Here's a story written by a guy from a woman's point of view that is so off-the-wall it almost works. NAfter a weekend away, Julie walks into her apartment unexpectedly early to discover that hubby Ronan is humping someone else. So she takes a crowbar to his Porsche, connives to get the new girlfriend's address, gets in, trashes the apartment and then phones her husband to tell him she's on her way home. He pretends nothing's going on.
So does she, though we're never sure why. Julie then figures out a way to meet Nicole, the new paramour, and ingratiates herself enough to get intimate info on her husband's affair, all the while planning and executing the destruction of Nicole's visual art and the relationship. Through it all, Ronan lies coldly and calculatedly.
Credible storytelling counts for nothing here. Wouldn't Ronan call the cops about his car? Surely, a woman who's the victim of a materially and financially damaging home invasion would call a police officer or at least an insurance agent, who in turn would investigate and guess almost immediately that a jealous spouse is on the loose. Even Nicole, though she's obviously not a major intellect, might have figured out that the wife did it.
And don't people talk to each other any more? If not, after a three-year marriage, why bother fighting for the creep in the first place?
Oh, but that would get in the way of the preposterous narrative, which cranks up the tension precisely because no one's telling anybody anything. That means it's all going to come out in a horrible hurtling rush sooner or later.
There's a certain pleasure in waiting for the crash.