By Erica James
Family ties, secrets and techniques, love and guilt are woven with heat, honesty and wit during this pleasant new novel from Sunday occasions bestseller Erica James.
We all disguise issues, a few greater than others...
Mia Channing seems to have an enviable existence: a stunning domestic within the village of Little Pelham, a cheerful, sturdy marriage, a role she enjoys and 3 grown up childrens to whom she's devoted.
But appearances are deceiving; in reality that it's all a precarious balancing act. whilst the relations assemble for her son's 30th birthday, Daisy, her youngest daughter, drops a bombshell within the approach merely Daisy can. once more Mia unearths herself solid within the position of peacemaker. It's a task she's uninterested in, fairly considering that her husband refuses to think he's liable for the issues they're dealing with. now not strangely, Mia longs for escape.
For Owen Fletcher, purchasing the Hidden Cottage used to be the success of a lifelong dream and offers the right break out for him. whilst Mia meets him, she needs to make a decision even if she has the braveness to do whatever for herself for a transformation. And if she does, can she ever return to the lifetime of compromise she had prior to?
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Sample text
Watched intently by the other two, Beard was staring at the centrepiece, a thick column containing a mess of lines and cutaways that resolved at last into a quadruple helix making one complete turn, and at the base, in less detail, a boxy representation of a generator. One of the doodles showed a roofline, with a TV aerial and the helix set on a short vertical pole strapped to the side of a chimney – not a good mounting at all. For two minutes he stared in silence. ’ Braby said. ‘Well,’ Beard muttered.
Reflecting on the night before, he found it extraordinary that after a lifetime of infidelities, a night with an imaginary friend was no less exciting. For the first time in weeks he felt faintly cheerful, even whistled a show tune as he microwaved his supper, and when he saw himself in the gold-leaf sunking mirror in the cloakroom downstairs, thought his face had lost some fat and looked purposeful, with a shadow of cheekbone visible, and was, by the light of the thirty-watt bulb, somewhat noble, a possible effect of the sugary cholesterol-lowering yoghurt drink he was forcing himself to swallow each morning.
He kept this going for five minutes, his voice, then the woman’s, sometimes artfully overlapping the two. The house was silent, listening, of course. He went into the bathroom, ran a tap, flushed the lavatory and laughed out loud. Patrice should know that his lover was a wit. Then he gave out a muted kind of whoop. Patrice should know he was having fun. He did not sleep much that night. At four, after a long silence suggestive of tranquil intimacy, he opened his bedroom door while keeping up an insistent murmur, and went down the stairs backwards, bending forward to beat out on the treads with his palms the sound of his companion’s footfall, syncopated with his own.