Excerpt from The Book of Strange New Things by Michel Faber, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The highway looked different to him now, as they drove on. In theory it was the same stretch of tarmac, bounded by the same traffic paraphernalia and flimsy metal fences, but it had been transformed by their own intent. It was no longer a straight line to an airport, it was a mysterious hinterland of shadowy detours and hidey-holes. Proof, once again, that reality was not objective, but always waiting to be reshaped and redefined by one's attitude. Of course, everybody on earth had the power to reshape reality. It was one of the things Peter and Beatrice talked about a lot. The challenge of getting people to grasp that life was only as grim and confining as you perceived it to be. The challenge of getting people to see that the immutable facts of existence were not so immutable after all. The challenge of finding a simpler word for immutable than immutable.

"How about here?"

Beatrice didn't answer, only put her hand on his thigh. He steered the car smoothly into a truckstop. They would have to trust that getting squashed flat by a 44-ton lorry was not in God's plan.

"I've never done this before," he said, when he'd switched the ignition off.

"You think I have?" she said. "We'll manage. Let's get in the back."

They swung out of their respective doors and were reunited several seconds later on the back seat. They sat like passengers, shoulder to shoulder. The upholstery smelled of other people—friends, neighbors, members of their church, hitchhikers. It made Peter doubt all the more whether he could or should make love here, now. Although . . . there was something exciting about it, too. They reached for each other, aiming for a smooth embrace, but their hands were clumsy in the dark.

"How fast would the cabin light drain the car's battery?" she said.

"I've no idea," he said. "Best not to risk it. Besides, it would make us a sideshow for all the passing traffic."

"I doubt it," she said, turning her face toward the headlights whizzing by. "I read an article once about a little girl who was being abducted. She managed to jump out of the car when it slowed down on the motorway. The kidnapper grabbed her, she put up a good fight, she was screaming for help. A stream of cars went past. Nobody stopped. They interviewed one of those drivers later. He said, 'I was traveling so fast, I didn't believe what I was seeing.' "

He shifted uncomfortably. "What an awful story. And maybe not the best of times to tell it."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. I'm a bit . . . out of my mind just now." She laughed nervously. "It's just so hard . . . losing you."

"You're not losing me. I'm just going away for a while. I'll be . . ."

"Peter, please. Not now. We've done that part. We've done what we can with that part."

She leaned forward, and he thought she was going to start sobbing. But she was fishing something out from the gap between the two front seats. A small battery-operated torch. She switched it on and balanced it on the headrest of the front passenger seat; it fell off. Then she wedged it in the narrow space between the seat and the door, angled it so that its beam shone on the floor.

"Nice and subdued," she said, her voice steady again. "Just enough light so we can make each other out."

"I'm not sure I can do this," he said.

"Let's just see what happens," she said, and began to unbutton her shirt, exposing her white bra and the swell of her bosom. She allowed the shirt to fall down her arms, wiggled her shoulders and elbows to shake the silky material off her wrists. She removed her skirt, panties and pantyhose all together, hooked in her strong thumbs, and made the motion look graceful and easy.

"Now you."

He unclasped his trousers and she helped him remove them. Then she slid onto her back, contorting her arms to remove her bra, and he tried to reposition himself without squashing her with his knees. His head bumped against the ceiling.

Excerpted from The Book of Strange New Things by Michel Faber. Copyright © 2014 by Michel Faber. Excerpted by permission of Hogarth Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.