and companionship keep me sane. A special thanks go to The Fiction Café, The Savvy Writers’ Snug and the Chick Lit and Prosecco Facebook groups.
The biggest of squeezes go to the book blogging community. These wonderful people spend hours and hours of their own time, writing reviews and sharing book love. The publishing business would not survive without the generosity of book bloggers and I am hugely grateful to them all. A special mention goes to Anne Cater, Linda Hill, Rachel Gilbey, and Em Digs Books, thank you.
I’m raising a large gin to Josie Silver, Kim Nash, Caroline Hulse, N J Simmonds, Emma Jackson and Claire Ashley who are always there to listen, cheer and support . . . thank you, you all blooming rock.
At the time of writing these acknowledgements, we are currently under lockdown. Never have I missed the hugs of my friends and family so much. I miss you all, I know virtual hugs are not the same but here’s one from me anyway.
Lockdown does mean that I have all four of my children and Mr Emma at home. It is probably the only time in my life that I will have you all to myself and for that I am very grateful; you’re all my favourites.
Prologue
Jennifer
I always knew that I was different from the rest of my family.
They’re all tall, blonde, waif-like. Mum doesn’t walk . . . she glides. She is the type of woman that you would presume had been to finishing school, except for when she watches the football, when her true roots tend to fly from her mouth in a flurry of expletives. Even Dad has this elfin king look about him: gentle, elegant, commanding; it often feels that time slows down when you’re around him, his words are always precise and measured, words that should be savoured. And then I came along. Their adopted daughter. I am short, dark, I don’t glide, I’m heavy footed; my words don’t need to be savoured, they generally tend to skitter and slide across the room like a puppy on a polished floor.
I know this description might make it sound as if I felt that I didn’t belong, and that’s not the case. I have always felt like I belonged to the Hargreaves; what I’m trying to say, is that when I look back on those early days of my childhood, the days where it was just the three of us, my memories don’t quite feel . . . whole; those memories always feel like they are missing something, like I wasn’t fully alive. I suppose my memories only feel whole from the day my sister was born, when my life truly began.
My younger sister is enigmatic and beautiful but also quirky and lovable. She is the perfect mix of both Mr and Mrs Hargreaves.
Kerry is the name I gave her. Mr and Mrs Hargreaves – or Brian and Judith to their friends – wanted to call her Beth, but I had insisted, and for the first week of her life, she bore two names: one from her father and the mother who had given birth to her, and one from me. Kerry suited her much better: there is a perfect balance to her name, the beginning and ending lean against each other, just as she has always leant towards me. If you take the first part away from the second, there is no whole, just two parts that don’t make sense when they stand apart. That was the first compromise I forced on my parents, the first step in our new dynamic as a foursome, right from the beginning . . . Kerry was more mine than she was theirs.
Kerry is one of those people who other people want to be. She’s tall, beautiful but unusually so, like a model but more like one of the models where they make the headlines because they have an odd-shaped nose or really wide-apart eyes. Her blonde hair turned to grey when she was fifteen – there is no explanation why, no massive shock or trauma, it was as if her body just decided that she is different from the rest of us, that she should stand out. Kerry has always cut her fringe herself – poker straight – and has always worn the rest in a plait.
If Kerry were asked to describe me, she would say that Jennifer Jones is happy with her life. She would say that I’m happily married to Edward, the awkwardly handsome