The Dream House
Authors: Rachel Hore
Rachel Hore worked in London publishing for many years before moving with her family to Norwich, where she teaches publishing at the University of East Anglia. She is married to the writer D. J. Taylor and they have three sons. Her previous novels are
The Dream House
,
The Memory Garden
,
The Glass Painter’s Daughter
, which was shortlisted for the 2010 Romantic Novel of the Year award,
A Place of Secrets
, which was picked by Richard and Judy for their book club, and the latest
Sunday Times
bestseller
A Gathering Storm
.
Praise for
A Gathering Storm
‘With a serious eye for exquisite detail, Hore’s latest, brilliantly crafted novel aptly follows a photographer, Lucy. She takes a journey to capture past, life-changing family secrets, embracing three generations along the way, across Cornwall, London, East Anglia and Occupied France’
Mirror
Praise for
A Place of Secrets
‘Sumptuous prose, deft plotting, lush settings, troubling personal histories, tragedy, heady romance and even a smattering of eighteenth-century scientific wonderment mark Hore’s fourth novel as her most accomplished and enthralling yet’
Daily Mirror
Praise for
The Glass Painter’s Daughter
‘Another of this year’s top offerings [is] Rachel Hore’s
The Glass Painter’s Daughter
. The main character, Fran has returned home to look after her dying father’s glass-cutting business. Overshadowing the central love affair with colleague Zac and an unfolding mystery involving a stained-glass window is the pall of imminent death’
Daily Mail
Praise for
The Memory Garden
‘With her second novel, Rachel Hore proves she does place and setting as well as romance and relationships. Tiny, hidden Lamorna Cove in Cornwall is the backdrop to two huge tales of illicit passion and thwarted ambition . . . Clever stuff’
Daily Mirror
‘Pitched perfectly for a holiday read’
Guardian
Praise for
The Dream House
‘A beautifully written and magical novel about life, love and family . . . tender and funny, warm and wise, the story of one woman’s search for the perfect life which isn’t quite where she thought she would find it. I loved it!’ Cathy Kelly
‘
The Dream House
is a book that so many of us will identify with. Moving from frenzied city to peaceful countryside is something so many of us dream of. Rachel Hore has explored the dream and exposed it in the bright light of reality, with repercussions both tragic and uplifting, adding her own dose of magic. It’s engrossing, pleasantly surprising and thoroughly readable’ Santa Montefiore
First published in Great Britain by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd, 2006
A CBS COMPANY
This paperback edition 2012
Copyright © Rachel Hore, 2006
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention
No reproduction without permission
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Rachel Hore to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-84983-531-2
eISBN 978-1-47112-716-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Typeset in Palatino by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR04YY
Many friends have been supportive during the writing of this book. I would particularly like to thank Juliet Bamber and Dr Hilary Johnson for their sensitive comments on the manuscript, Dr Ann Stanley for advice on medical matters, and Bob and Janet Mitchell for photography, laptops and encouragement.
In the publishing world, great thanks to my agent Sheila Crowley and to Suzanne Baboneau, Melissa Weatherill, Joan Dietch and the team at Simon & Schuster. Also, thank you to Nick Sayers for advice.
Finally, it would have proved impossible to write this novel without the loving support of my family. I am particularly indebted to my husband David who helps in so many ways, and to Felix, Benjy and Leo, who occasionally allowed me use of ‘their’ computer.
For my mother and to the memory of my father
London, November 2002
‘Come on, come on, please answer,’ Kate mouthed into the receiver. Her eyes focused on the photo of her husband, Simon, with Daisy and little Sam on the wall of her grey, windowless office as she listened to the distant ringing. Finally she dropped the phone back onto its cradle. Where could Tasha be? Surely Sam wasn’t worse or the nanny would have rung her.
Kate reached down, riffled in her bag for her mobile and hit Tasha’s mobile number. Straight to voicemail. Damn.
‘Tasha – it’s me, Kate. Hope you’re OK. I need to know how Sam is. Can you ring me at the office when you’ve got a moment?’
She shoved the phone into the pocket of her jacket, trying to ignore her butterflies of panic. Sam probably just had a bad tummy bug but it had been so horrible seeing him hot and limp this morning, and he’d even thrown up the water Kate had given him. Of course, Tasha was more than competent, but . . . I should have stayed at home with him, she told herself fiercely, rung in sick myself.
No, you shouldn’t
, said an irritating voice in her head.
Tasha can manage perfectly well by herself. What would have happened if you hadn’t been at the television studios this morning holding Susie Zee’s hand? Susie would probably have refused to appear on the chat show at all and there would have been an awful stink then, I can tell you
.
Kate had to agree that the uncomfortable voice of reason had a point. Susie, a sweet but very needy person, was a singer-songwriter and Kate’s employers, Jansen & Hicks, had just published her no-holds-barred autobiography. As publicist for the book, Kate had been shepherding Susie around London media-land for the last week, attempting to protect her from the fallout of her confessed affairs with various famous figures in the music business. Even now Kate had taken a huge risk by leaving Susie in the care of the London sales representative for a book-signing and, crossing her fingers that all would be well, hailing a cab back to Jansen & Hicks’s offices on Warren Street. Her plan now was to deal with the worst of the urgent tasks waiting for her and to sneak off home early.
Kate glanced at her watch – twelve fifteen already – and surveyed the horror of her desk. She’d only been out of the office for a morning, and look at it! Towers of new books, tottering piles of papers and magazines, even a heap of plastic toy trolls with Day-Glo hair to promote a children’s fantasy title. Why do people just dump things on me any old how? she thought, grumpily, brushing a strand of dark hair off her face and stabbing at the ‘on’ button of her computer. She wished, not for the last time, that she had an assistant but, alas, she was not high enough up the ladder for that.
The telephone rang now and she snatched it up, hoping it was Tasha.
‘Kate? Adam here. Sorry to bother you with another problem, but . . .’
Kate’s heart dived. Adam Jacobs was a first-time novelist in need of large dollops of TLC. Normally she would be happy to provide reassurance, but today she just wanted to get him off the line. As she listened to his latest complaint – his local bookshop not stocking his novel – she jammed the receiver between jaw and shoulder and started sorting through the mess. She balanced books in piles by the desk, swept the trolls into a box, stashed papers and circulars into various trays.
‘Adam, don’t worry, really, I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. Whoops!’ A pile of books fell crashing to the floor. ‘Look, I’ll e-mail the sales rep straight away. Yes, yes, yes, I know. Must go, I’m afraid. Bye, now.’
She threw down the receiver, shuffled the fallen books into a pile then started plucking the Post-it notes off her computer screen.
The phone rang again. ‘Kate, it’s Patrick. Where the
hell
were you?’
Oh my God. How could she have forgotten? She was supposed to have been at that meeting with him and his best-selling crime author! Patrick, the publishing director, was pitching for a new contract and the author had badly wanted reassurance about the publicity side of things.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she gulped, ‘it just slipped my mind. I’ve been out of the office . . . I know, it’s too late, isn’t it. I’m sorry. It’s Susie . . . No, I know, Patrick – yes, I know it’s my fault. Yes. Sorry.’
He slammed down the receiver and she buried her face in her hands, his angry voice still ringing in her ears. If they didn’t win a new deal with the author, he had hissed, it was all down to
her
.
