I picked up my first Philippa Gregory novel at a second hand book store one summer in New Zealand, after a visit to the dentist in the hope that one horrible experience would not follow another.
While I care about British History as little as I care about geography, something in the synopsis fascinated me. It had none of the stiff-lipped snobbery but instead a delicious rebellion. Of course it helped that the book was  ‘The Other Boleyn Girl’!
So that summer had me devouring the books with glee.
Quite by accident, at another unlikely place, the Book Fair in Brussels I came across another Philippa Gregory only   this time there were no royals and no history in sight. Instead the seemingly innocuous ‘The little House’ tells a rather chilling story. It is nothing new and halfway through the book You guess the inevitable end however, and I cannot emphasize this enough
the writing keeps you riveted. The only other author, and she  is really unparalled, who can tell a spine chilling tale and not bother with happy endings is Daphne du Maurier.
After this and Gravity I made the stupid mistake of starting Harlan Coben the opening sentence of which likens the taste of his mother’s baking to urinal Cake. Left much the same taste in my mouth.

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