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From the Sunday Times bestselling author ‘Devastating, deceptive and darkly funny. Classic Cannon’ Sarah Winman ‘A compellingly crafted, darkly funny and compulsive read, full of twists – and twists on twists – that keeps you guessing until the last page… a joy and a triumph’ Rachel Joyce ‘Cannon is so attuned to other people’s stories…
a chronicler both of the human condition and the quotidian details which speak to who we are’ Guardian ‘Original, macabre and the reveal of the twist made me laugh with shock and delight. Never less than intriguing, it had me holding my breath!’ Marian Keyes ‘A stupendous novel… complicated, dark, funny and very human’ Fern Britton ‘Entertaining and dark’ Stylist ‘I literally put the light on in the middle of the night in order to carry on reading it.
Compelling, sinister, brilliantly written, it is a complete triumph’ Katie Fforde ‘Joanna Cannon creates a world that is so real, so parochial & stifling you can feel it. Then adds in a killer. Glorious’ Jane Fallon ‘Jo’s writing is as delicate and precise as tapestry and Linda is a character you’ll never forget’ Jill Mansell ———————————— A NICE, NORMAL HOUSE Linda has lived around here ever since she fled the dark events of her childhood in Wales.
Now she sits in her kitchen, wondering if this is all there is – pushing the Hoover round and cooking fish fingers for tea is a far cry from the glamorous lifestyle she sees in the glossy catalogues coming through the door for the house’s previous occupant. A NICE, NORMAL HUSBAND Terry isn’t perfect – he picks his teeth, tracks dirt through the house and spends most of his time in front of the TV. But that seems fairly standard – until he starts keeping odd hours at work, at around the same time young women start to go missing in the neighbourhood.
A NICE, NORMAL LIFE… If Linda could just track down Rebecca, who lived in the house before them, maybe some of that perfection would rub off on her. But the grass isn’t always greener: you can’t change who you really are, and there’s something nasty lurking behind the net curtains on Cavendish Avenue…
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