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!
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)
I was lying in bed the other morning, scrolling through Facebook, reading the news, as the heat of the electric blanket seeped through my long white nightgown and warmed up my frozen feet.
I posted something funny online, and The Chef wrote a message underneath. “I know where you are,” she said. “You’re lying in bed in your long white nightie.” Well of course I am, I responded. Where else would I be on a freezing February day at eleven O’clock in the morning?
For a long time I felt guilty about my winter hibernation, but as I hurtle towards midlife (I’m not actually hurtling towards it, I’m firmly in it but I shall continue to pretend for as long as I can), I am finally managing to accept that when it is cold, and gloomy, and snow is on the ground, the most comforting place to be is in bed.
Every now and then I will read an article about the importance of good sleep habits. The number one rule is to keep all technology out of the bedroom. Turn your bedroom into a retreat – no phones, no ipads, no television. The blue light from the television and the white light from our screens apparently causes havoc with our sleep patterns.
Do not read in bed, they say. Never eat in bed. Use your bed for one thing, and one thing alone: sleep (maybe two, I will grant you, but that’s another column entirely).
I think about this from time to time, as I study what has gathered on my bed on those days when I choose to stay in it during the winter months. There is invariably one plate and one bowl, precariously stacked on the side table, waiting to be knocked over by an eager cat in search of crumbs.
There are stacks of books piled on same side table, plus on the floor, plus a few on the bed. There are often magazines. There is always an iphone, with an ipad too, just to add some variety. There are headphones for listening to podcasts. There is usually a cat or three, sometimes five, on the bed. There is a notebook, and an assortment of pens. There is sometimes a child, but rarely more than two. On a very rare day, there will be a laptop for writing, but my writing tends to happen in my office rather than in bed.
Friends will send messages inviting me out, and I will make up excuses, generally involving work. Those who know me very well know that my only excuse is that I am in my nightie, in bed, and it is so warm, and cozy, there is nowhere else I would rather be.
When the sun starts shining again I shall be up and about, cooking, writing, running around. But until then, I’m turning the electric blanket on and climbing back in.
(First published in The Lady magazine)
I wrote this a year ago today, on our anniversary. I am posting it again today, because it so perfectly describes our marriage, and I haven’t found better words than these.
Eleven years ago, just after my first marriage ended, I picked up the phone and answered an ad for a tiny little rental cottage by the beach in Westport. The phone was answered by the man who was to become my landlord, neighbor, and three years later, my husband.
The stars were aligned that day. The stars have been aligned ever since. It is our wedding anniversary today, and I have learned immeasurable lessons over the last eleven years.
I have learned that marriage, like life, is something of a rollercoaster; if you’re lucky, the highs and the lows will be exhilarating and fun; when they’re not, the key to success is knowing it will pass. It always does.
I have learned that generosity and kindness are the single biggest gifts you can give your partner, the single greatest traits that will ensure your marriage grows deep roots to sustain you over time.
I have learned that it isn’t always easy to be kind, when you’re tired, and grumpy, and busy herding kids and cats, but that the mindful act of stopping what you are doing and paying attention to your partner, may be the greatest act of kindness there is.
My beloved, beloved husband is the best human being I know. He is wise, and warm, and clever, and funny, and goofy, and sexy, and handsome, and sweet, and selfless, and distracted, and brilliant, and thoughtful, and kind.
He has brought so much laughter, fun, comfort, friendship and peace to my life. He has been the only one to ever really know me, and to show me that even when I’m grumpy, or sad, or angry, or shouty, he still loves me; he has taught me that I am loveable, which has been an enormous gift.
We have been together eleven years, and it is our eighth – bronze – wedding anniversary today. Last year was copper – he bought me flowers and a copper watering can because together we have learned the very best lesson of all: The grass is greener where you water it.
Happy Anniversary to my Beloved.
When I first started writing novels, I managed to write at home. It was at the very beginning of the internet, and distractions were few and far between. No-one really knew what to do with the internet, and I managed to while away the days in my tiny home office, writing my books.
Then technology took off, and I had children, and suddenly the home office was a place filled with distractions. I would sit down to write a chapter, but mistakenly spend the next six hours playing computer solitaire. Or I would be checking email every two paragraphs. Or hunting down the perfect pair of shoes, which sometimes took all week.
I decided I needed a routine, that it was important to break the solitude of working from home. I needed to be around people, to leave my house with a computer and “go to work”. For a few years I wrote at the local library, but the library is no longer a quiet place, so I kept searching.
Next I found a writer’s room that was quaint and cozy, and after a couple of years there I was offered a tiny windowless office in the basement of our local theater. It was perfect, but now that they have staffed up, I am on the hunt again for another office.
I have spent the last few weeks looking at large spaces, and small. All of them either need vast amounts of work, or are dingy and depressing. Two days ago I finally found a small room that is perfect. It is light, bright and airy. I can fit two, or possibly three desks in there, a lamp, a chair, and a shelf of books. I can fit two, or possibly three fellow writers to break up the solitude. It will not fit children, dogs, cats, chickens, fish, bearded dragons, or rabbits.
I have taken the office for a year, with two friends now joining me. I have a feeling that soon we may need a bigger space, because there is a definite need for a creative co-working space in my town. So many of us are attempting to work from home, none of us anticipating the loneliness which comes with that. I can’t think of anything lovelier than creating a place for us creative types to go.
I will be starting my next book just as soon as my flat pack furniture for the new office arrives. And just as soon as I can figure out how to put it all together. Which means I may have a few more week’s grace after all.
(First published in The Lady magazine in the UK)
Ever since my children were born, I have been cutting their hair. I am very bad at cutting hair and almost every time has been a disaster. Despite this, I am convinced that I can cut hair, even though hope has yet to triumph over experience. When the children were very small, they didn’t notice how uneven their hair was; that sometimes there were a couple of bald patches. Now that they are teenagers, they won’t let me touch their hair.
Twin A long ago decided that he likes his hair on the longer side. For the past few months he has been looking increasingly like George Harrison, circa 1974. I realized, just before he went away recently, that we had barely any time for a hair cut, and the hair needed cutting before the trip.
Twin A and I met my gay husband for lunch. “What are you doing the rest of the day?” he asked, as we were leaving, and I told him we were off to the barber, which was not something I wanted to do, because it was cold, and raining, and I wanted to cozy up at home.
“Want me to cut it?” He asked. “Do you have scissors and a comb? We can do it in your kitchen.”
My gay husband is not only one of the most handsome men I know, he is also, unequivocally, the most stylish. He is always beautifully-dressed, with great hair. The only fashion disaster I have ever witnessed was when he made the mistake of dyeing his grey hair back to its natural blond, but it grew out quickly, and none of us have discussed it since. This was the best offer I had had in ages.
We headed home, and Twin A perched on the kitchen stool as my gay husband started cutting his hair. I frowned. It didn’t look like he knew what he was doing. In fact, I would go as far as saying it looked much like me cutting Twin A’s hair. Which isn’t good. I decided not to say anything. My gay husband had been so confident, surely I was the one at fault; surely it would get better.
Halfway through the haircut, when one sideburn had been shorn off completely, a centimeter or so above the ear, I spoke up.
“Have you ever cut hair before?” I asked.
“No,” he said happily. “But I think I’ve done a pretty good job. Apart from this bit. And this bit.”
Twin A says that’s it. Not only am I not allowed to cut his hair, nor are my friends, nor indeed anyone, unless it is in a professional hair salon. Frankly, I no longer blame him, but as I have been saying to all my kids for the past seventeen years, the good thing about hair is that it always grows back.
(First published in The Lady magazine)
The piles are threatening to take over my house. I do not think of myself as a hoarder, and I very much like living in a space that is clean and tidy, but I don’t seem to have any control over the piles of papers that accumulate in every room of the house.
Nobody would ever think it, looking at pictures of my perfect kitchen counters on Instagram. They have no idea that seconds before I shot the picture, I slid everything on the counter three feet to the left.
Stan the rabbit is not happy with his confinement. He has been living very happily on the porch these last few months, coming into the kitchen throughout the day to play with us, and the cats, tearing off into his porch when there is too much activity.
We had high hopes of him being a house bunny, before we realized that house bunnies eat everything. Three of the lamps in the living room do not work as Stan has chewed through the cords, and we have thrown away four iPhone chargers for the same reason. Although he is semi-litter-trained, it turns out rabbits mark their territories, much like cats, and so, after dry-cleaning the sofa cushions twice, Stan is now banished from all but the kitchen.
I have just finished writing my nineteenth novel. For years people have asked me how it feels when I finish a novel, and I haven’t known how to answer them. In the old days, it felt wonderful, knowing I had achieved something so big. A great weight would be off my shoulders, freeing me up to enjoy life for a little while without a cloud of guilt following me around if I hadn’t written that day.
Then I moved to a different publisher, and found myself working with a very talented editor, who didn’t like the kinds of books I wrote. She wanted more suspense, more drama, more plot. I stopped trusting that I could write books by myself, and would deliver first drafts that I knew needed work, knowing that she would require me to rewrite huge chunks of each book. Finishing a book meant the beginning of a grueling round of edits, sometimes up to five, always with large rewrites.
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