Excerpt from Seven Days of Us by Francesca Hornak, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Olivia realizes she is daydreaming—it's five past three and her family will be waiting. She puts the call through and suddenly, magically, there they are crammed onto her screen. She can see that they're in the kitchen at Gloucester Terrace, and that they have propped a laptop up on the island. Perhaps it's her hangover, but this little window onto Camden seems so unlikely as to be laughable. She looks past their faces to the duck egg cupboards and gleaming coffee machine. It all looks absurdly clean and cozy. Her mother, Emma, cranes toward the screen like a besotted fan, touching the glass as if Olivia herself might be just behind it. Perhaps she, too, can't fathom how a little rectangle of Africa has appeared in her kitchen. As she withdraws, Olivia's father, Andrew, offers an awkward wave-salute, a brief smile replaced by narrowed eyes as he listens without speaking. He keeps pushing his silver mane back from his face (Olivia's own face, in male form), frowning and nodding—but he is looking past her, at the Buffalo Hotel. Her mother's large hazel eyes look slightly wild, as she fires off chirpy inquiries. She wants to know about the food, the weather, the showers, anything—it seems—to avoid hearing about Haag. There is a lag between her voice and lips, so that Olivia's answers keep tripping over Emma's next question. Her sister, Phoebe, hovers behind their parents, holding Cocoa the cat like a shield. She is wearing layered vests that Olivia guesses are her gym look, showing off neat little biceps. At one point, she glances at her watch. Olivia tries to tell them about the cockerel that got into the most infectious ward and had to be stoned to death, but her mother is gabbling: "Have a word with Phoebs!" and pushing Phoebe center stage. "Hi," says Phoebe sweetly, smiling her wide, photogenic smile and making Cocoa wave his paw. Olivia can't think of anything to say—she is too aware that she and her sister rarely speak on the phone. Then she remembers that Phoebe has just had her birthday (is she now twenty-eight or nine? She must be twenty-nine because Olivia is thirty-two), but before she can apologize for not getting in touch, Phoebe's face stretches into a grotesque swirl, like Munch's Scream. "Olivia? Wivvy? Wiv?" she hears her mother say, before the call cuts off completely. She tries to redial, but the connection is lost.

Chapter 1
December 17, 2016

Andrew

The Study, 34 Gloucester Terrace, Camden, 4:05 p.m.

Andrew sat back and paused before sending the column to Ian Croft—his least favorite subeditor at The World. The Perch hadn't been bad, considering its location. It had actually been quite cozy, in a parochial sort of way. He might even have enjoyed the night in the chintzy room upstairs, with its trouser press and travel kettle, if he and Emma still enjoyed hotels in that way. He remembered the owners, an eager, perspiring couple, coming out to shake his hand and talk about "seasonality" and their "ethos," and considered modifying the lemon sole comment. Then he left it. People in Berkshire didn't read The World. Anyway, all publicity et cetera. The main thing was the bit about his own life. He felt he had made his family sound suitably jolly. The truth was, he wasn't much looking forward to a week at Weyfield, the chilly Norfolk manor house Emma had inherited. He never quite knew what to say to his older daughter, Olivia. She had a disconcerting way of looking at him, deadly serious and faintly revolted, as if she saw right into his soul and found it wanting. And Emma would be in a tailspin of elated panic all week, at having Olivia home for once. At least Phoebe would be there, a frivolous counterpoint to the other two. Sometimes he felt like he and his younger daughter had more in common than he and Emma—especially now that Phoebe worked in the media. Hearing about the hopeless TV production company where she freelanced, and where all the men were in love with her, always made him laugh. He was about to shout upstairs to Phoebe to ask if she'd like to help him review a new sushi place when an unread e-mail caught his eye. It was from a name he didn't recognize, indicating some unsolicited rubbish from a publicist. But the subject, "Hello," made him pause. It read: