When Lily rents a cottage in the seaside village of Steerborough to research the life of famous architect Klaus Lehmann, she’s quickly entranced by the beautiful landscape and soon begins to question the hectic London world she inhabits with preoccupied lover Nick.

Uncovering the depth of Lehmann’s passion, not just for his work, but for his wife, Lily finds herself seduced into a new life by neighbour Grae, a man she barely knows. And she realises she must make a choice, between a past she thought she knew and a future much less certain …

‘Beautifully written and utterly gripping, evocative and seductive. A haunting and compelling read with lots of twists and turns’
 Daily Express

‘Extraordinary, beautifully written. Resonates with history, but it’s Freud’s ability to evoke love – in all its confusing ramifications – that really makes this book unmissable’ 
Marie Claire

‘Esther Freud’s best book yet’ 
Louis de Bernières

‘Radiant, kind-hearted, well-made. As with all the best works of fiction, it lingers’ 
Guardian

‘An elegant book about love and its disappointments. Freud’s most mature and ambitious novel to date’ 
Daily Telegraph

‘Fantastic, wonderful. Freud’s best yet’ 
Harpers and Queen

‘A novel of great subtlety and depth.  Beautifully controlled, it releases its secrets with remarkable delicacy'
Deborah Moggach

‘A subtle and moving examination of the aftereffects of war, with a lovingly evoked sense of place’
Emily Perkins

Folded into the next letter was a plan of Lehmann’s room. He had his own notepaper now with his name and title – Architekt – printed large across the top.  Under the window is a table, and on the right of this table are my drawing things.  In the middle is my writing case, and on the left are my inkpot and the silver box with your lock of hair.  I shall then have to make do with their company until I can home to you.  Don’t be sad, don’t cry.  I hesitate to say I told you to be careful, not to rush around, and I shan’t say it.  Or even think it.  But rest now, and wait, and I’ll be home soon to look after you. I know a child is the one thing you must want but don’t forget that you’ve got me.
Lily searched hungrily for the next letter, examining the postmarks for 1932, for June.
Next to the picture of you on my table, a dark red carnation is standing in a narrow vase. Just as you love them, it is admiring you.  But you look sad, and I’m trying to make your lovely eyes a little happier.  Last night I awake, thinking about our plans for Palestine, and all the difficulties involved in settlement and travel.  You must bear the possibility of this in mind, my love, because the time is coming when we will have to find somewhere else to go.
Lily folded the letter, the cream of the paper, the grains watery as silk, and as she slid it into its envelope she pressed it to her nose.  There was the sweet, sour smell of tobacco, the dry dustiness that threatened to make her sneeze, and she wondered if this was Lehmann’s smell, sealed in a capsule, or more likely the smell of a cupboard in North London where the other Lehmann had stored them in their carrier bag through all the years.