{"product_id":"seven-days-of-us-isbn-9780451488763","title":"Seven Days of Us","description":"\u003cb\u003eA family can’t escape their secrets when they’re forced to spend a week in quarantine in this “sharply funny” (\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e) novel—an Indie Next and #1 Library Reads Pick!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's Christmas, and for the first time in years the entire Birch family will be under one roof. Even Emma and Andrew's elder daughter—who is usually off saving the world—will be joining them at Weyfield Hall. But Olivia, a doctor, is only coming home because she has to. She's just returned from treating an epidemic abroad and has been told she must stay in quarantine for a week...and so too should her family.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the next seven days, the Birches are locked down, cut off from the rest of humanity, and forced into each other's orbits. Younger, unabashedly frivolous daughter Phoebe is fixated on her upcoming wedding, while Olivia deals with the culture shock of first-world problems. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Andrew sequesters himself in his study writing scathing restaurant reviews and remembering his glory days as a war correspondent, Emma hides a secret that will turn the whole family upside down.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn close proximity, not much can stay hidden for long, and as revelations and long-held tensions come to light, nothing is more shocking than the unexpected guest who's about to arrive....\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eSeven Days of Us\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sharply funny and beguilingly British.”—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You will laugh at hilarious situations and be touched by others, ultimately discovering that the Birch family is basically every family.”—Associated Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Witty and deeply heartfelt, \u003ci\u003eSeven Days of Us\u003c\/i\u003e is an insightful, character-driven look at the real failures, fumbles, and false starts that define family—and why understanding the people closest to us might be the hardest thing in the world.”—Emily Giffin, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] smart, delightfully funny, page-turning debut...Hornak imbues each character with a singularity that underscores her spot-on insight about human nature.”—\u003ci\u003ePublisher's Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Alternately tender and razor-sharp, \u003ci\u003eSeven Days of Us\u003c\/i\u003e will resonate with anyone who regresses the minute they step inside their childhood home.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hornak’s brilliant debut manages to be simultaneously clever, funny, and poignant.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hornak spends time looking through each character's eyes, and readers' sympathies will shift with each change in point of view. The richly defined inner lives of the Birches propel the story as they try to feel their way through their individual crises.”—Shelf Awareness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This slightly dysfunctional brood had me laughing...but a surprising plot twist also reminded me that family always comes through in tough times.”—\u003ci\u003eFirst for Women\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“LOVED it! Warm and humane, funny and sad, with a great, twisty plot, \u003ci\u003eSeven Days of Us\u003c\/i\u003e is absolute pleasure reading from beginning to end. Francesca Hornak is a true talent. Just gorgeous!”—Marian Keyes, international bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Perfect for fans of cozy Christmas films like \u003ci\u003eLove Actually\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Family Stone\u003c\/i\u003e. An emotional but ultimately uplifting holiday story.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “Francesca Hornak is hilariously funny, with characters that jump off the page, grab you, and just won’t let go.”—Rosamund Lupton, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eSister\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “With its wry observations on class, family, and ‘veddy British’ traditions, Francesca Hornak’s absorbing debut sparkles with glints of Nancy Mitford and Julian Fellowes.”—Stephanie Clifford, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eEverybody Rise\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hornak’s wry, masterful portrayal of a family in crisis is filled with flawed and funny characters who will capture—and break—your heart.”—Fiona Davis, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Dollhouse\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Address\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “If you like your families dysfunctional and your novels whip-smart, then Hornak’s delightful debut about a family discovering the unexpected benefits of forced quality time over the holidays will enchant your inner ironist and sentimentalist alike.”—Courtney Maum, author of \u003ci\u003eTouch \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e I Am Having So Much Fun Here Without You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hornak offers a tragicomic holiday tale that’s perfect for fans of family sagas and multiperspective narratives like \u003ci\u003eLove Actually\u003c\/i\u003e.”—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] fantastic debut...The family dynamics, revelations, and role reversals make this exceptional ‘Brit Lit’ a real page turner.”—\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Warm hearted, witty and wise, \u003ci\u003eSeven Days of Us\u003c\/i\u003e is hugely entertaining.”—Saskia Sarginson, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Other Me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Not all debut novels live up to expectations, but this one exceeds them. Hornak's imaginative, nicely-paced, engaging story is one you won't soon forget. At the very least it's a guaranteed escape from your own dysfunctional family.”\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eNJ.com\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“An entertaining mix of pathos and humor.”\u003ci\u003e—The Missourian\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eFrancesca Hornak\u003c\/b\u003e is a journalist and writer whose work has appeared in newspapers and magazines, including \u003ci\u003eThe Sunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eElle\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eMarie Claire\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eCosmopolitan,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eRed\u003c\/i\u003e. She is the author of two nonfiction books, \u003ci\u003eHistory of the World in 100 Modern Objects: Middle-Class Stuff (and Nonsense)\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWorry with Mother: 101 Neuroses for the Modern Mama\u003c\/i\u003e.. 1 .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e December 17, 2016\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Andrew\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Study, 34 Gloucester Terrace, Camden, 4:05 p.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From: Andrew Birch \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To: Ian Croft \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Date: Sat, Dec 17, 2016 at 4:05 p.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Subject: copy Dec 27th\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ian,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Copy below. If this one goes without me seeing a proof, I will be      spitting blood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Best,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Andrew\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e PS: Do NOT give my \"like\" the \"such as\" treatment. It's fucking      infuriating.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e PPS: It is houmous. Not hummus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e THE PERCH, Wingham, Berkshire\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Food: 3\/5 ¥ Atmosphere: 1\/5\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e By the time you read this, my family and I will be under house      arrest. Or, more accurately, Haag arrest. On the 23rd my daughter      Olivia, a doctor and serial foreign aid worker, will return from      treating the Haag epidemic in Liberia-plunging us, her family,      into a seven-day quarantine. For exactly one week we are to avoid      all contact with the outside world and may only leave the house in      an emergency. Should anyone make the mistake of breaking and      entering, he or she will be obliged to stay with us, until our      quarantine is up. Preparations are already under way for what has      become known, in the Birch household, as Groundhaag Week. Waitrose      and Amazon will deliver what may well be Britain's most      comprehensive Christmas shop. How many loo rolls does a family of      four need over a week? Will two kilograms of porridge oats be      sufficient? Should we finally get round to Spiral, or attempt The      Missing? The Matriarch has been compiling reading lists,      playlists, decluttering lists, and wish lists, ahead of lockdown.      Not being a clan that does things by halves, we are decamping from      Camden to our house in deepest, darkest Norfolk, the better to      appreciate our near-solitary confinement. Spare a thought for      millennial Phoebe, who now faces a week of spotty Wi-Fi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Of course, every Christmas is a quarantine of sorts. The      out-of-office is set, shops lie dormant, and friends migrate to      the miserable towns from whence they came. Bored spouses cringe at      the other's every cough (January is the divorce lawyer's busy      month-go figure). In this, the most wonderful time of the year,      food is the savior. It is food that oils the wheels between deaf      aunt and mute teenager. It is food that fills the cracks between      siblings with cinnamon-scented nostalgia. And it is food that      gives the guilt-ridden mother purpose, reviving Christmases past      with that holy trinity of turkey, gravy, and cranberry. This is      why restaurants shouldn't attempt Christmas food. The very reason      we go out, at this time of year, is to escape the suffocating      vapor of roasting meat and maternal fretting. Abominations like      bread sauce have no place on a menu.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Perch, Wingham, has not cottoned onto this. Thus, it has      chosen to herald its opening with an \"alternative festive menu\"      (again, nobody wants alternative Christmas food). Like all      provincial gastropubs, its decor draws extensively on the houmous      section of the Farrow \u0026amp; Ball color chart. Service was      smilingly haphazard. Bread with \"Christmas spiced butter\" was      good, and warm, though we could have done without the butter,      which came in a sinister petri dish and was a worrying brown. We      started with a plate of perfectly acceptable, richly peaty smoked      salmon, the alternative element being provided by a forlorn sprig      of rosemary. The Matriarch made the mistake of ordering lemon      sole-a flap of briny irrelevance. My turkey curry was a curious      puddle of yellow, cumin-heavy slop, whose purpose seemed to be to      smuggle four stringy nuggets past the eater, incognito. We      finished with an unremarkable cheeseboard and mincemeat crme      bržlŽe, which The Matriarch declared tooth-achingly sweet, yet      wolfed down nonetheless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Do not be disheartened, residents of Wingham. My hunch is that      you, and your gilet-clad neighbors, will relish the chance to      alternate your festive menu. We Birches must embrace a week of      turkey sandwiches. Wish us luck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Andrew sat back and paused before sending the column to Ian      Croft-his least favorite subeditor at The World. The Perch hadn't      been bad, considering its location. It had actually been quite      cozy, in a parochial sort of way. He might even have enjoyed the      night in the chintzy room upstairs, with its trouser press and      travel kettle, if he and Emma still enjoyed hotels in that way. He      remembered the owners, an eager, perspiring couple, coming out to      shake his hand and talk about \"seasonality\" and their \"ethos,\" and      considered modifying the lemon sole comment. Then he left it.      People in Berkshire didn't read The World. Anyway, all publicity      et cetera.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The main thing was the bit about his own life. He felt he had made      his family sound suitably jolly. The truth was, he wasn't much      looking forward to a week at Weyfield, the chilly Norfolk manor      house Emma had inherited. He never quite knew what to say to his      older daughter, Olivia. She had a disconcerting way of looking at      him, deadly serious and faintly revolted, as if she saw right into      his soul and found it wanting. And Emma would be in a tailspin of      elated panic all week, at having Olivia home for once. At least      Phoebe would be there, a frivolous counterpoint to the other two.      Sometimes he felt like he and his younger daughter had more in      common than he and Emma-especially now that Phoebe worked in the      media. Hearing about the hopeless TV production company where she      freelanced, and where all the men were in love with her, always      made him laugh. He was about to shout upstairs to Phoebe to ask if      she'd like to help him review a new sushi place when an unread      e-mail caught his eye. It was from a name he didn't recognize,      indicating some unsolicited rubbish from a publicist. But the      subject, \"Hello,\" made him pause. It read:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From: Jesse Robinson \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To: Andrew Birch \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Date: Sat, Dec 17, 2016 at 4:08 p.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Subject: Hello\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dear Andrew,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I understand that this message may come as something of a shock,      but I wanted to connect because I believe you are my birth father.      My late birth mother was a Lebanese woman named Leila Deeba, who I      imagine you met as a reporter in Beirut, 1980. She had me adopted      soon after I was born, and I was raised by my adoptive parents in      Iowa. I now live in Los Angeles, where I produce documentaries,      primarily on health and well-being. I will be in Britain over the      holiday season, researching a project, and I would very much like      to meet you, if you'd feel comfortable with that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yours,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e PS: I'm a big fan of your columns!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Are you all right?\" said Emma, coming into his study. \"You look      like you've seen a ghost.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Really?\" said Andrew. \"I'm fine. Just fine.\" His laptop was      facing away from her, but he shut it anyway. \"I've just filed my      column. And how are you?\" Andrew had always been surprised by his      own ability to sound composed, even genial, when his mind was      reeling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Fab!\" said Emma. \"I look forward to reading it. I'm just nipping      out to John Lewis. I need to get some last things. Well, not last,      but some more things for, um, Olivia's stocking. And I, I should      get some more wrapping paper . . . \" She tailed off, looking over      his head at the clock. Andrew registered that his wife was      speaking too quickly. But shock was still pounding through his      body. She said something about what time she'd be back, and left.      Andrew sat, reading the e-mail over and over again. Here it was,      the voice he had been half dreading, half expecting. He thought      back to that sultry night in Beirut, 1980, the one he had tried to      convince himself had never happened. And then he thought of the      strange little letter that Leila Deeba had written him, eighteen      months ago, which had been forwarded from The World's offices. He      still had it, hidden from Emma. \"My late birth mother was . . .\"      So the glorious, firm-bodied woman he had fucked between hotel      sheets was dead. He stood up and stared out of the rain-flecked      window. \"Frosty the Snowman\" came floating up from the basement      kitchen. How had he reached an age when a woman he had slept with      could be dead-and it wasn't even remarkable? It was a bleak train      of thought, and he forced himself back to the present. What, if      anything, ought he to reply to this man? And, more to the point,      what on earth was he going to tell Emma?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emma\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dr. Singer's Practice, 3rd Floor, 68 Harley Street, 4:59 p.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dr. Singer's waiting room, high above Harley Street, seemed to      have been designed to cushion the blow of bad news. Everything was      soft, carpeted, beige. There was always a plate of untouched      biscuits by the tea and coffee, and piles of soothingly trashy      magazines. Looking at a spread of a soap star's wedding, Emma      wondered whether OK! was kept afloat by private doctors and their      creepy diagnoses. Don't hope, Emma, she kept telling herself. Ever      since childhood she had made the same bargain with fate. If she      wanted one outcome, she had to make herself expect the opposite-to      really, truly expect it. Then, the other outcome would come true      (the one you'd wanted all along). It was like paying      insurance-prepare for the worst, and all will be well. Of course,      when her daughters were afraid, she told them to \"hope for the      best\" and \"cross that bridge when you come to it.\" That was what      mothers were supposed to say. Although only Phoebe confided in      her, these days. If Olivia had any worries, she hadn't shared them      for years. Perhaps, thought Emma, she could draw her older      daughter out over the quarantine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mrs. Birch?\" said the receptionist with the cartoonish lips (did      she drop by the cosmetic surgeon on the ground floor during her      lunch breaks?). \"Dr. Singer's ready for you.\" Emma walked into his      room. It was a grim combination of heavy mahogany furniture and      medical equipment. Behind the curtain she knew there lay a narrow      couch covered by a roll of blue paper, where she'd first shown Dr.      Singer the hazelnut-sized lump in her right armpit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm afraid it isn't good news,\" he said, almost before she had      sat down. \"The biopsy showed that the lymph node we were concerned      about is non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.\" Emma wondered if he had found      this the most effective way to tell people that they were dying.      No beating about the bush, straight out with it before they'd      taken off their coat. He kept talking, explaining that further      tests were needed to determine whether the tumor was \"indolent\" or      \"aggressive.\" Funny to define tumors like teenagers, she thought,      as he moved on to \"treatment options,\" fixing her with his pebbly      eyes. Emma sat nodding as he spoke, feeling disembodied. Why      hadn't she tried harder not to hope? She must have assumed, deep      down, that everything would be fine, and now it wasn't fine at      all. \"As I said, we need to do further tests and wait for those      results before making any decisions, which is likely to be after      Christmas, now,\" said Dr. Singer, \"but either way you'll need to      start treatment in January. OK?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Does cancer wait for Christmas, then?\" said Emma. It was meant to      sound lighthearted, but it came out slightly hysterical.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dr. Singer (no doubt used to patients saying odd things) just      smiled. \"Anything you wanted to ask?\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emma hesitated. \"Just one thing,\" she said. \"My daughter's been      treating Haag in Liberia, and she'll be quarantined with us over      Christmas. Is that a risk, I mean, in my situation?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Haag?\" said Dr. Singer. For the first time she saw him look      ruffled. \"Well, yes, my advice would be that, in view of the      biopsy, you should avoid any risk to your immunity-particularly      something as serious as Haag.\" He shut her file, as if to signal      that the consultation was at an end. \"Have a good Christmas. Try      not to worry.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emma pushed open the door to 68 Harley Street, with all its little      doorbells for different consultants. It was a relief to leave the      hot, expensive hush of the lobby, and be out in the December air.      Across Cavendish Square she could see the reassuring dark green of      John Lewis. She had arranged to meet her oldest friend Nicola      there, after her appointment, because, as Nicola said: \"Everything      is OK in John Lewis.\" Emma had secretly thought that La Fromagerie      in Marylebone would be nicer, but now that the bad news had come,      dear old John Lewis seemed just right. Nicola was the only person      who knew anything about Dr. Singer and the lump-the lump that had      just become cancer. Emma hadn't told Andrew, or the girls, because      there hadn't been anything concrete to tell them, or to worry      about. Usually Emma delighted in department stores at Christmas.      But today, the lights and window displays and people crisscrossing      her path were exhausting. She just wanted to be sitting down. She      had already sent Nicola a text: Bad news, because she couldn't      bear to see her friend's face waiting, poised between elation and      sympathy. It took forever to reach the fifth-floor cafŽ-every time      she got to the top of one escalator she had to walk miles to the      next one. Then they couldn't speak properly for ages, because they      had to push their trays around a metal track, like a school      canteen, asking nice young men for Earl Grey and fruitcake. Nicola      kept a hand on Emma's arm the whole time, as if she were very old,      and kept shooting her sad little smiles. Nicola does love a      crisis, thought Emma, and then felt guilty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At last, they were seated. \"Right,\" said Nicola, \"tell me.\" And as      Emma explained how she was to have more tests tomorrow, which      would come back after Christmas, and would quite likely need      chemotherapy in the New Year, she heard the diagnosis taking shape      as the story of her sixtieth year (Lord, how could she be so      old?). By the time she had been through it several times, her mind      had stopped galloping, and she felt more able to cope. Nicola was      full of fighting talk, promising Emma, as she grasped her hand,      that she could \"beat this thing\" with her friends' and family's      support. Emma swallowed a last mouthful of jammy cake and managed      a smile. \"I'm not going to tell Andrew and the girls until after      the quarantine,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What? Why not? But you must! You can't be shouldering this all      alone!\" Nicola's voice shot up the scale with dismay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I can't. Olivia won't come home if I do. I know it. He said it      was a risk, to be spending Christmas with her. But I have to, Nic.      She has nowhere else to go.\"","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302732452069,"sku":"NP9780451488763","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451488763.jpg?v=1767736390","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/seven-days-of-us-isbn-9780451488763","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}