The Pink House

About the Author Catherine Alliott is the author of seventeen bestselling novels including My Husband Next Door, A Rural Affair, One Day in May, The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton, and A Cornish Summer and Behind Closed Doors. She lives with her family in Hertfordshire. Catherine Alliott THE PINK HOUSE Contents Cover About the Author Title Page Dedication Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Epilogue Acknowledgements Copyright v 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 316 317 318 319 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328 329 330 331 332 333 334 335 336 337 338 339 340 341 342 343 344 345 346 347 348 349 350 351 352 353 354 355 356 357 358 359 360 361 362 363 364 365 366 367 368 369 370 371 372 373 374 375 376 377 378 379 380 381 382 383 384 385 386 387 388 389 390 393 Cover Frontmatter Contents Begin Reading For Bim 1 Tucked away in a drawer in my mother-in-law’s London flat, and presumably somewhere equally private in my father-in-law’s seaside cottage, I imagine there is a legal document filled with the reasons why the pair of them decided to divorce two months ago, well into their seventies. I wondered, as I finally found the postbox next to the turning and abruptly swerved right, if those irritations might not seem rather petty and inconsequential now? Given the fallout Hugh and I were grappling with? And that if someone had sat them down and explained how divorce would sour what remained of their lives – or if they’d somehow been able to glimpse the future – might they not have reconsidered? Still be together? As I pulled into the pub car park, half an hour late, grabbing my phone and bag, I realized that some might say that person should have been me, given that the people who by rights should have done it were totally incapable. The family. They’d simply made vague noises about it all being terribly difficult, and Mum and Dad never taking a blind bit of notice of anything they said, then, avoiding my eye and looking awkward, gone back to their books, or their music, or their art, relieved that difficult conversation was over and hopefully Emma was happy. I hurried on through the panelled bar and into the restaurant where I saw Jane, sitting at a table by the window. She looked only mildly amused as I flew across the room, collapsing dramatically into the seat opposite her. I was dying for a pee but knew this wasn’t the moment. ‘Ah, the late Emma Petridis,’ she drawled. ‘Sorry,’ I gasped. ‘Sorry sorry sorry. That bloody postbox. I swear they move it or something.’ ‘Oh, they do, every time. They know you’re coming, you see, and Postman Pat sneaks out and puts it on the corner of a different lane. Are you drinking?’ ‘Definitely. Forty minutes on the M3 with my father-in-law on the blower on famously fizzy form would turn anyone to drink. But just a spritzer, please,’ I said, looking up with a smile, as our elderly landlord materialized beside us. Ron greeted me, recognizing me as the other half of the friendship duo who’d been coming here for years, and after much commiserating about the traffic, bustled away to get my drink and ‘the usual’, a salade Niçoise apiece. ‘So.’ Jane leaned in, her lips twitching. ‘No longer our halfway house, eh? Soon to be abandoned for a pub on the Downs, or even your vast ancestral farmhouse kitchen.’ She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to raiding the Petridis cellar.’ I knew she was pissed off about permanently being kept waiting, but her untypically brittle tone made me anxious. ‘Do you think we’re acting with indecent haste? Moving in?’ ‘We?’ She raised her eyebrows archly. ‘What’s Hugh got to