think of a different future. It’s a bit of a leap to believe that the young women could have forged such a deep and enduring friendship in six months of knowing each other, but after suspending that disbelief much else rings true. It is refreshing that the story does not pursue the obvious romance, but the twist at the end again stretches credulity and undermines the integrity of the main narrative, which deals movingly with grief and paths not taken.

The Oasis, by Anne Buist and Graeme Simsion

Trainee psychiatrist Hannah Wright is working in the outpatient clinic of Menzies Hospital, in this sequel to The Glass House, with a whole load of new mental health challenges as well as continuing fallout from those in the previous book. It delves further into how Hannah’s childhood trauma both informs her medical practise and, at times, impedes it and her personal and professional relationships. Eating disorders, child abuse, schizophrenia, OCD, the story covers a wide range of heavy topics, but with a light and very human touch. Each chapter begins with an insight into the experience of a patient and then looks at their interaction with the health and justice systems. It then moves on to how Hannah and her colleagues try to find the best treatment options while dealing with their own concerns. As with the first novel, this is a warm, compassionate and honest look at the strengths and failings of the health system and, more particularly the treatment of patients with mental ill-health.

He Would Never, by Holly Wainwright

Wealthy homemaker Liss has the rights to an exclusive riverside camping spot where she hosts an annual get together of female friends made in a mothers’ group 15 years earlier. Their families have grown and changed over that time and their differences have also grown – perhaps more so than anything they ever had in common. One thing that has not changed is Liss’s husband Lachie – still controlling and manipulative, but is he actually something much worse? The story begins with Lachie in big trouble at the most recent camping trip and then flashes back and forth to the start and evolution of the group and the start of Liss and Lachie’s relationship. It’s a tense tale that lays bare the operation of toxic masculinity in an everyday setting and its awful ramifications for women and, especially, children. But the way many of these people behave is just not believable and the final resolution is something of an anticlimax. It’s meant to be a tribute to female friendship, but the genre of over-privileged white women in Sydney with horrible marriages is already covered by Liane Moriarty and her ilk. Enough already.

The Loudness of Unsaid Things, by Hilde Hinton

With a mentally ill mother and a negligent father, Susie is what would today be called an at-risk child. But this is the 1960s and 70s and Susie is left to raise herself. Bright and lonely, we follow her story from the age of 7 to 17 as she tries to find her place in the world with few boundaries and little guidance. It is interspersed with the account of an older woman, Miss Kaye, who works at The Institute – a facility housing troubled young women. It becomes clear that Miss Kaye is a mature Susie, using her life experience to shepherd others through their damage. Hinton has drawn on her own life to paint a devastating picture of the effect mental illness can have on a family. Susie is a vibrant character, warm and reckless; Miss Kaye lives life on her own terms. We get no details of how the first became the second until the end, after Miss Kaye retires and a surprise visitor shines a few bars of light on intergenerational trauma.

The Accident, by Fiona Lowe

In the WA wheatbelt town of Garringarup, retailer Freya and paramedic Ryan have been happily unmarried and child free for 15 years. Ryan’s best friend Jamie is about to marry younger Perth girl Hannah, who has become close with Freya. On the eve of the wedding a catastrophic car crash not only devastates them all, but raises questions and issues from all their lives that will drastically affect the future and test the bonds of friendship. This intense examination of relationships between mothers and daughters, partners and friends dips into heavy themes ranging from coercive control, reproductive technology law and various addictions. Unfortunately this is another book that needed more drafts and a stronger editor. It starts with a huge info dump and an excess of adjectives. Many characters are two-dimensional, the research dictates the narrative rather than informing it and the strong feminist message, while admirable, is often didactic. There are the bones of a great story, but it is written as an aspiring potboiler bestseller, a la Moriarty and is ultimately not a satisfying read.

No Hard Feelings, by Genevieve Novak

With a strapline of Hungover, underpaid and overwhelmed this book could be mistaken for non-fiction. But it is actually just a description of Penny’s life. Stuck in job she dislikes, hankering for a relationship with a man who is just not that into her, Penny’s lack of self-worth undermines everything she does. Her self-destructive and self-sabotaging behaviour is infuriating, but all too recognisable. It is hard not to feel some sympathy for the mental health struggles of a 20-something waiting for her life to improve. It’s such a shame that so many smart, attractive and capable (mostly) women allow themselves to be treated so poorly. Novak does a good job of showing how and why this happens to so many. Her tone is light and sharply funny but the underlying theme has depth and darkness, providing a satisfying whole. She uses realistic shades of grey to depict best friends and the awful boss, although the supportive housemate is possibly a little too good to be true. The book could have probably done without quite so much intricate detail of inner Melbourne geography as well as the snide sideswipes of other cities and suburbs. Penny does actually take action to improve matters and, with the help of friends and family, makes some changes that offer hope for a better future, without suggesting there is a magic bullet cure for what ails her.

In the After, by Marian Frith

Anna is a 62-year-old woman in Sydney, who is the lone survivor of a terrorist attack. Nat is a 35-year-old Afghanistan veteran, who feels responsible for not preventing the attack by doing his job over there properly. The two form an unlikely and supportive friendship after Nat reaches out to apologise. Frith paints a vivid and horrifying picture of those enduring trauma and the difficulty of trying to adjust back into a ‘normal’ life while suffering the consequent PTSD. Survivor guilt, the fog of war; she delves beneath the clichés to make sense of the well-worn phrases, to make Anna and Nat’s experiences able to be understood. Unfortunately, she is less successful at depicting the actual people and their relationships with those around them. Anna comes the closest to a fully-rounded character but Nat is, at best, two-dimensional, while his wife and Anna’s children are as flat as tacks on the page. Their actions, behaviour and conversations are largely not credible, and they come across as obtuse, selfish or literally too good to be true. It’s a pity because this detracts from the otherwise strong sympathy evoked for Anna and Nat and the hope for recovery and redemption offered by their stories.