The first chapter is yours...

Exclusive taster of my next novel

One month today, my 17th novel The French Resistance Hotel will be out in the world.

To celebrate, here’s an exclusive preview - you can’t read this anywhere else!

I absolutely loved writing this novel - it’s a sweeping war story, full of danger and deception, an epic romance and a reminder of how brave the French people were in their secret war against the fascist invaders.

I’m endlessly fascinated by WW2, plus my partner Clem is French and translated a big chunk of an obscure book on the Resistance of the Jura region for me, bless him. I’ve dedicated the novel to Clem and his people.

🥲❤️

So, it’s a book that’s very close to my heart. If you enjoy the extract, I’d be so happy if you’d pre-order a copy so it’ll arrive on publication day. I hope you love this novel as much as I loved writing it.

Before we dive in, here’s a bit more about the story…

On the border between Nazi-occupied France and Switzerland sits a small hotel. Inside, the staircase marks the divide between the two countries. For some, this staircase will become the difference between life and death...

France, 1940: Eloise arrived at the Hotel Cordier several years earlier, in the eastern town of Sainte-Béline, straddling the frontier between Switzerland and France, looking for an escape.

But when the Nazis invade, everything changes.

Trapped under occupation, Eloise finds herself drawn to the local resistance - and to André, its charismatic leader. André is determined to use the hotel's unique position to save as many refugees fleeing persecution as he can.

It doesn't take long before the Germans start closing in. Facing the threat of discovery and the shadows of her past, Eloise must decide how much she is willing to risk to save innocent lives. Even at the cost of her own...

I cannot express how utterly in love with this cover I am!!

So. without further ado, here’s the opening of The French Resistance Hotel, exclusively revealed to you, my dear newsletter readers…

PROLOGUE

The city of Nice, Alpes-Maritime, south-east corner of France

June 1938

It was golden hour. The sun was low, the sea and sand bathed in an unearthly glow. The sky above the beach was a patchwork of cloud and cornflower blue. Towards the east, the weather was changing the sky to swathes of gunmetal grey. Eloise watched it. Though it seemed far away, it wouldn’t be long before they were pelted with rain. She ought to go. Sylvestre would be there soon.

She ran her fingers through the sand beside her, warm and dry on the surface, damp and grainy beneath. She thought of the English beaches she’d visited with her mother, the south coast of England, its ice creams and fairgrounds. Would she ever go again, now that her mother was gone?

She wasn’t going to let her grief sweep over her again, not now. She didn’t want to think about the past. But then, she didn’t much want to think about the present either, about what was happening, right now, inside her body.

She stood up quickly. Time to move. She pulled on her cotton skirt and blouse over her damp bathing suit, then, carrying her sandals loosely in one hand, letting them swing and tap her thigh as she walked, she paced across the sands to the seafront path. Slipping on her sandals, she went home quickly through the streets to her mother’s small apartment, now hers alone. She nodded and smiled at the caretaker at the entrance, then took the steps two at a time to the door on the second floor. A cosy flat, just right for two.

Her father had died before they moved there, so he’d never seen it. Her mother had been gone for nine months now and still Eloise hadn’t done anything with her belongings. She couldn’t bear to. Her mother’s clothes still hung in her closet. While they were there, it was as if her mother was still there too, just having stepped out for a moment, to pop to the bakery for chocolatines. Even her father’s books were on the shelf, though they hadn’t been read for years, lined up beside her mother’s. Hugo and Verne for him, Dickens and Austen for her.

They met in the Great War, he an injured French serviceman, and medical student before the war, she the English nurse that tended to him. Eloise would follow in her footsteps, when she finished her medical training in just over a year. Eloise had been brought up bilingual, speaking English with her mother and French with her father. She was raised to feel she was a special mixture of the best of both cultures. Her parents’ meeting was the stuff of romance books. Eloise wondered if she’d ever have a romance that pure, that perfect.

Maybe she did. Maybe it was with Sylvestre. She certainly loved him, adored him with an intensity she’d never known before in her life. He was the only thing that had kept her going after she lost her mother. Whenever he could get away and spend hours with her, he filled their time with activity, so that she couldn’t stop for a moment to remember her grief. And he was certainly romantic, buying her flowers, sweet treats, that silk scarf . . . she shuddered suddenly, remembering his anger when she had left it in his car. His panic at the prospect of his wife finding out about them.

No time to dwell on that now. She had to wash her hair, prepare herself. He was due that evening and he liked her to be ready. As she ran a bath, she heard the storm come, the rain pelting against the windowpanes. But it had passed before the bath was filled. The sun shone after it, throwing bright squares on the bathroom floor. She climbed into the warm water, took the soap and scrubbed herself thoroughly. Sylvestre didn’t like sand. He wouldn’t want to find a grain of it on her.

Getting out, she gently towelled her light brown hair. It wouldn’t take long to dry completely, as it was cut in a bob, just below her ears. He liked it curled, but she wouldn’t have time for that. She hoped he wouldn’t mind. She wanted everything to be just right, for him to be pleased with her, for she was worried about how he was going to take the news. She felt a flutter of fear. He had a temper. And what she had to tell him . . . well, it wasn’t exactly part of the plan: a baby. She was carrying his child. But he’d always said he’d leave his wife. Maybe this will be the push he needs, she thought. Or maybe it’ll push him over the edge. What if he lashes out, like he did over the scarf? She hadn’t meant to leave it in his car. He’d accused her of doing it deliberately, but she hadn’t. She’d put a cold compress on her black eye and bruised cheek after. She’d been able to cover it with foundation at work. Matron had spotted it though and asked her what clumsiness she’d got herself into now, and she’d agreed, she was such an oaf sometimes, opening a cupboard door too quickly like that and bashing herself in the face.

But surely a baby was good news. He’d be happy, wouldn’t he? He always told her they’d make beautiful babies. She put on her yellow polka-dot dress. He loved that one. It had lots of little buttons all the way down the front. He liked to slow things down, open them one at a time and watch her face as he did so. She brushed her hair again in the mirror. It was still a little damp. Maybe she should go for a brisk walk outside to let the wind dry it, or stick her head out of the kitchen window, which looked out over Nice, the sea just visible between the buildings, a strip of sparkling blue on the horizon. Was there time?

Then came his knock on the door. Never mind. She glanced at herself in her mother’s full-length mirror, strips of mother-of-pearl gleaming in the wooden frame. She’d have to do. She trotted to the door and opened it. There he was, Sylvestre, ten years older than her, thirty to her twenty. His hands were in his pockets as he grinned at her. A crisp white shirt rolled up to the elbows, braces, grey slacks, his jacket slung over his shoulder, fedora shading his eyes. Effortlessly stylish and timelessly handsome.

‘I like that dress,’ he said, coming inside, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her in close. He kissed her briefly, then stepped back, gave her a look, the once over. He approved. ‘I like the little buttons.’

‘I know you do. I put it on for you.’

‘Good girl.’

That was a promising start. He was in an affable mood. That would help. He draped his jacket over a chair and took off his hat. His black hair was slicked back with pomade, not a strand out of place.

‘I’d like to take a snap of you in that dress. And out of it.’

She didn’t want him to take photographs of her again. She was still ashamed of the time he’d persuaded her to take her top off with only some of her mother’s silk scarves draped across her to preserve her dignity. He’d said the film was exposed and none of the pictures had come out. She’d been so grateful for that.

‘I’d rather it was just you and me and nothing between us,’ she said, and smiled.

He smiled too and took her hand, then led her over to the table where she and her mother used to eat their meals. He put both hands on her waist, easing her down, his knee between hers, his eyes hooded with desire. She knew what was coming next.

‘I’ve something to tell you, darling,’ she said.

‘Not now,’ he whispered, kissing her neck.

‘No, really, I need to tell you. Or I’ll lose my nerve.’

He stopped. He looked down at her and his face had changed. ‘What is it then? Hurry up.’

He stood up straight, leaving her half on, half off the table. She stood up too, watching him pull a carton of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit up a smoke, testily, taking a long drag and blowing it out with a huff.

‘Well? I haven’t got all damn night.’

‘It’s good news,’ she said. ‘Really, it is.’ She smiled and reached out to touch him.

He narrowed his eyes and edged back, just out of her reach, his cigarette pinched between thumb and forefinger, its white smoke swirling in spirals, obscuring the air between them.

‘What the hell have you done now?’

Thanks so much for reading, dear story addicts. See you soon for more storytelling musings…