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About the Author

Catherine Alliott is the author of fifteen bestselling novels including About Last Night, My Husband Next Door, A Rural Affair, One Day in May, The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton, and Wish You Were Here. She lives with her family in Hertfordshire.

PENGUIN BOOKS

Behind Closed Doors

Praise for Catherine Alliott

‘Her writing is both intelligent and sparkling’

Marian Keyes

‘I’ve loved Catherine Alliott books since her first one. They’re always a delight and this one’s no exception’

Carole Matthews

‘So warm, funny and heartfelt … no matter what’s going on in your own world, you can curl up in Catherine’s and feel her warmth like summer sun’

Cathy Kelly

‘Yet another great read, packed with fantastic characters, uncomfortable truths, and flashes of pure comedy. Who could ask for more?’

Jill Mansell

‘Catherine Alliott is back with another warm, escapist read. Big subjects are dealt with sensitively in this wonderfully written novel’

Woman’s Weekly

‘A huge treat. Hilarious yet poignant’

Sophie Kinsella

‘A warm, escapist read’

Woman

‘One of those fabulous books that leaves you with a smile on your face and hope in your heart’

Milly Johnson

‘Warm, witty and wise’

Daily Mail

‘Compelling’

Heidi Swain

‘Emotional and affecting, this is an absorbing read’

Sun

‘A magical mix of wit, warmth and poignancy’

Trisha Ashley

‘Alliott is always an absolute joy to read’

Veronica Henry

‘Emotional and engaging, I was completely absorbed’

Sarah Morgan

‘Another blissful read from Catherine Alliott’

Hello!

‘Evokes the perfect summer romance’

Cornwall Life

‘A wry look at life in the wealthy environs of the Oxfordshire countryside … page-turning’

Oxford Mail

Dedication

For Ali

1

I arrived at my parents’ house to find that, as usual, my sister had beaten me to it. As I crunched up the gravel drive to the crumbling red-brick farmhouse, I spotted Helena’s shiny blue BMW already parked squarely outside the gabled porch. The front door to the house was wide open. As I drew up beside her, Hector, my parents’ aged spaniel, came out to greet me, wagging his tail sheepishly. He turned to look apologetically at the rumpus coming from within. Voices were raised in anger. I could hear my mother’s shrill tones complaining that she could hardly be to blame for smashing a bowl she didn’t even know my father had won for school cricket seventy odd years ago if he insisted on cutting his toenails on her copy of the Daily Mail she hadn’t even read yet.

‘Always on the letters page,’ I heard her cry as I got out and patted Hector. He cringed and took up position behind me, very much staying outside for this one. ‘Which he knows is my favourite page. And then he trims his nasal hair on the arts reviews – and we all know the reason for that!’