Excerpt from All the Lonely People by Mike Gayle, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Ashleigh paused to illustrate. She did it so well that for a moment Hubert thought her pupils might have disappeared for good.

"… and say, 'Like she isn't set in her ways… she already hates vegetables,' and then Nan would shrug and say nothing. The thing is, though, Mam was right. I hated vegetables then and I can't stand them now. Hate the things."

She smiled hopefully at Hubert.

"I'm going on, aren't I? I do that. I think it's nerves. In new situations I just start talking and I can't stop. Anyway, I suppose what I'm trying to say is that it's nice to be neighborly, isn't it? And this… well, this is me being exactly that."

She thrust out a hand for him to shake and Hubert noted that her nails were painted in bright glittery purple nail polish that was chipped at the edges. Then from inside the house Hubert heard his phone ringing.

"Me got to go," he said urgently, and without waiting for her response, he shut the door and hurried back to his front sitting room to answer the call.

"Rose?"

"Yes, it's me, Dad. Are you okay? You sound a bit out of breath."

Breathing a sigh of relief, he settled back down in his chair.

"Me fine. Just someone at the door, that's all. But you know me, me dealt with them quickly. No one comes between me and my daughter! So tell me, Professor Bird, what have you been up to this week? And don't leave anything out, me want to hear it all!"

It had been almost twenty years since Hubert's daughter, Rose, had relocated to Australia, and rarely a day went by when he didn't wish that she lived closer. He'd never say this to her, of course; the last thing he wanted was to prevent her from living her dreams. But there were moments, usually when he least expected, when he felt her absence so intensely he could barely draw breath.

Still, she was a good girl, calling every week without fail, and while it wasn't the same as having her with him, it was the next best thing. Anyway, international calls had moved on from when Hubert used to ring his mother back home in Jamaica. Gone were the days of hissing static, crossed lines, and eye-watering phone bills. With today's modern technology, the cost was minimal and the lines so crystal clear it was almost like being in the same room.

Without need for further prompting, Rose told him about the faculty meetings she'd chaired, the conferences in faraway places she'd agreed to speak at, and the fancy meals out she'd enjoyed with friends. Hubert always loved hearing about the exciting and glamorous things she'd been up to. It made him profoundly happy to know that she was living such a full and contented life.

After a short while, Rose drew her news to a close.

"Right then, that's more than enough about me. How about you, Pops? What have you been up to?"

Hubert chuckled.

"Now tell me, girl, why does a fancy, la-di-da academic like you want to know what a boring old man like me has been doing with his days? You a glutton for punishment?"

Rose heaved a heavy but good-natured sigh.

"Honestly, Dad, you're like a broken record! Every single time I call, you say: 'Why you want to know what me up to?' and I say, 'Because I'm interested in your life, Dad,' and you say something like, 'Well, on Tuesday me climbed Mount Everest, and on Wednesday me tap-danced with that nice lady from Strictly,' and then I say, 'Really, Dad?' and then finally you laugh that big laugh of yours and tell me the truth. It's so frustrating! For once, can you please just tell me what you've been up to without making a whole song and dance about it?"

Hubert chuckled again. His daughter's impression of him had been note perfect, managing to replicate both the richness of his voice and the intricacies of the diction of a Jamaican man who has called England his home for the past sixty years.

"Me not sure me like your tone, young lady," he scolded playfully.

Excerpted from All the Lonely People by Mike Gayle. Copyright © 2022 by Mike Gayle. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.