I am so happy to be hosting an extract from this wonderful book on the blog tour! Make sure to check out the book after reading, as it is so fabulous 🙂

‘Here we are, miss. Miss?’

I startle awake in the back seat of the car, the jetlag already taking its toll less than two hours after landing in London. ‘Sorry – I must have fallen asleep.’

‘Quite all right, miss.’

The driver, an Indian man in a smart black suit and aviator sunglasses, steps out of the sleek black Mercedes and opens my door, gesturing at the six-storey Victorian building behind him. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘After you.’

My eyes crawl up the building’s façade, which is pale grey limestone adorned with ornate balusters, corbels and carved stone wreaths. A large wrought-iron gate covers the front entryway, its black spindles ornamented with shimmering gold leaves. A window box filled with petunias sits above a gold plaque that reads ‘Hampden House’, part

of the address Poppy sent me when she confirmed all of my arrangements.

I grab my carry-on and step out of the car, making my way to the front gate as the driver removes my two suit­cases from the trunk. I press the bell for the building manager and take a deep breath as I look around, sizing up my new neighbourhood. Hampden House takes up the entire block on this stretch of Weymouth Street, in a section of London called Marylebone, a name I’m still not entirely sure how to pronounce. (Maree-le-bone? Mar-le-bone? Marill-bone? I have no idea.) Across the street, a cherry-red wine shop called Nicolas advertises a special on cabernet sauvignon, the deal scrawled in swooping cursive on a big black chalkboard. On the street perpendicular to Weymouth, smartly dressed people bustle in and out of a chic grocery-cum-restaurant named Villandry, whose sage-coloured awnings stretch across the sidewalk. On this crisp May morning, a few men and women sit at small tables outside, sipping coffee and nibbling bits of flaky croissant and slices of buttered toast.

‘Hello?’ says a man’s voice, through the intercom.

‘Hi, this is Kelly Madigan. Poppy Tricklebank sent me?’

‘Ah, yes. Just a moment.’

He hangs up as the driver wheels my suitcases up behind me, and a second later, a stocky man with wild brown hair and stubbly jowls opens the front gate.

‘Hello,’ he says, reaching out to shake my hand. ‘I’m Tom, the building manager.’

‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Your flat was serviced this morning. The keys are in my office, so if you’ll follow me . . .’

I reach for my suitcases and notice the driver standing behind them. Crap – a tip. I forgot to get money from the ATM and have nothing to give him.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, fumbling for my wallet. ‘I only have dollars.’

The driver raises his hand. ‘Miss Tricklebank has taken care of everything. Have a lovely stay.’

He heads back to his car, and I follow Tom into Hampden House, whose foyer is lined with thick ruby carpeting, the walls stark white. Tom grabs one of my suitcases and leads me into his office on the ground floor. The small room is stuffed with books, magazines and, as far as I can tell, junk – empty boxes, candy wrappers, torn sheets of bubble wrap, a bicycle wheel. A scuffed desk sits in the back corner, crammed between the wall and a bookcase, the surface covered with papers, a desktop computer and a clunky black telephone.

He grabs a small key ring off his desk. ‘Right. This is the key to the front gate, which locks automatically behind you. If you forget your key, you can call my office between the hours of eight and five during the week, and I will let you in. On Saturdays, you can reach me between nine and noon. Outside those hours . . . well, you’re buggered, I’m afraid. But sometimes if you ring one of the other flats, someone will let you in.’

His words come at me fast and furious, with a husky English accent, many of the terms – ‘serviced’, ‘buggered’ – foreign to my American ears.

He holds up the second key. ‘This is the key to your flat, which is just down the hall. If you lose either of these keys, the replacement fee is forty-five pounds and a bottle of

wine.’ He smirks. ‘Kidding about the wine.’ Then he winks and cups his hand to his mouth conspiratorially. ‘But not really.’

He hands me the set of keys. ‘I have an extra key if you plan to have visitors. A boyfriend, perhaps? Or a family member?’

‘Nope. Just me.’

‘In that case, one will do. Please don’t make copies. For security reasons, anything to do with keys must go through me.’

‘Got it.’

He wheels one of my suitcases towards the door. ‘Right. Off we go.’

I follow Tom down the hallway, passing a wooden con­sole lined with unopened mail, above which hangs a large gilded mirror. Tom slows his step as we reach the door to flat two.

‘Here we are,’ he says. He sticks the key in the lock and jiggles it back and forth. ‘The lock can be a bit sticky. Ah. There we go.’ He gestures inside. ‘After you.’

I walk through the doorway into a small, carpeted entry area. To the left lies a small living room, with parquet floor­ing, a black vinyl couch, a red armchair, a wooden coffee table, and a small wooden dining table surrounded by four chairs. The entryway to the kitchen sits just beyond the dining table, the door propped open with a wooden wedge.

Tom wheels my case into the living room and deposits it next to the couch. ‘Right. Living room here. Kitchen there. Washing machine in the kitchen. And if you’ll follow me this way . . .’ He heads back towards the front door and continues along the carpeting down a small hallway.

‘Bedroom here. Bathroom there. Water heater can be a bit dodgy so it’s best to keep showers brief. I don’t recommend using the bath.’

I inch along the carpet and peek into the bathroom, which features a black-and-white tiled floor, a pedestal sink and a claw-foot tub-and-shower combination.

‘What’s that cord hanging from the ceiling?’ I ask, point­ing above the toilet.

‘The loo flush.’ He yanks on the cord, and there’s a loud whoosh.

‘Ah. Got it.’

Tom turns back towards the front door, and I follow him into the entryway. ‘The flat is serviced on Thursdays between nine and eleven, unless you say otherwise. If you require any more cleaning, please let me know, and I can arrange it for an additional fee. Oh, and Miss Tricklebank sent over a hamper, which I’ve left in the kitchen.’

‘A hamper? Like for laundry?’

Tom looks at me quizzically. ‘No. For eating.’

I quickly realize this is yet another linguistic Britishism with which I am unfamiliar so, instead of pressing the issue, I simply nod and say, ‘Right. Of course.’

Tom has one last look around the flat and claps his hands together. ‘Sorted. If you need anything, I’ll be in my office until five.’

‘Thanks so much,’ I say.

‘Cheers.’

He leaves and closes the door behind him, and I head for the kitchen, where I find a large wicker basket wrapped in cellophane sitting on the counter. ‘Oh, a gift basket,’ I say out loud.

I quickly untie the silky ribbon at the top and peel back the cellophane. Beneath it, I find a pile of teas and snacks, along with a note:

Kelly,

Welcome! Here are a few essentials to get you started. The mobile has already been topped up. Please turn it on as soon as you arrive.

Best,

Natasha

I rummage through the basket and find a shiny black smartphone, which I power on, as per Natasha’s (or, if I had to guess, Poppy’s) instruction. Five minutes later, the phone rings, its jingle filling the kitchen as I study the vari­ous boxes of organic herbal teas.

‘Hello?’

‘Ah, brilliant, you’ve found the phone,’ Poppy’s voice trills in my ear. ‘How was your flight?’

‘Long,’ I say. ‘But otherwise fine. Thank you so much for the gi—’ I clear my throat. ‘The hamper. It’s lovely.’

‘Yes, well, we figured you wouldn’t have anything in the house, so these are things at the very minimum we thought you would need.’

I scan the basket, which, among other things, contains a pot of wild boar pâté, a jar of organic Manuka honey, a package each of wild Scottish smoked salmon and venison salami, a tube of geranium and neroli hand lotion, and a lambswool hot-water-bottle cover. ‘Yeah, it looks like you covered the basics.’

‘I assume you’ve seen the ATM card Natasha has taken

out in your name.’ I spot a Barclays Bank card sitting beside the salami. ‘The PIN is attached. The cash from that account is meant for cookbook-related purchases only. Groceries, equipment, things like that. It is not for personal use.’

‘Understood.’

‘Good. Now, on to some business. Natasha wanted to have you round for supper tonight. Does seven o’clock suit?’

‘I – oh. I didn’t realize I’d be meeting her so soon.’

‘She wants to get to work straight away. This book is very important to her.’

‘I understand.’ I rub my eyes. ‘I’m just a little worn out. I didn’t sleep much on the plane.’

‘Supper won’t take long. Natasha is very busy, as I’m sure you understand.’

‘I do.’

‘Good. We’ll see you at seven, then. Oh, and if you decide to bring flowers – which of course you will – they must be white, and the stems must be trimmed to exactly six inches.’

‘Okay . . .’

‘And whatever you do, do not mention Matthew Rush. Do you understand? Under absolutely no circumstances.’

‘I . . . Sure.’

‘Good. We’re in agreement. See you at seven.’

She hangs up abruptly, and as I stare dumbly at the phone, I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.