Lucinda Rosenfeld’s first novel, “What She Saw,” was truly wonderful. Told in a series of vignettes, it showcased her ability to fully conjure a character from a few short strokes. Smart, incisive, and funny, the book was a wry delight.
In her latest novel, “The Pretty One,” Rosenfeld again aims for gimlet-eyed lightness but winds up with paper-thin, unsympathetic characters. It is a flat soufflé, made all the more frustrating by flashes of what could have been.