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!
A few months ago my whole family discovered something brilliant on our iphones – an app called Find my Friends. I added all my children, and Beloved, and they did the same to me.
This is particularly brilliant for me at this stage of life because of the following scenario which occurred multiple times during any given week. What are you doing this morning, I will ask Beloved, on a Sunday morning. He will say words, and I will respond by making approving noises or telling him to have a good time, and a few minutes later I will ask him again what he is doing this morning. He will look at me in disbelief, and then say more words, that may or may not be the same as the words he said before, and I will nod approvingly and pretend that I am listening, and two hours later, when I realize he is nowhere to be found, I will send him an angry text asking where the hell he is.
He will then tell me that he has told me repeatedly where he is going, and I will deny it furiously, with every fibre of my being, convinced that he has not told me, and that he is in fact gas-lighting me by making me feel completely crazy. I will not, for one second, ever, admit that a lot of the time I do not listen to him. I will not, for one second, ever, admit that there is so much going on in my head all of the time, that even if I am looking at people, smiling, and nodding, the chances are that in my head I am thinking about something completely different.
I blame ADD. Which is besides the point. Since adding Beloved to Find my Friends, rather than send him furious texts or phone him demanding to know where he is, I click on the link and see that he is at the gym. Oh yes, I think, now I remember him telling me that. Or I see that he is in a neighboring town. Ah yes, think I, I do vaguely recall him mentioning lunch with a business colleague who lives over there.
Find my Friends has done wonders for our relationship. He no longer things he is married to an angry crazy woman with early-onset dementia, and I no longer find myself despairing over where my husband disappears to. Although, he still disappears. I’m just going out to get some groceries, he will say, and three hours later I will track him on Find my Friends and discover he is at the boatyard, discussing outboard motors for the Boston Whaler.
Beloved also knows where I am all the time. Thankfully, I have nothing to hide, but my goodness, I have no idea how people conduct affairs with all the apps and texts popping up on your screen all the time. I have heard of people who are unfaithful having second phones, but I have a hard enough time keeping track of one phone, let alone two (never mind the fact that I am hopeless at secrets not to mention very happy in my marriage).
I am also busy tracking my children, but I am very careful to pretend that I am not in case they should decide to remove me. I phone them all the time asking where they are, when I can see perfectly well they are at the beach, or at a friend’s house.
Somewhat worryingly I have found myself attempting to track my friends when they are late. I have gone as far as opening the app, wondering where Sophie is, or whether Nicole is on her way, or is Dani back home. And then I remember, this is for family only.
I’d very much like it for my friends, but I think it’s epically stalker-y, and so I will keep on wondering where they are, and I will keep sending texts, having forgotten entirely that they have already told me they are on holiday for two weeks. Hopefully, because they are all women of a certain age, rather than think I am losing my mind, they will know exactly what it’s like.
In the meantime, I’m off to check what Twin B is up to today…
A few weeks ago I was invited to a rather swanky literary dinner at a hotel called The Gramercy Park, in Manhattan. It was to be filled with the great and the good, and not only was I excited for the dinner (and utterly thrilled to have been invited), I couldn’t wait to go back to the Gramercy Park hotel.
The last time I went to the Gramercy Park hotel was in 1996. I had decided to write a modern take on the Cinderella story called Jemima J. I had booked an extended stay in Los Angeles to do the research, and was spending a week beforehand in New York with a girlfriend. We were going just after Christmas, with plans to be in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
Both of us were young single girls, with little money. We were doing New York on a shoestring, and had booked into a terrible hotel near Times Square with stained furniture and dirty sheets. We lasted one night, before deciding that squalor was not what we had in mind for this trip, and I would use some of my new book advance to upgrade.
Have you ever tried getting a hotel room in New York at Christmas time? We spent hours desperately trying to find a hotel, and the only thing we could find was a suite at the Gramercy Park Hotel.
A suite! It sounded so grand! We discovered the Gramercy Park had hosted The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, and The Beatles. U2 had lived there, as had Debbie Harry of Blondie. This was clearly the epitome of cool, and we had to stay there.
The hotel faces a pretty private park, in a lovely neighborhood. I caught my breath as we got out the taxi, and walked in to the hotel, past the dark wood-panelled bar, and exhaled again in vague disappointment when we were taken up to our suite. I remember the carpet being impossibly worn and shabby, in an unflattering shade of green. The hotel was dated and dingy, with an old and fabulous bar filled with New York characters, and we felt incredibly cool staying there.
We were there for a week, and over the final weekend, I fell slightly in love. A friend of a friend was in New York at the same time, and my girlfriend and I spent the day with him. We came back to the suite, and while she was in the bathroom, he kissed me.
We spent the next two days together, as characters in a Nora Ephron romantic chick-flick, circa 1996. It snowed as we held hands walking down Park Avenue. We had snowfights in Central Park then drank hot chocolate in a storied bar. We went up the Empire State Building, before I left for Los Angeles, itching to get back home to London, to see whether this new romance might turn into something more.
So here I am twenty one years later, a married mother, living in Connecticut, standing outside the hotel that truly epitomized my single girl adventures, and it is almost unrecognizable. A few years ago it was transformed into a sleek, stylish, trendy hotel.
The hotel is now beautiful. The party was wonderful, and the food, delicious. I spent the evening looking over my shoulder expecting to see the ghost of the love-struck girl I once was, but she, along with the shabby green carpet, had long since disappeared.
And whilst I loved everything about the evening, and whilst I am so happy and grateful for the way my life has gone and the woman I am now, I have to confess I had a few moments of yearning for just a touch of the hotel I used to know.
July 4th is a very big holiday on this side of the pond. On American Independence Day we fly the flag proudly (the American one), gather with our friends and neighbors and celebrate with a barbeque, and tables filled with disgusting desserts turned red, white and blue with food coloring.
In our neighborhood, there are fireworks at the beach every year, and parties at almost all of the houses. Guests spill from the front yards across the road – closed for the day – and onto the beach. In the old days, when I lived on the other side of town, we braved the traffic to come down to the beach, with a twenty minute drive taking up to an hour. In the past I have assigned the driving to someone else, jumping out of the car and stopping at various people’s houses for glasses of wine on my way down to the beach.
The mood is celebratory, and fun. At the beach, when the children were small, we would set up picnics, and bump into everyone we had ever met. It was social, and happy, and one of my most favorite holidays.
It was crowded, but not too crowded. I have never been good with crowds. I once spent New Year’s Eve watching the ball drop in New Orleans, and as the crowd closed in on me, I had my one and only panic attack. Now I tend to avoid crowds wherever possible, even in my home town.
As the years have gone by I have become more introverted, and the beach has become busier. This year traffic was so bad, one friend drove to our house from her own, fifteen minutes away, and she sat in traffic for almost three hours. It was back-to-back traffic for miles, and the beach was so packed with people, you couldn’t see any sand. In the back, was an area for standing, and hundreds of people were crammed in there, sardine-style, for the firework display. Twin A returned from the beach saying there were so many people there this year, it was utter hell.
Happily for us, we live on a little private street just off the main beach area. We can cross the street to a private beach with a spectacular view of the fireworks, thereby avoiding the crowds entirely. We decided to eat at home with friends, then perhaps wander the beach when it got dark to experience some of the magic.
I made the obligatory barbeque food. For the first time I succumbed to one of those disgustingly decadent desserts, making brown butter Rice Krispie treats with a salted chocolate topping. I alternated spooning the stuff into the pan to set, and into my mouth. Once I had started, I didn’t seem able to stop. We ate smashburgers on pretzel rolls, and hot dogs with sauerkraut. We served corn on the cob and tomato salad. I had no room for the kale and grapefruit salad. Unsurprisingly I often find I have little room for kale.
By the time we thought about strolling along the beach, my stomach was so full, it was actually painful, and a headache was forming. I excused myself, went to bed and had Beloved bring me a mug of mint tea. Outside, I could hear our friends laughing softly, as I snuggled down, drank my tea, and drifted into sleep. All in all, it was about the most perfect July 4th I could ever have imagined. And not once did I have to brave the crowds.
Something strange is happening on book tour this year. It used to be that after I had given a talk and read from my book, I would sit behind a small table, and sign books. The line tended to move quickly, some people having questions that took a little longer, but I signed, made small talk, and left feeling much the same way as I did when I walked in.
Now that we all travel with permanent cameras built into our phones, everyone in that line asks for a picture. For the past couple of events this year, I bounced up and down from my signing table like a jack-in-the-box for pictures to be taken. It was fun, and tiring.
Recently I had an event in Cincinnati. I could tell instantly that this was a room of devoted readers. Mostly because they laughed uproariously at all my jokes, and audibly sighed with pleasure when I mentioned some of my older novels.
It was a wonderful talk. Afterwards I went to my signing table and the first two women came up, iPhones clutched in their hand. I stood up for the photos, sat back down again, stood up, sat down, stood up, and realized (clearly I am a little slow) that this would be much easier if I stayed standing.
I moved from behind the table to in front, and the strangest, and loveliest thing happened. After each picture, every single woman gave me a huge hug.
Now I know this happens to some authors. Glennon Doyle Melton, author of Love Warrior, turns all her events into love-filled hug-fests. I have also seen videos where she sits on the laps of her fans and cuddles them. Please know that this will not be happening at my events. Glennon is teeny tiny. If I were to sit on your lap, I may very well flatten you. The hugs, however, I will gladly take.
My boring old book signing turned into a glorious love fest, and my heart felt like it was going to explode by the end. This is only strange because my mother’s childhood nickname for me was “touch-me-not”. I never liked being touched, by strangers or anyone else, but as I have grown older, I seem to have completely shed that outer protective layer I carried for so long, and now there is nothing I love quite so much as a hug. Especially from a stranger on book tour.
I am fascinated by how I am changing as I am ageing, as I shed the insecurities, the fears, the need to impress or try to be good enough. I feel like I am finally Becoming Jane: more comfortable in my skin, more myself than ever before. And it is precisely by showing those vulnerabilities that enables me to connect with my readers in the way that I do, that ends up in a hug.
And so I have decided that for my solo events, I am never going to sit behind a signing table again. I am going to be standing in front, dispensing signatures, photographs, and many, many hugs.
(Picture is with the delicious Emma Straub, who is not only extremely huggable but the author of the brilliant Modern Lovers, and now bookseller extraordinaire at Books Are Magic in Brooklyn.)
All I want on book tour are events filled with adoring readers, drivers who drive smoothly enough that I don’t get car sick, and quiet hotel rooms with soft pillows.
The only one that is truly important is the quiet hotel room, and regular readers may know I have a history of disasters in that area.
Recently I showed up at very swanky hotel in Boston, after a grueling few days on tour. I couldn’t wait to crawl into bed, order room service, and spend my one day off doing absolutely nothing other than reading in bed and drifting off to sleep.
After an excellent night’s sleep, I spent the morning reading and was just drifting off for a second sleep when I was startled by a loud cacophony of whistles and cheering outside. I looked out the window to see the street outside my hotel had been cordoned off, and was filled with thousands of people, all carrying rainbow flags.
It was Pride march in Boston. I stood in the window in my long white nightie, watching my dreams of sleep and quiet disappear. The crowd looked up, and saw me, ghostlike, in my window, and started waving. I waved back, and then, as a smile spread upon my face, I figured if you can’t beat them, you have to join them.
If you read my novels you will know that I am an unequivocal supporter of gay rights, and that I firmly believe that it doesn’t matter who you love, as long as you love.
My gay male friends (and I have many) ask me if I am sure I am not secretly a gay man. My lesbian friends (and I have many) ask me if I am sure I am not secretly a lesbian.
Perhaps, in another life, I was one of each. I do know that I am fervently and passionately and ardently supportive of gay rights, and that watching that Pride parade brought me to tears. This year marks the 50th anniversary of the Sexual Offences Act in the U.K., which decriminalized homosexual acts between two men in private. How wonderful that today so many are out and proud and accepted.
And yet, after years of growing acceptance of different races, colors, sexualities and genders, we are again living in frightening times with no idea if these past few decades of freedom will soon be a distant memory.
I jumped in that march. Someone gave me a rainbow flag, and I hollered and whooped with the best of them.
It may not have been what I planned for my one day off, but I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day.
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.
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