Emily Taylor

Eleanor discovered her father’s affair entirely by chance. That afternoon she’d skipped school

On a brisk Monday morning in central London, the kind that slices through scarves and makes even the

The Inherited Cottage “How can you possibly decide to do this?” her daughter asked, bewildered. “

That smell of fresh roses at the wedding still gets me. The starched white tablecloths, crystal glasses

It felt distinctly brisk in London that Monday morning, the kind of chill that seeped right through wool

In the corridor of a women’s clinic, an elderly woman sat on a bench. Beside her was a slender girl

Right, so get this – never understood why Emily’s luck with fellas was so rubbish.

Then a jolt shattered my waxen paralysis—champagne coursing down my dress like liquid ice—as Penelope’s

Right, so listen to this… nobody in Larkfield village could figure out why Emily Bishop was having

Honestly pet, you wouldn’t believe what happened with Oliver last week. He didn’t come home again. “