Ronni Sunshine left London for Hollywood in the sixties to become a beautiful, charismatic star of the silver screen. But at home, she was a narcissistic, disinterested mother who alienated her three daughters. Still, when Ronni discovers she has a serious illness, she calls her now-adult girls home to fulfill her final wishes.
Nell, Meredith, and Lizzy are all going through crises of their own. But as their mother’s illness draws them together to confront old jealousies and secret fears, they discover that blood might be thicker than water after all.
And now I am delighted to reveal this beautiful cover. I am so excited to share it with you and can’t wait to hear what you think!
Stan has been living on the porch for the past year, but now that we have finished the kitchen renovation, we have lost the porch. It has now become part of Beloved’s office, and Beloved is not happy with sharing a room with Stan the rabbit.
Because it is summer and because the weather is warm and beautiful, we decided to move Stan and his rabbit palace into the garden for the summer. Surely he would be happier in his natural habitat.
I’m not sure that Stan has ever felt grass before. We moved the hutch into the vegetable garden, with a big pen, and watched as Stan explored, seemingly delighted at being on the grass. Baby the cat, who is Stan’s best friend, immediately jumped into the pen, as Stan bounded over to be groomed. He closed his eyes in heaven as Baby licked his head, then the two played for a bit, as Beloved and I stood and watched, our arms around each other as we congratulated ourselves on what a good thing we had done, on how happy Stan would be, bounding around in nature, with a tempting view of all the vegetables.
I went back inside, as a nugget of doubt started gnawing in my head.
“Darling,” I said, half an hour later. “Can raccoons lift rabbit hutches?” I was thinking of the fact that this rabbit hutch has no secure base.
“Raccoons don’t eat rabbits,” he said, confidently, before pausing. “Do they?”
Minutes later he re-emerged, phone in hand. Apparently raccoons are a huge threat, and not the only threat. Stan is a very large and rather fat rabbit. It seems eminently clear that he is a rabbit bred for the pot rather than domesticity (which is true), but he would be no match for a raccoon. Nor for a coyote, fox, possum, owl or hawk. Apparently cats and dogs can also be rabbit predators, but luckily not ours. Baby adores Stan, and the other cats are entirely disinterested. The dogs are kept well away.
Apparently there is no such thing as a predator-proof outdoor cage, and rabbits often die of fright with the stress of being outside and coming face to face with predators, even outside their cage.
Needless to say, Stan and his rabbit palace were back in Beloved’s office before you could say Beatrix Potter. And it looks like that’s where he’ll be staying, at least until someone comes up with a better idea. I am thinking about somehow incorporating a rabbit hutch with the chicken coop, but I’m pretty sure Stan – a grouch at the best of times – will end up terrorizing the chickens. I will just have to hope Beloved and Stan can bond a little more in the safety of the office.
Regatta season is now almost over, The Rower’s boat did magnificently, and the next stop will be National championships, before the world championships in August.
It hasn’t been quite as much fun as other years, largely, I suspect, because I am a middle-aged menopausal woman, without the same energy or cheerful smile as I had a couple of years ago.
I found it all rather exhausting, although fully recognize that a large part of that is down to my perfectionist tendencies. I couldn’t just show up and cook, I had to devise special menus, and spend days before mixing sauces and marinating chicken (which ended up being delicious, if a little dry).
I didn’t sleep well before the last regatta, and was busy cooking breakfast when a woman came over and asked to have a word. Her daughter’s pancakes tasted of onions, she said. In fact, it was so strong, her daughter took one bite and threw them away. She stood, staring me down, demanding an explanation, and I found myself speechless. So speechless, that rather than risk pointing out that I am a parent volunteer who regularly busts her ass to cook for the team, and all the parents, while she relaxes and watches the races every week, I shrugged and turned my back so I wouldn’t say something I would regret.
This is the problem I have found with going through the menopause. I do not let things go. And the little things I would once have ignored, now fill me with irritation. I should have let it go, but hormones dictated this was not about to happen. HOURS later, I decided to discuss it with her, downed my spatulas and apron, and set about finding her. Steam may or may not have been spouting from my nostrils.
The good news is, I didn’t find her. The better news is that I decided I needed to go home. I may have planned to spend the day cooking, but after seven hours of being on my feet, I thought it best for all concerned if I got in my car and drove the three and a half hours home, preferably listening to something soothing on the radio so Beloved would not be welcoming back the deranged woman who stalked the regatta, jonesing for a fight.
I am now looking forward to a break. And I also need to issue a warning: if, for whatever reason, I happen to do something that makes you unhappy, far better to keep it to yourself for now. Hopefully you can tell me about it in a year or so…
(Details may or may not have been changed to protect the innocent, and my rower, aka THE Rower, is the one in yellow…)
For years I was happy working on my own at home, but that was before children, before the business of life, and most importantly, before technology.
What I have found, for some time, is that whilst we all like to think that technology is connecting us more than ever before, we are in fact growing more and more isolated, and a lack of human connection (that can go on for days if we work by ourselves at home), is leading us all to feeling increasingly lonely.
Just before Christmas, I lost the office space I had been using. I knew I wouldn’t be able to work at home, and didn’t like the idea of renting a room by myself. After some searching, I found a gorgeous space in my favorite part of town – the bit that still feels like a village, with restaurants and cafés steps from my office – and invited two friends to join me, one a writer, one not.
I started to decorate, finding lovely wallpaper online, and inexpensive furniture that made the office feel more like my living room than an office. I wanted a warm, cosy, beautiful space that I would want to spend time in, not a corporate hell hole filled with black and grey office furniture.
Within a couple of weeks, we writers (oh, okay it’s the fabulous Lauren Weisberger) realized it was too distracting working with someone who has a proper job, so we took the empty office next door and moved in there, finding three other people to fill the vacant spots next door, on short-term leases at bargain prices.
Others heard about our impromptu co-working creative office space, and asked if they could join. I spoke to the landlord and asked if he had more space. A double office across the hall, he said, and acres of unused space upstairs. May I renovate and decorate it, I asked, as his eyes lit up.
The decorating and furnishing of the office opposite is about to be finished (lovely grey grasscloth walls, wood floors, a heavy wood community table and the coolest of cool clear Lucite chairs), and four more people will be moving in, after which I will be renovating the entire building, including space for twenty five more people upstairs, and a drop-in inexpensive writer’s room.
The six of us who are currently here, are loving every minute. Each of us thought we liked working on our own, assumed we were saving money by not renting an office, but what we have found is that we no longer take days off at a time (when you’re paying for an office, you definitely use it!), because we are accountable to other people, and more than that, we love the people we are working with, and we love the routine of “going to work”.
In my twenties, working for a national newspaper, I used to feel that I was going to work every day with my best friends, and for the first time in years, I feel that way again.
Already, incredible collaborations have taken place. Friendships have been struck up, and business ideas exchanged. And most importantly, we have created community; a community of like-minded people who have found a third place in which we don’t have to feel lonely anymore.
I have always believed that when good people come together, magic can happen. And now I know it to be true.
Those who know me well know my propensity for rescuing animals. This is not necessarily a good thing. Occasionally I have found myself overwhelmed and have ended up being a halfway house for the animal in question, finding them a much more loving home after I realize that we have taken on too much, or not thought things through clearly enough.
Devastatingly, the gorgeous Chester the Molester has had to become one of those casualties. He is the sweetest, most adorable, most kitten-like rabbit there has ever been, but I rescued him without realizing that he and Stan would likely hate each other. I have now spent months attempting to gradually introduce them, hoping that they would eventually grow used to one another, but it was not to be. Stan absolutely hated him, and would try and attack him whenever he could (and this is despite them both being neutered).
Stan is something of a grouch. He is not very cuddly, and sometimes hops over and bites your feet for no explicable reason. But he also makes us laugh, and has an enormous amount of personality. He was also here first. Even though I really really wanted to figure out a way to keep Chester the Molester, Stan is clearly the heir to the throne, and so Chester the Molester has gone to a lovely woman with three gorgeous daughters, all of whom are spoiling Chester rotten, and giving him all the attention and love he deserves. And there are no enormous black bunny rabbits with very long teeth who are constantly lurking and trying to bite him through the bars.
Last week the daughter sent me a video of her cuddling a divine little puppy. She was at a friend’s house and he had nine of these puppies that were looking for a home. What kind of dogs were they, I asked, feeling the old familiar urge begin to wash over me, knowing my husband would have to make a strong intervention because a new puppy is the very last thing we can handle right about now.
They were a cross between a Pug and a Yorkshire Terrier. A pug and a Yorkie, thought I? What on earth do they call that? A Porkie? Because every mutt these days seem to have a designer name. And even though I do not want another dog, the prospect of having a dog called a porkie was enormously appealing. Given that I have occasionally been known to finish off entire boxes of Quality Street by myself, I thought it would be fitting.
The daughter came home that night telling me I was mistaken. The puppies are not known as Porkies, apparently, but as Pugshire Terriers. Happily, the urge passed, because it’s not as if one husband, six children, two dogs, five cats, six chickens, one rabbit, and one fish isn’t enough for any harried writer.
I’m not a big follower of fashion, but every now and then, I have to admit I do succumb. I am generally a firm believer in the “High/Low philosophy”, which is to mix the very cheap, with the occasional very expensive. A couple of years ago I found myself on Nantucket with the always glamorous Emily Giffin and Elin Hilderbrand, both of whom were exquisitely dressed. Emily was talking about the importance of being High Low, and looked at me saying she suspected I was “High High“.
I did happen to be wearing extremely expensive sandals (I had seen them in a magazine ad and had lusted after them for weeks, before biting the bullet and spending far more money than was wise, particularly since I think I have only worn them twice), but I waved my arm proudly. Jangling on my wrist were a bunch of gold bangles and beaded bracelets, which cost about a fiver at the local accessory store for teenage girls. “As low as you can go,” I exclaimed.
I should have kept quiet. Years ago I remember lusting after diamond earrings. I didn’t have enough money for them, and found a remarkable pair of copies on ebay for next to nothing. They were gorgeous, and sparkly. I wore them to a friend’s party, and every time someone complimented me on my beautiful earrings, I burst out, “Ebay! Twenty five dollars!”
A few years later, I was able to afford the real thing, and this time none of my friends said anything. After a while, I realized it was because they presumed they were fake, and probably bought on ebay.
I recently fell in love with a pair of sneakers. They seemed the epitome of trendiness, these sneakers with a large star on the side, deliberately distressed so as to look vintage and worn in, and were horrible amounts of money. I decided to splurge on a whim, and last week, brought them out for the first time. I paired them with jeans, and a simple top, as Beloved and I were getting ready to go to friends.
“How do I look?” I said, walking into the bedroom.
“Great,” said he. “Except for those old sneakers. You can’t wear those. They’re awful. It’s time to get some new ones.”
When I told him they were brand new, and the height of fashion, he asked the price. And reader, I am ashamed to tell you, I lied. And now I feel so guilty, I have put myself on hiatus from anything trendy and expensive for the next few months.
Also, I haven’t been able to wear the shoes since.
I am exceptionally gullible. It is in fact my middle name. I also believe in all manner of unbelievable things, like ghosts, and past lives. And aliens.
There is absolutely no evidence to support my belief in all these things – I have never encountered a ghost, nor an alien; I was once hypnotized by a past-life regression therapist (for an article which I suggested, pretending I was skeptical, when in fact I was hugely excited), and I didn’t come up with anything at all, so I pretended to be a former royal who could see Regents Park from her bedroom window.
And I continue to believe.
Creaky Cottage, our lovely old falling-down-slightly house on the water in Connecticut, has a ghost, or so my husband and daughter tell me. They both say they have seen a woman, out of the corner of their eye, walk down the hallway. I have never seen anything, and I think they are pulling my leg.
Creaky Cottage also has very large windows in the master bedroom. We have thought of putting up curtains, but we love the view so much, we have decided to leave them naked. Every time I wake up at night and look out the window, at the moon reflecting on the water, I feel at peace.
A couple of days ago, I woke up at three in the morning and as I made my way to the bathroom, I found myself looking at the stars, and one in particular. It shone brighter than the others, and – was I going completely crazy – it seemed to be moving from left to right.
I blinked, before noticing that there were another two lights, blinking, and moving from left to right. I stood in the window for twenty minutes, with a mix of vague fear, and excitement, for this was surely my first alien encounter.
I didn’t want the aliens to be coming for me (I was as still as a stone, just in case any movement would attract them) but I wanted to prove once and for all that something ridiculous I believe in, exists. Also, I was waiting for more lights to appear, probably in a circle, and start shining white light down to the ground. I truly expected this to be my close encounter.
Eventually I decided to wake up Beloved, who was in the deepest of sleeps. I tiptoed over, trying not to attract the attention of the aliens and their probes, and shook my husband, who blearily got out of bed.
“Don’t turn on the light!” I hissed, in a sudden panic, before regulating my voice back to it’s normal level. “There are strange lights,” I said, pretending I was exceedingly calm and this was a regular occurrence.
He joined me at the window, looked out and said, “they’re satellites.”
“But…but,” I spluttered. “What about that one? It’s hovering right over the country club.”
“Trick of perspective,” he said, turning and going back to bed. I followed him shortly thereafter, and fell into a dreamless sleep that featured neither aliens, nor probing. I still believe, though, so if you have stories to share, do please let me know.
For many years, I prided myself on my musical knowledge. Not a Thursday night went by during the seventies and eighties when I was not glued to the television screen for Top of the Pops. I remember watching Pan’s People and dreaming of the day when I too might own a pair of glittery stretch lurex leggings. I knew every song that came on the radio, and all the words.
Top of the Pops may be long gone, but up until recently, I still had my radio tuned to the pop station, still knew all the new artists and songs, still knew most of the words. I would always be a modern mum, I decided; my love of pop music would never leave.
Mysteriously, of late, I have found myself on long car journeys craving quiet, and conversation. I have been listening to podcasts, to Desert Island Discs and here in America, NPR. The more I have listened, the more I have forgotten to listen to music, and when I have done, it was through Spotify, and tended to be the music of decades gone by.
A couple of weeks ago, I decided to watch The Grammy’s with the kids. I love nothing more than a good awards show, particularly the red carpet beforehand. I like seeing what the stars are wearing, and what they’re going to be singing. I sat through twenty minutes of the red carpet before the truth finally hit: I have officially aged out of the Grammy’s. In fact, I may have officially aged out of youth, because I didn’t have a clue who any of them were.
And worse than that, the clothes! Or rather, the lack thereof! “Why are their bosoms hanging out?” I kept muttering to myself, although somewhat gratifyingly The Rower kept overhearing, and he agreed. I felt a wave of pride at having raised him well. We both stared aghast at the screen, at a presenter who wore an evening dress that essentially consisted of two black triangles of fabric that somehow managed to barely cover her breasts, whilst forcing them together in a most unnatural way.
The show started and presenters approached the podium to announce the new categories. Best album, best newcomer, etc etc. With the exception of Adele and Beyoncé, I didn’t have a clue who any of them were. Frankly, neither did my kids. It all sounded like a lot of noise, with some very bad fashion thrown in for good measure.
I felt immeasurably old. I went into the kitchen singing some Jackson 5, realizing I never did buy those sparkly lurex leggings, and wondering if it might not to be too late. Even if they never leave the privacy of my bedroom, there is much bopping in front of the bedroom mirror that I could be doing, the sounds of the seventies, when music made sense to me, on my mind.
(First published in The Lady magazine)
Jane Green is the author of seventeen novels, including sixteen New York Times bestsellers. She has over ten million books in print, and is published in over 25 languages.Full Bio