{"product_id":"kiss-me-first-isbn-9780345805423","title":"Kiss Me First","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eThis chilling and intense novel tells the story of a solitary young woman drawn into an online world run by a charismatic web guru who entices her into impersonating a glamorous but desperate woman. Now\u003cb\u003e a series on Netflix.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA sheltered young woman raised by a single mother, Leila often struggled to connect with the girls at school. On an internet community for philosophical and ethical debate, she finally comes into her own, and is flattered when the website’s brilliant, charismatic founder invites her to be part of Project Tess. Communicating only through online channels, Leila immerses herself in Tess’s world. She must learn every detail about this other woman’s life: her mother’s birthday, her favorite songs, her best friends, her first kiss. Because soon, Leila will have to become her. And Tess will disappear. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eFINALIST \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e First Book Prize\u003cbr\u003eBritish National Book Award--New Writers Award\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dark, disturbing, needle-sharp.” —Tana French, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eIn the Woods\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBroken Harbor\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Chilling. . . . Moggach sucks us into the rabbit hole of [a] dangerous obsession with deftly timed twists and memorable characters.” —\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Unnervingly claustrophobic and enormously moving . . . A suspense novel that is classy, frightening and upsetting.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The first thriller to truly tackle the shifting sands of a life lived online. . . . Featuring the most unreliable narrator this side of \u003ci\u003eGone Girl\u003c\/i\u003e. . . . I couldn’t put it down.” —Sam Baker, \u003ci\u003eHarper’s Bazaar\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Chillingly demonstrates the virtual world is scant protection from messy, utterly human emotions.” —\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Smart, absorbing. . . . \u003ci\u003eKiss Me First\u003c\/i\u003e will attract readers with its up-to-the-minute Internet plot, but will keep them through its character-driven focus, psychological depth and fresh narrator. Moggach burrows into these characters’ heads so thoroughly that if anyone could pull off an online impersonation, she could.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Dallas Morning News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gripping. . . . More than just a book about an early 21st-century lifestyle. . . . Lottie Moggach’s mordantly well-observed debut . . . could be the first great novel about the way the internet has become a part of our lives, what it means, and how it has fundamentally altered the way we get along with each other.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Daily Beast\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The story’s suspense will keep you reading, but it’s Leila’s surprisingly emotional journey toward selfhood that will stick with you long after you’ve finished this wonderful first novel.” —Scott Smith, author of \u003ci\u003eA Simple Plan\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Ruins\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Impressive . . . [and] all the more disturbing for its plausibility.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Engaging and suspenseful. . . . A dark psychological thriller about the threat social media poses to our sense of self.” —\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Original and unsettling. . . . Worryingly convincing, \u003ci\u003eKiss Me First\u003c\/i\u003e is a brilliantly twisty thriller that will make you wonder how well you really know your online friends.” —\u003ci\u003eIrish Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A profound examination of the processes of storytelling itself: all characters are in some way telling fictions—to each other and to themselves. Moggach cleverly raises the question: what happens if we start believing our own fictions? . . . [She] infuses this narrative with powerful pathos and poignancy.” —\u003ci\u003eMetro\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLottie Moggach lives in London. This is her first novel.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003ci\u003eExcerpted from the hardcover edition.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eIt was a Friday night, about nine weeks into the project. Tess’s voice  sounded normal, but I could see that she had been crying and her narrow  face was pale. For the first few minutes of the conversation, she leaned  her head back against the wall behind her bed, gaze turned to the  ceiling. Then she righted it and looked straight at the camera. Her eyes  were as I’d never seen them: both empty and terrified. Mum sometimes  had the same look, toward the end.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m scared,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What about?” I asked, stupidly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m  so fucking scared,” she said, and burst into tears. She had never cried  in front of me; in fact, she had told me she rarely cried. It was one  of the things we had in common.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen she sniffed, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and said more clearly, “Do you understand?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Of course,” I said, although I didn’t entirely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked straight into the camera for a moment and said, “Can I see you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt  first I thought she meant, Could we meet up? I started to remind her  that we had agreed that shouldn’t happen, but she cut me off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Switch on your camera.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter a moment, I said, “I think it’s best if we don’t.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I  want to see you,” said Tess. “You get to see me.” She was staring right  at the camera, her tears almost dried up. She gave a small smile and I  felt myself soften. It was hard to resist, and I almost said, Okay,  then, but instead I said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked at me a moment longer. Then she shrugged and returned her gaze to the ceiling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  will be honest here: I didn’t want Tess to see me in case I failed to  meet her expectations. This isn’t rational, I know: Who knows what she  thought I looked like, and what did it matter? But I had examined her  face so carefully, I knew every nuance of her expressions, and I  couldn’t bear the thought that, if I turned on the camera, I might see a  look of disappointment pass over it, however briefly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, still looking at the ceiling, she said, “I can’t do it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Of course you can,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  didn’t speak for more than a minute, and then said,  uncharacteristically meek: “Is it okay if we stop for today?” Without  waiting for an answer, she terminated the call.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI admit that that particular conversation has replayed in my head several times since.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll  I can say is, I said what felt right at the time. She was upset and I  was comforting her. It seemed entirely natural for Tess to be scared.  And when we spoke the next day, she was back to what by that stage was  “normal”—calm, polite, and detached. The incident wasn’t mentioned  again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, a few days later, she looked into the camera and tapped on the lens, a habit she had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do you have everything you need?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had presumed that we would go on communicating right up until the last moment. But I also knew it had to end.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo I said, “Yes. I think so.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  nodded, as if to herself, and looked away. At that moment, knowing I  was seeing her for the last time, I felt a sudden, intense rush of  adrenaline and something akin to sadness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter quite a long pause, she said, “I can’t thank you enough.” And then: “Good-bye.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked into the camera and made a gesture like a salute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Good-bye,” I said, and: “Thank you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why are you thanking me?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I  don’t know.” She was looking down at something, her leg or the bed. I  stared at her long, flat nose, the curve of her cheekbone, the lines  around her mouth as delicate as fallen eyelashes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen she looked up, leaned forward, and turned off the camera. And that was it. Our final conversation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17, 2011\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere is no Internet here, not even dial-up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  didn’t anticipate not being able to get online. Of course I had done my  research, but the commune has no Web site and I could find little  practical information elsewhere beyond directions on how to get here.  There were just useless comments in forums, along the lines of Oh, I  love it, it’s so peaceful and beautiful. I know that communes are places  where people go to get “back to nature,” but I understood that they are  also where people live and work on a semipermanent to permanent basis,  and so assumed there would be some facility to get online. Spain is a  developed country, after all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI understand that Tess had to head  to a remote spot, but three-quarters of the way up a mountain, without a  phone mast in sight—that’s just unnecessary. Of all the places in the  world, why did she choose to spend the last days of her life here?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  admit, though, that the location is not unpleasant. I’ve pitched my  tent in a clearing with extensive views over the valley. The surrounding  mountains are huge and colored various shades of green, blue, and gray,  according to distance. At their feet is a thin silver river. The  farthest peaks are capped with snow: an incongruous sight in this heat.  Now that we’re going into evening, the sky is darkening to a mysterious  misty blue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s a woman here dressed like an elf, with a top  exposing her stomach, and sandals laced up to her knees. Another one has  bright red hair twisted up on either side of her head, like horns. Lots  of the men have long hair and beards, and a few are wearing these  priestlike skirts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost of them, however, look like the people  begging at the cash points on Kentish Town Road, only extremely tanned. I  had thought I might not look too out of place here—Mum used to say I  had hair like a hippie, center parted and almost down to my waist—but I  feel like I’m from a different planet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNobody here seems to do  very much at all. As far as I can see, they just sit around poking fires  and making tea in filthy saucepans, or drumming, or constructing  unidentifiable objects out of feathers and string. There seems to be  little “communal” about it, aside from a collective wish to live in a  squalid manner for free. There are a few tents like mine, but most  people seem to sleep in tatty vans with garish paintings on the side, or  among the trees in shelters constructed out of plastic sheeting and  bedspreads. They all smoke, and it appears obligatory to have a dog, and  no one picks up their droppings. I’ve had to use half of my supply of  wet wipes cleaning the wheels of my suitcase.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs for the human  facilities, I was prepared for them to be rudimentary but was shocked  when directed to a spot behind some trees signposted shitpit. Just a  hole in the ground, with no seat and no paper, and when you look down  you can see other people’s waste just lying there. I had promised myself  that, after Mum, I wouldn’t have dealings with other people’s excrement  and so have decided to make my own private hole in some nearby bushes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt  is, of course, everyone’s prerogative to live their lives in whichever  way they choose, as long as they do not hurt others. But—like this?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBack in London, I felt near certain she had come here. It all seemed to add up. But now I’m starting to have doubts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNonetheless,  I told myself I’d spend a week here making inquiries, and that is what I  shall do. Tomorrow I’ll start showing her photo around. I’ve prepared a  story about how she is a friend who stayed here last summer and whom  I’ve lost track of but believe is still somewhere in the area. It’s not  actually a lie. I just won’t mention that I’m looking for proof of her  death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s almost half past nine now, but it’s still sweltering.  Of course, I had researched the temperature, but I wasn’t fully  prepared for what ninety degrees Fahrenheit feels like. I have to keep  wiping my fingers on a towel to stop moisture from getting into my  keyboard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was even hotter in August last year, when Tess would  have been here. Ninety-five degrees; I looked it up. She liked the  heat, though. She looked like these people, with their sharp shoulder  blades. She might have worn a little top like the elf woman—she had  clothes like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve opened the flap of my tent and can see a  rash of stars and the moon, which is almost as bright as my laptop  screen. The site is quiet now, except for the hum of insects and what I  think—I hope—is the sound of a generator somewhere nearby. I’ll  investigate that tomorrow. Although I have a spare battery for my  laptop, I’ll need power.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou see, this is what I’m going to do while I’m here: write an account of everything that has happened.A Novel","brand":"Anchor","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303471698149,"sku":"NP9780345805423","price":15.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345805423.jpg?v=1767730783","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/kiss-me-first-isbn-9780345805423","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}