‘I don’t want anything from you,’ I say. ‘Except friendship.’ I expect Manuela to say the same. To me, it seems we’ve reached something together. But she doesn’t. I’ve reached it alone. Rose is a writer. She and her husband are spending the summer in an unnamed town by the sea. They pass their days adrift in the rare calm of this strange place. They dine out, swim in vivid blue water, hike in the lush hills, make love. One day, in the square, Rose meets Manuela: a striking single mother who seems oddly familiar. Their quick bond models a new kind of friendship for Rose, one that promises to be free from the bitterness and the grief she has sought to escape. But Manuela is a mystery and revelations from her past soon threaten Rose’s equilibrium. With language as spare and elegant as a line drawing, My New Face probes the gulfs that separate friends, lovers, parents and children. Distilled and disquieting, this is a novel about art and ageing, making peace with wounds that do not heal, and accepting that we may never really know the people we love.