As someone who works both as a psychotherapist and a Labour party adviser, I was either going to love this book or have two good reasons to hate it. Alastair Campbell has drawn on the two worlds I know well to tell his tale of Martin Sturrock, a troubled psychiatrist, and his half-dozen struggling patients.
Actually, rather surprisingly, politics plays only a supporting role, with just one of the characters coming from the world of Westminster. Impressively, though, Campbell's alcoholic minister is no more convincing than the sex-trafficked African beauty, the depressed warehouse shift worker, the philandering barrister, the rape victim and the horribly disfigured young teacher.
The action takes place over a long weekend and weaves the story of Sturrock's struggle to hold his life - and himself - together with his attempts to help his patients. Campbell admits the novel is semi-autobiographical and what we are getting here, far more than in his diaries, is an insight into the inner world of Alastair Campbell. His descriptions of alcoholism, depression and psychotic breakdown all echo what the record shows were his own demons, but, more generally, the hopelessness and alienation of his characters seem to come from within a part of him too.
Not everything is hopeless and dark, though. Despite its tragic elements, the book has at its heart a belief that good relationships can heal pain. However bad we feel, Campbell is saying, we can find it in ourselves to get better, if we ask for - and get - the help we need.
Small details ring true. At one point, Sturrock's long-suffering wife makes the mistake of asking him what sort of sandwich he's eaten that day. 'It was the kind of question that demented him. What did it matter what he had in his sandwich? It was of no interest to anyone but himself and Phyllis [his secretary] who had gone out to buy it and the Pret staff who supplied it... it was a detail of no importance to anyone.' Minutes later, he recognises that his wife is asking because 'that was the only kind of conversation he allowed her to have with him'.
There are also some amusing set-pieces. The disgraced politician is asked, at one point, to list his wants and needs and his scribbling and crossings out reveal more than any academic treatise on 'the political personality'. He starts by admitting he wants 'more holidays', adds 'a new private secretary and... better political operation', only committing to paper the confession that he wants to be Prime Minister once he has looked around nervously to check that no one can see what he is writing.
Psychotherapists should be grateful for the insightful and compassionate way the novel deals with mental illness, though they will surely argue about the benefits of the form of therapy highlighted in the book. Psychoanalyst Adam Phillips has already claimed the work is a subtle attack on the type Sturrock practises - a mix of supportive counselling and cognitive behavioural therapy - claiming: 'Campbell seems to want to show us that the enthusiastically helpful and the scientifically competent, at least in the mental health professions, are a danger to themselves and other people.'
But this seems a spectacular misreading of Campbell's intentions. He has admitted he has experience of similar treatments and no doubt feels they helped him. The book's dedication thanks two psychiatrists in typically blunt fashion: 'They know who they are, I know what they did and am grateful.' This may seem perfunctory, but actually the whole book could be read as an extended tribute to them.
The novel also stands as a warning about not seeking help when you need it. Those who make themselves vulnerable and reach out start to get better without exception. The one character who doesn't pays a heavy price. This seems schematic for a novel and also suggests too much optimism about the power of therapy. Six out of six would be an overly ambitious score for any real therapist.
To the extent that the book has a soundbite, it is the one that a wise young depressive offers to the suffering psychiatrist. 'I felt like I have lived through a storm,' he says, describing a depressive episode, 'and yet not a blade of grass has moved.' In the end, this novel works because the people in it, and the things that happen to them, are convincing. But it also presents us with a very different Alastair Campbell from the stereotype that the media, often with his help, have created. It won't, in the end, do much to change people's views of him - he will still be seen as a hero or a villain - but in addition to judging him as a spin doctor, we now can assess him as a writer. And while it may seem ludicrously on message to say it, I'd rate this novel a landslide victory.