{"product_id":"the-things-we-do-to-our-friends-isbn-9780593497180","title":"The Things We Do to Our Friends","description":"\u003cb\u003eINTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER • She’s an outsider desperate to belong, but the cost of entry might be her deepest secret in this intoxicating debut about a clique of dangerously ambitious students, “perfect for fans of dark academia stories like \u003ci\u003eThe Secret History \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eIf We Were Villains\u003c\/i\u003e” (\u003ci\u003eCosmopolitan\u003c\/i\u003e).\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“One of the best suspense debuts I’ve read in years . . . Heather Darwent delivers one artful tease after another until you are completely lost in this labyrinth of clever women and obsessive friendship.”—Julia Heaberlin, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWe Are All the Same in the Dark\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEdinburgh, Scotland: a moody city of labyrinthine alleyways, oppressive fog, and buried history; the ultimate destination for someone with something to hide. Perfect for Clare, then, who arrives utterly alone and yearning to reinvent herself. And what better place to conceal the secrets of her past than at the university in the heart of the fabled, cobblestoned Old Town?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Clare meets Tabitha, a charismatic, beautiful, and intimidatingly rich girl from her art history class, she knows she’s destined to become friends with her and her exclusive circle: raffish Samuel, shrewd Ava, and pragmatic Imogen. Clare is immediately drawn into their libertine world of sophisticated dinner parties and summers in France. The new life she always envisioned for herself has seemingly begun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then Tabitha reveals a little project she’s been working on, one that she needs Clare’s help with. Even though it goes against everything Clare has tried to repent for. Even though their intimacy begins to darken into codependence. But as Clare starts to realize just what her friends are capable of, it’s already too late. Because they’ve taken the plunge. They’re so close to attaining everything they want. And there’s no going back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reimagining the classic themes of obsession and ambition with an original and sinister edge, \u003ci\u003eThe Things We Do to Our Friends\u003c\/i\u003e is a seductive thriller about the toxic battle between those who have and those who covet—between the desire to truly belong and the danger of being truly known.“Quick, smart, and satisfying.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] hair-raising debut.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePopSugar\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Darwent has a great career as a thriller writer ahead of her.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] tantalizingly sinister debut thriller . . . Readers will be on the edge of their seats with this gripping story of codependency and obsession, and fans of Kate Lowe’s \u003ci\u003eThe Furies \u003c\/i\u003eand J.T. Ellison’s \u003ci\u003eGood Girls Lie \u003c\/i\u003ewill devour this—and eagerly await more from Darwent.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Perfect for fans of dark academia stories like \u003ci\u003eThe Secret History \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eIf We Were Villains\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eCosmopolitan\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Clare, an impoverished art history student, is taken under the wing of the glamorous, slightly alarming Tabitha and her friends Imogen and Ava. What they want with Clare (who has her own reasons for keeping a low profile) is gradually shown to be a grisly program of revenge and profit. Such a narrative depends on carefully measured reveals, portents and hints. . . . The plot takes on ever more convoluted turns and the relationships between the girls fracture under the weight of secrecy.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dark and gripping. . . a compulsive tale of feminist revenge, toxic friendships, and deadly secrets.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Independent\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Things We Do to Our Friends \u003c\/i\u003eis one of the best suspense debuts I’ve read in years. Heather Darwent’s prose is startlingly lovely, like fine, dark silk shivering on your skin. She delivers one artful tease after another until you are completely lost in this labyrinth of clever women and obsessive friendship.”\u003cb\u003e—Julia Heaberlin, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWe Are All the Same in the Dark\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A heady, tense, intoxicating tale that lurches between the miseries of obsession and the thrills of revenge.”\u003cb\u003e—Elisabeth Thomas, author of \u003ci\u003eCatherine House\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A mesmerizing tale of obsessive friendship . . . dark, twisted, and deliciously menacing. I loved everything about it.”\u003cb\u003e—Emma Rous, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Au Pair\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Menacing and suspenseful with drippings of Donna Tartt.”\u003cb\u003e—Victoria Selman, author of \u003ci\u003eBlood for Blood\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A brilliantly unsettling and memorable protagonist.”\u003cb\u003e—Rosemary Hennigan, author of \u003ci\u003eBlood for Blood\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Smart, sophisticated, seductive, \u003ci\u003eThe Things We Do to Our Friends\u003c\/i\u003e seamlessly blends \u003ci\u003eGone Girl\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003ePromising Young Woman\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—S. J. Watson, author of \u003ci\u003eBefore I Go to Sleep\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Compelling, twisty and surprising, with an intriguing and complex heroine.”\u003cb\u003e—Phoebe Wynne, author of \u003ci\u003eMadam\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What a book. Power, privilege and the most toxic of friendships. All set against the stunning backdrop of Edinburgh. Stunningly written. Thriller fans, run don't walk to get this when it comes out in January. It's a must read.”\u003cb\u003e—Carys Jones, author of \u003ci\u003eThe List\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eHeather Darwent\u003c\/b\u003e was raised in Yorkshire and moved to Scotland to study at the University of Edinburgh. \u003ci\u003eThe Things We Do to Our Friends\u003c\/i\u003e is her debut novel.\u003cb\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEdinburgh\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve decided to look back and make some kind of sense of it all, and the initial idea of starting to put the pieces together in one place was because Tabitha’s mother asked me to write it all down so she had something of Tabitha’s—a tangible record of her life for the extended family—but I couldn’t quite bring myself to cobble together a fictional account where we were normal students who did normal things, so I ended up giving her a vague excuse, and she didn’t ask again. But the idea wouldn’t die down once she’d brought it up, and I thought, why not? Why shouldn’t I go back over what happened for my own purposes?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen the question was, where does the tale begin, and although there are other places that may seem more logical, September 2005 feels right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy arrival.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow very dramatic that sounds! But it felt dramatic at the time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeptember is a month that has a special anticipation associated with it. As the leaves turn and the nights darken. The first time you open a book, cracking the spine and smoothing down the pages so they can’t spring back up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s a month that means fresh beginnings, and that only happens a few times in life, when the slate is wiped clean and the story is ready for you to begin and tell it how you wish. The first day of a job when you’re cautious and rule-abiding, or with a new partner when you share appealing parts of yourself to test the reaction. At university, it is even more of an opportunity. Nobody knows who you are; there are no expectations or preconceptions. How you answer each question and how you position yourself is entirely up to you. But it needs to begin somewhere, and for me it was Edinburgh, at Waverley Station.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was ready to move, so desperate to leave Hull for good, but it was hard not to feel a little discouraged when I stepped off the train and strode out into the city. I was expecting post-summer blustery days with the warmth still in the air, but the weather was particularly bad that year. I thought of my granny and what she’d say in that scornful tone: “It’s just a few hours away, Clare. I don’t know why you expected it to be so different.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow gray the Old Town was. It was magnificent, but there was an underlying sense of squalor below it all. Steps led to alleys, weaving with possibility, where you could just as easily find a grand square as you could a dead end and a seagull gnawing on scraps of cold chips. I remember the magnitude of scale when I walked along to Queen Street and stared down to the New Town. The views went all the way to the Firth of Forth, a glimpse of water, but the winds were quick and soon a dampish fog obscured it all, like a bundle of laundry pulled dripping from the washing machine, then pinned up. I ignored the weather. I was determined to stay optimistic about the whole thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEnough wandering. I had a map printed, tucked in my bag, showing where I was staying. My new home was under a mile away, so I decided to walk. It was a battle through the streets alone with two suitcases, which contained everything I owned, and on the way I encountered a group of confused tourists. They blocked the entire road and craned their heads to take pictures of St. Giles’ Cathedral with bulky cameras hanging from their necks. Then there were the other students who bumbled alongside harried commuters. What a mix of people to get lost in!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was a bubble of nervous energy, and I could have screamed out loud, right there in the middle of the street, but I held it in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone was starting a new life in that first week and there were structures to help us, because we were still children, untethered from our parents with no idea of how to live. There were social activities, stilted mixers and society nights, but during those early days, I struggled to fit in with the people I met.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’d speak. They’d ask me questions and listen to my responses intently, almost running them through a checklist in their heads to see if I was like them. State school or private? Funny, a joker? Pretty? Boyfriend (yawn) back at home? Horsey? Medic? Sporty? Then there would be a pause, and I’d see their eyes dart behind me, looking for the next person to suss out, because it was hard to place me in a category. I didn’t make jokes because I don’t like them, and I often laughed too late or too quickly in the group—a forced, chaotic giggle even to my own ears. The conversations always petered out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a clear case of not fitting in, and I was out of practice when it came to socializing with people my own age, so I told stories alone in my room, testing them on myself in front of the mirror—light anecdotes and stilted introductions that I tried to pull off breezily, but they sounded rehearsed, of course, my voice awkward and tense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI felt observed in those first weeks. It sounds paranoid to say so, but it’s true. I felt eyes on me when I walked and would look back over my shoulder, but I saw nothing of note. I thought of what my granny would have said if I’d voiced my concerns: “You’re in Edinburgh! Why would anyone be interested in what you’re doing? For heaven’s sake . . .” And she’d have been right because not much happened at the start. The days were heavy with administration, form after form, and I brandished my chewed pen for each one. Sign here, sign here, now just here where we’ve put the “x” for you. Do you have a GP? Where’s that accent from? Would you like to pay extra for the insurance, or set up a direct debit, perhaps? Just a quick picture of you for this card. No, no, don’t worry about reading the terms and conditions, nothing important there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a wave of dull paperwork. I made decisions when prompted, but after a while I stopped caring. I put my name down for lectures: An Introduction to Dutch Art; Garden Design of the Eighteenth Century. With little thought, I signed away my whole year on an impressive-sounding title, my name, today’s date, and it felt like I was “getting things done,” whizzing through the days in a blur, buying books and batteries and extension cords.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe memories that come back sharper and sweeter are when I think of the bar. That tight knot of anticipation high in my chest as I turned up for my first shift, the slosh of amber triple sec and tequila when I learned how to make a margarita, squeezing fresh limes into glasses as the juice stung where the skin around my nails was broken, leaving my hands red and raw. The bar was where it all began for me. First with Finn and then, later, with them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinn was a sign that things might go my way. He came about because of my more significant problem: money. A distinct lack of it. That was easily solved. I decided I’d work in a bar and that would be an answer to some of my problems. A job would give me a task to do and a way for people to understand me—I’d be a girl who works in a bar, who pours drinks and stays out too late. Perhaps I’d make friends with art students covered in tattoos and Australians with deep tans. It seemed like a good plan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d heard about a place in passing that was looking for staff. It was hidden away down an alleyway in the Grassmarket, squeezed in between sandwich shops and newsagents, so you could walk past and barely notice it was there. I pushed open the glass doors, even though it seemed like the place was closed, and made eye contact with a tall man in a checked shirt who froze behind the bar when he saw me, as if I was an intruder. He had an ice bucket in hand and his brow was furrowed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Can I help you?” he asked in a tone that wasn’t friendly but wasn’t unfriendly. I took a deep breath and broke into a smile, one that hurt my cheeks it stretched so far. I hoped I was being inviting; I hoped my smile said, I’m easy and happy, but the skin felt too tight at the sides of my mouth and it probably looked more like a grimace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man smiled back at me. It reached his eyes and small crinkles came out around them. I asked him about the job, and he wiped his hand down the side of his jeans and took my CV. He had a soft Scottish accent that I liked straightaway. I gave the flesh of my tongue a sharp bite to remind myself how to draw out my vowels and clip my syllables. I’d watched television for hours each day in Hull to smooth out my accent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe asked me what experience I had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not much,” I conceded. “But I’m a quick learner.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay.” He raised an eyebrow and grinned. It seemed a little suggestive, but not seedy. I tried to work out his age, which I decided was around late twenties.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So, no experience with cocktails? I mean, we’re a cocktail bar, which, to be honest, is a total pain. Endless mojitos, crushing ice for hours, all that kind of thing. We can teach you all that, of course.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, no cocktails.” I kept it short. There was no point in mentioning I didn’t think I’d ever drunk a cocktail before either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe seemed to be a man of okays. And I didn’t mind that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA moment of silence, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable. He looked at my CV again, which was a jumble. I didn’t quite know what to do, so I tapped my foot while I waited.","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305077428453,"sku":"NP9780593497180","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593497180.jpg?v=1767741830","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-things-we-do-to-our-friends-isbn-9780593497180","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}