A spellbinding collection of fifteen stories from multi-million copy, internationally bestselling author Rosamunde Pilcher, published posthumously two years after her death.
In The Holiday, a wife surprises her husband of twenty-five years with a holiday full of Mediterranean sunshine, red rocks and blue seas in an effort to rekindle the romance they had before children.
The Eye of Love takes the reader to the bright spring sunshine and sparkling waves of a Northumbrian village where old flames meet again.
In A Place Like Home, a lonely young woman goes to recuperate in a Scottish countryside after a brief illness. The fruit orchards and fresh sea air offer much needed respite, but not so much as the handsome, mysterious farmer . . .
Each of the fifteen stories is a perfect slice of romance written with warmth and passion, featuring some wonderfully memorable, smart and feisty female characters that will transport the reader to another time and place.
'Her genius is to create characters you really care about' Daily Express
'Rosamunde Pilcher's warm spell is charming and utterly convincing' Daily Mail
'Pilcher's storytelling skills are serene and beguiling' The Times
'Pilcher's strength is knowing what she can do well and writing about what she knows. She has a way of tapping into the emotional life of her readers and making them care about characters not unlike themselves' Daily Telegraph
'Britain's most under-rated novelist' Sunday Times
'This warm-hearted family saga, beautifully written and expertly paced, is just as satisfying now as when it was first published more than 30 years ago.' Daily Mail
Release date:
July 27, 2021
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
288
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When it was all over, when she had turned her back on him and walked away, leaving him standing on the pavement, staring after her, she had gone back to the office, stumbled through an afternoon’s work, somehow got herself back to the flat, and then rung Sally.
The numbers slotted into place at last. She heard the double ring of Sally’s telephone, far away in the uttermost reaches of Devon. She prayed, Let her be in, please let her be in.
‘Hello!’ Sally’s voice, marvellously close and clear. All at once Rachael felt better. She smiled, as though Sally could see her face, hoping that the smile would somehow get through to her voice.
‘Sally, it’s me, Rachael.’
‘Darling! How are you?’
‘I’m fine. How about you?’
‘Fairly desolate. Andrew’s gone off for an unspecified period in his submarine. Probably crawling along under some terrifying ice cap or other.’
‘Would you like a little company?’
‘Adore it, if it was yours.’
‘I thought maybe a couple of weeks?’
‘I can’t believe it! You mean, you can really get away from London for a couple of weeks? What about the job?’
‘I’m tired of jobs. I’m giving in my notice tomorrow. Anyway, it was only on a sort of temporary basis. And there’s another girl who can take my room in the flat for the time being.’
‘Oh, you couldn’t have told me anything I wanted to hear more. When will you be here?’
‘Next Friday week, if that’s not too soon.’
‘I’ll meet you off the train. Darling …’ Sally hesitated. ‘It’s frightfully boring. I mean, nothing but me and scenery, and I’m at the shop all day.’
‘That’s just what I need.’
There was another little pause, and then Sally said, ‘Nothing wrong?’
‘No, nothing.’ But Sally would have to know, sooner or later. ‘Well – everything, really. I’ll tell you when I come.’
‘You do that,’ said Sally. ‘Meantime, take care of yourself.’
* * *
Ten long days later and she was there. The train eased into the dark little station, the platform slid alongside. She saw the floodlit sign, Duncoombe Halt; a porter with a flag, a crate of chickens on a barrow. She stood up and heaved her suitcase off the rack and made her way to the door. She stepped down on to the platform, and saw Sally coming towards her. She put down the suitcase and was embraced in an enormous hug, and all at once nothing seemed quite so bad.
‘Oh, how lovely to see you. Did you have a horrible journey, or was it not too bad?’ Sally wore jeans and a raincoat and an enveloping woollen hat that came down to her eyebrows. She smelled of rain and open air and her cheek felt cool against Rachael’s own. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ She had never been one to waste time with formalities. She picked up the suitcase and led the way, down the platform and over the bridge and out into the station yard to where her old estate car waited. The mist was drenching.
‘It’s rained all day,’ Sally told her as they got into the car and she turned the ignition key. The windscreen wipers danced to and fro, headlights pierced the drizzling dark. ‘Never stopped for an instant.’
‘It’s rained in London too.’
It seemed to have been raining ever since she had said goodbye to Randall. But it was different from country rain. Just as being miserable and alone in London was a world away from being miserable and with Sally in Devon. They left the station and came through the little town and were in the country in a matter of minutes.
‘It’s been a horrible winter, so cold and wet. There’s scarcely a primrose showing and not a bulb in the garden …’
Rachael looked at Sally; saw the alert and childish profile that never seemed to change, the square chin, the slender neck. She was Rachael’s first cousin, ten years older but closer than any sister. When Sally married Andrew, a lieutenant-commander in the Navy, Rachael had been her bridesmaid; and when Rachael grew up and went to live and work in London, Sally was all enthusiasm, because now, she said, she had a cast iron excuse to come to town, to have lunch with Rachael and trail around the Tate Gallery while Andrew was attending some nameless conference at the Ministry of Defence.
It was Sally’s and Andrew’s reaction to Randall Clewe, politely enthusiastic, but unmistakably wary, which had first caused Rachael to stand back, as it were, and take her first, cool appraisal of him, forcing herself to see him through Sally’s eyes. After that she became aware of his imperfections, but she was still in love with him. Loving a person, she had told herself, is not finding perfection, but forgiving faults. She went on telling herself this for nearly three years.
When she had first met him, Randall had been married, with two children; he was now separated from his wife.
‘You don’t want to get involved with a married man,’ Sally had said. ‘You’ll get hurt. It’s all too complicated.’
‘But it’s happening all the time,’ Rachael had protested.
‘Not to people like you. You’re too vulnerable. You’ll get hurt.’
‘I can’t get hurt if I know the situation.’
‘But do you know the situation?’
‘He’s trying to get a divorce.’
‘But the children! And what’s going to happen to his wife?’
‘They haven’t been happy for ages. He has to be away so much. His job takes him abroad all the time, and she’s resentful …’
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