Jenny Oliver - The House We Called Home - The magical, laugh out loud summer holiday read from the bestselling Jenny Oliver

JENNY OLIVERwrote her first book on holiday when she was ten years old. Illustrated with cut-out supermodels from her sister’s Vogue , it was an epic, sweeping love story not so loosely based on Dynasty . Since then Jenny has gone on to get an English degree and a job in publishing that’s taught her what it takes to write a novel (without the help of the supermodels).

Also by Jenny Oliver

The Parisian Christmas Bake Off

The Vintage Summer Wedding

The Little Christmas Kitchen

The Sunshine and Biscotti Club

The Summerhouse by the Sea

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Jenny Oliver 2018

Jenny Oliver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008217990

Version: 2018-06-14

Praise for Jenny Oliver

‘Brilliantly written, this is packed full of humour… A perfect holiday read.’

The Sun

‘This book made me want to dance on the beach with a glass of sangria in my hand. The perfect summer read.’

Sarah Morgan

‘This is a real treat. A touching story of love, loss and finding out what really matters in life. I love it!’

Julia Williams

‘Jenny Oliver writes contemporary women’s fiction which leaves you with a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.’

Books with Bunny

‘Intelligent, delightful and charming! The writing is exquisite.’

What’s Better Than Books

‘A perfect summer read.’

This Price Is Usually Right

‘A sprinkling of festivity, a touch of romance and a glorious amount of mouth-watering baking!’

Rea Book Review

‘…it was everything I enjoy…I couldn’t find a single flaw.’

Afternoon Bookery

‘I didn’t want to put the book down until I had reached the very last word on the last page.’

A Spoonful of Happy Endings

To Emily

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Jenny Oliver

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

She stood at the cliff edge looking out at the rolling summer surf. The house towering behind her, solid grey stone and slate, bursting pink rhododendrons, white garden furniture that needed a paint. The image, like closing your eyes after glancing at the sun, almost indelible on her retina, beams of light dancing in the dark.

Out ahead, mountains of cloud hovered on the horizon, a windsurfer made painful progress in the non-existent breeze while paddleboarders cruised on water that glistened like a million jumping fish.

Moira balled up her fists. Tight so she could feel her nails in her palms. If she could she would have rattled them like a child throwing a tantrum. If she could she would have screwed her eyes shut and stamped her foot and shouted down at the bloody picture-perfect view, ‘Graham Whitethorn, you goddamn pain in the arse.’

But she couldn’t. Because from inside the hoody of the teenage boy standing beside her she could just glimpse big worried eyes, and see the wipe of snot on his frayed baggy cuffs.

So, instead she took a deep invigorating breath of salty sea air, pushed her hair from her face, and said, ‘Come on then, Sonny. Let’s make some breakfast and call your mother. Tell her what silly old Grandpa’s done.’

They turned back towards the house. The beautiful house. The image on her retina fitting the outline exactly.

CHAPTER 2

‘What do you mean he’s gone missing?’ Stella frowned into her phone, then almost without thinking pointed out of the car window and said to her seven-year-old, ‘Look, Rosie – Stonehenge.’

‘Missing…?’ Jack, her husband, mouthed from the driver’s seat.

Stella made a face, unsure.

Behind her, little Rosie had no interest in Stonehenge, deeply imbedded in YouTube on the iPad, happily powering through their 4G data with her gem-studded headphones on. Usually Stella would have clicked her fingers to get Rosie’s attention and pointed out of the window again to make sure she didn’t miss the view, but the phone call from her mother trumped any tourist attraction. ‘I don’t understand, Mum,’ Stella said. ‘How can Dad be missing? Where is he?’

Jack was frowning. Traffic was backing up from the roundabout up ahead.

‘Well darling, that’s what we don’t know,’ said her mother, her voice tinny over the phone.

Stella felt strangely out of control. Thoughts popped into her head that she wouldn’t have expected.

She and her father did not get along well. They barely talked. Hadn’t for years. Past anger had morphed into silence, and silence into habit – the threads tethered firmly in place, calcifying solid with stubbornness and age. Yet as her mother spoke, Stella found herself overcome by unfamiliar emotion. She worried suddenly that she might start to cry. God that would be embarrassing. Jack would probably crash the car in shock.

‘How long has he been missing?’ Stella asked, turning towards the window, eyes wide to dry the possible threat of tears.

‘Since yesterday,’ said her mother. ‘Although I’m not altogether sure what time he left because we were at Sainsbury’s.’

‘Since yesterday?’ Stella said, shocked. ‘Why didn’t you call before?’

‘Well, I knew you had a long drive today and I wanted you to get a good night’s sleep. And I thought it might be a good idea to give him a chance to come back without worrying everyone.’

This seemed very odd behaviour from her mother, who had never been the kind of person to suffer in silence.

‘So you’ve been worrying on your own?’

There was a brief silence at the other end of the phone.