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

"I'm afraid it isn't good news," he said, almost before she had sat down. "The biopsy showed that the lymph node we were concerned about is non-Hodgkin's lymphoma." Emma wondered if he had found this the most effective way to tell people that they were dying. No beating about the bush, straight out with it before they'd taken off their coat. He kept talking, explaining that further tests were needed to determine whether the tumor was "indolent" or "aggressive." Funny to define tumors like teenagers, she thought, as he moved on to "treatment options," fixing her with his pebbly eyes. Emma sat nodding as he spoke, feeling disembodied. Why hadn't she tried harder not to hope? She must have assumed, deep down, that everything would be fine, and now it wasn't fine at all. "As I said, we need to do further tests and wait for those results before making any decisions, which is likely to be after Christmas, now," said Dr. Singer, "but either way you'll need to start treatment in January. OK?"

"Does cancer wait for Christmas, then?" said Emma. It was meant to sound lighthearted, but it came out slightly hysterical.

Dr. Singer (no doubt used to patients saying odd things) just smiled. "Anything you wanted to ask?" he said.

Emma hesitated. "Just one thing," she said. "My daughter's been treating Haag in Liberia, and she'll be quarantined with us over Christmas. Is that a risk, I mean, in my situation?"

"Haag?" said Dr. Singer. For the first time she saw him look ruffled. "Well, yes, my advice would be that, in view of the biopsy, you should avoid any risk to your immunity—particularly something as serious as Haag." He shut her file, as if to signal that the consultation was at an end. "Have a good Christmas. Try not to worry."

Emma pushed open the door to 68 Harley Street, with all its little doorbells for different consultants. It was a relief to leave the hot, expensive hush of the lobby, and be out in the December air. Across Cavendish Square she could see the reassuring dark green of John Lewis. She had arranged to meet her oldest friend Nicola there, after her appointment, because, as Nicola said: "Everything is OK in John Lewis." Emma had secretly thought that La Fromagerie in Marylebone would be nicer, but now that the bad news had come, dear old John Lewis seemed just right. Nicola was the only person who knew anything about Dr. Singer and the lump—the lump that had just become cancer. Emma hadn't told Andrew, or the girls, because there hadn't been anything concrete to tell them, or to worry about. Usually Emma delighted in department stores at Christmas. But today, the lights and window displays and people crisscrossing her path were exhausting. She just wanted to be sitting down. She had already sent Nicola a text: Bad news, because she couldn't bear to see her friend's face waiting, poised between elation and sympathy. It took forever to reach the fifth-floor café—every time she got to the top of one escalator she had to walk miles to the next one. Then they couldn't speak properly for ages, because they had to push their trays around a metal track, as if they were queuing for school dinner, asking nice young men for Earl Grey and fruitcake. Nicola kept a hand on Emma's arm the whole time, as if she were very old, and kept shooting her sad little smiles. Nicola does love a crisis, thought Emma, and then felt guilty.

At last, they were seated. "Right," said Nicola, "tell me." And as Emma explained how she was to have more tests tomorrow, which would come back after Christmas, and would quite likely need chemotherapy in the New Year, she heard the diagnosis taking shape as the story of her sixtieth year (Lord, how could she be so old?). By the time she had been through it several times, her mind had stopped galloping, and she felt more able to cope. Nicola was full of fighting talk, promising Emma, as she grasped her hand, that she could "beat this thing" with her friends' and family's support. Emma swallowed a last mouthful of jammy cake and managed a smile. "I'm not going to tell Andrew and the girls until after the quarantine," she said.

Excerpted from Seven Days of Us by Francesca Hornak. Copyright © 2017 by Francesca Hornak. Excerpted by permission of Berkley Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.