Excerpt from The Accidentals by Guadalupe Nettel, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

'Who's Clara?' she replied.

That night I couldn't cook. Trying to hide at least in part the anxiety eating me up inside, I left everything in the kitchen and, without even taking off my apron, went and shut myself up in my study. I searched unsuccessfully for my daughter's number on my phone. I couldn't find any photos of her, either. Refusing to believe it, I typed her full name into the search bar of my browser to try to find her, but it was futile. I recalled my conversation with the sweet seller, and chastised myself for not having told her the truth. By leaving Clara out of my story, she had erased her from my life. I had the sense that I had stupidly sacrificed the thing that mattered most to me in the world in exchange for a few years of marital bliss. I went to find a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen and sat weeping in rage and impotence for the rest of the night.

The following day, I went back to Calle Mariposa to ask them to give me my daughter back.

'That is completely beyond our capabilities, Mr Moncada, and even if we could do it, it wouldn't be fair to compensate you: it was your mistake. You concealed essential information from us when we requested it. If at any point you hire our services again, it is vital you tell us the truth. That way we can avoid this sort of issue.'

I strove as hard as I could to adapt to the life I had then, I swear on my mother's grave, but my remorse was boundless. I cried all the time, and at any hour of the day or night, before my wife's astonished gaze. As if this weren't enough, I was fifty-seven years old, and Lili forty-one. Despite my efforts, I couldn't keep up with the rhythm she demanded of me. Every morning I would wake up exhausted with the sensation of having been bled dry. To reduce my exhaustion a little, I started ordering takeaways a couple of times a week. At around six p.m., I would call one of my wife's favourite restaurants: the Sicilian trattoria, or the Thai place on Encinos. At first she took it well, but after a month she began to worry about the expense.

'I work like a dog while you're at home. Can you not even take charge of dinner?'

Things grew worse when I rebelled against the obligation to fuck every day. As soon as she began snuggling up to me, I would move away and shut myself up in my study or switch on the TV. Lili made her bad mood and resentment abundantly clear. There was no end to her reproaches. One morning she even threatened to leave me.

'Fine, then. Leave!' I replied, in a burst of honesty. 'Maybe I'll be able to live in peace then.'

But she didn't leave. She picked up her bag and her work files, climbed into her heels, and left the house as if I hadn't said anything. That afternoon she returned from court hungry and with the same need for sex. We went on like that for several more weeks, in a tug-of-war between her needs and mine. It was as if, in spite of herself, my wife was tied to the house and to my body. My life had stopped being boring, only to become a hell on earth. I had no choice but to return to the little shop.

'How are you, Mr Moncada, sir? Is there anything I can do for you?'

The saleswoman greeted me with her customary benevolent air, but this time I found her attitude and the whole setup almost unbearable.

Though I hadn't been invited to, I sat down on the sofa and then lay back on it disrespectfully. With no preamble, and without reciprocating any of her affected politeness, I told her at length about my domestic situation.

'There's too much of an age gap between me and my wife. We need the same levels of energy so we can understand each other,' I concluded. 'Can you not make both of us young?' I asked, sitting up.

The saleswoman looked into my eyes as if searching for some microscopic insect sheltering in the whorls of my irises.

'I could, Mr Moncada, but youth brings with it a great number of disadvantages. I'm not sure if you remember them.'

Excerpted from The Accidentals by Guadalupe Nettel. Copyright © 2025 by Guadalupe Nettel. Excerpted by permission of Bloomsbury Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.