From Liane Moriarty, author of the 1 New York Times bestsellers Big Little Lies and Truly Madly Guilty, comes an unforgettable novel defined by her signature sharp wit, page-turning storyline, and lovable and eccentric characters. Sophie Honeywell always wondered if Thomas Gordon was the one who got away. He was the. The unimaginable has happened. The world has been plunged into all-out nuclear war.
Sailing near. Inteligente, divertida, adictiva y con un toque de suspense. Nueve perfectos desconocidos. Un retiro de lujo aislado del mundo.
The first edition of the novel was published in September 18th , and was written by Liane Moriarty. The book was published in multiple languages including English, consists of pages and is available in Hardcover format.
Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator. We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you. Some of the techniques listed in Nine Perfect Strangers may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them.
Whenever they fought she got instant indigestion, and that meant that these days she nearly always had indigestion. Their arguments were like submerged rocks they kept crashing up against. She lay back on the bed and looked at the light fitting. Was that a spider web near the globe? This house was so old and dark and depressing. There were cracks all over the walls, and a kind of damp smell. She turned on her side and looked at Ben.
Now he was leaning dangerously over the balcony railing, trying to see the other side of the house. He cared about that car more than he cared about her. She was going to tell their counsellor that. She felt like it was a really profound, powerful thing to mention, quite significant and telling.
It made her eyes prickle with tears when she thought of it. If the counsellor ever wrote a book about her experience as a marriage counsellor she would probably mention it: I once had a patient who treated his car more tenderly than he treated his wife. She wondered if the counsellor would ask them about their sex life, and if she Jessica assumed she would be a she would be able to hide her surprise when she heard they were down to having sex, like, once a week, which meant their marriage was officially in dire trouble.
The counsellor might automatically assume that she was sexually unskilled or that there was something wrong with her, in a very personal, gynaecological kind of way. Jessica was beginning to wonder that herself. She was obviously prepared to get more surgery even down there or do a course.
Read a book. Improve her skills. She read a lot of self-help books. She Googled. Ben had never read a self-help book in his life. Ben came back inside from the balcony, lifting up his t-shirt to scratch his stomach. He picked up an apple from the fruit bowl and tossed it from hand to hand like a baseball. Like, duh.
She thought it was kind of obvious. Frances had that padded look middle-aged women got. Jessica herself would never allow that to happen. I read it in high school and it was just really. In some ways, it felt like Nathaniel was the first man she ever loved.
He never read fiction. But was that one of the problems in their marriage? Or did it not matter? He could talk about his car with his mates. Ben took a giant bite of the apple. The dentist wanted her to wear some sort of a mouthguard at night to keep her expensive crowns all safe. It was annoying that the better the stuff you got, the less relaxed you could be about it. It was like the new rug in their hallway.
Neither of them could bear to walk on something so astoundingly expensive. They shuffled down the sides and winced when their guests marched straight down the middle in dirty sneakers. We have to work on everything: our minds, bodies and spirits. He put the fan onto cyclonic speed. Did they laugh more before? Ben turned the fan down to a gentler breeze. Jessica removed the pillow from her face, closed her eyes and felt her heart race with fear of something unnamed and unknown.
Ben arrived home just moments later. Lucy was missing. No-one had heard from her. Lucy had turned up in the middle of the night and trashed the house. They were planning an intervention! But they were going to handle this intervention differently from the last intervention; this time it would work.
Lucy was doing well! Lucy was talking about rehab. Lucy was in rehab! Lucy was out of rehab. Lucy had been in another car accident. Lucy was pregnant again. Everyone knew Lucy stole. Just that one word. She wished she could take it back. His face was drawn tight with shame. But it turned out he was right. The robbery had nothing to do with Lucy. She was on the other side of the country at the time. So it was just an ordinary happens-to-lots-of-people house robbery.
Jessica and Ben had both hated the feeling of knowing that someone had walked through their home, sneering, as if browsing through an unsatisfactory shop. It was just an ordinary robbery, except that it ended up changing their lives forever. He stood at the end of the bed, looking down at her.
I was thinking. He smiled as he threw the apple core into the bin from across the room and picked up their welcome pack. Jessica managed to stop herself from grabbing at it and putting it all back in order. She was the one in charge of paperwork. If it were up to Ben they would never file a tax return. He opened what looked like a covering letter. The retreat will begin with a period of silence lasting five days, during which there will be no talking, apart from counselling sessions, no touching, no reading, no writing, no eye contact with other guests or your own companions — what the?
She shrugged, so he kept reading. Sometimes they were fine. Ben read on. A period of nourishing silence and reflection settles the mind, body and soul.
If you must communicate with a staff member, please come to reception and follow the instructions on the laminated blue card. There will be guided meditation sessions — both walking and sitting — throughout each day. Please listen for the bells.
He looked at her. We could talk here in our room and nobody would ever know. Even if it sounds stupid, we should just follow the rules and do whatever they say. Exercise classes. She thought she was going to miss social media more than coffee.
She looked again at the letter. They looked at each other. Neither spoke. Without even talking about it? She should say something. Do something. He was her husband. She could touch him. It seemed so ironic that he could fall out of love with her now, when she had never looked so good. Over the last year she had invested a lot of time and money, and a fair amount of pain, in her body.
She had done everything there was to do: her teeth, her hair, her skin, her lips, her boobs. Everyone said the results were amazing. He must have been faking it all along. Why did he even marry her? Touch me, she thought, and in her head it was an anguished wail.
Please, please touch me. But all he did was stand up and walk back over to the fruit bowl. She was a large woman with a grey buzz cut and the intimidating manner of a prison guard or a hockey coach, not quite the soft-voiced, gentle masseuse Frances had been anticipating. The therapist placed warm hands on her back which seemed to be the size of ping-pong bats.
Was that possible? In fact, she was the opposite: it was like she wanted to get any speaking over and done with as quickly as possible. Is it? I was about to tell you a very interesting story, scary lady. She was improving it with each telling. Silence might tip her over again. How it began. How it ended. Paul Drabble was an American civil engineer she met online. A friend of a friend of a friend.
A friendship that turned into something more. Over a six-month period, he sent her flowers and gift baskets and handwritten notes. They talked for hours on the phone. Sometimes people quoted their favourite lines to her and Frances thought, Really? And then she felt weirdly annoyed with them. He sent her photos of his son, Ari.
He was tall for his age. He loved basketball and wanted to play it professionally. So sad, so poignant, so. Frances was planning to move from Sydney to Santa Barbara. She had her flights booked. If and when it happened, she planned to wear amethyst. Appropriate for a third wedding. There were empty bookshelves waiting for her books. She sent him money.
A vast amount of money. She would have sent double, triple, quadruple — anything to save Ari. And then: terrifying silence. She was frantic. She thought Ari must have died. Then she thought Paul had died. No answers to her texts, her voicemail messages, her emails. It was her friend Di who made the first tentative suggestion. It was just business. He saw a desperate old lady. She wanted to tell him she was real.
The shame she experienced was extraordinary. She had revealed so much of herself to this scammer. How he must have sniggered, even as he somehow responded with sensitivity, humour and perfect spelling.
Oh my God, ladies. That sexless, gentrified word made Frances shudder. Of course, he was not the friend of a friend of a friend. Or not in the real-world way. Frances met up with one of the other women for coffee. The woman was in a far worse state than Frances.
Frances ended up writing her a cheque to help her get back on her feet. Yes, she gave more cash to yet another stranger, but for Frances it was a way of restoring her pride, taking back control, and fixing some of the trail of destruction left by that man.
The cards that accompanied real flowers with fake sentiments. The handwritten letters. She went to shove the folder into her filing cabinet and a sheet of paper sliced open her thumb like the edge of a razor blade. Such a tiny, trite injury and yet it hurt so much. She looked through the hole in the massage table at the floor. Someone had used a sharpie to doodle flowers all over the white plastic toes of her shoes. She needed to talk.
The therapist would just have to listen. Her hands kept moving. Never been robbed. Never been mugged. Nobody has ever laid a hand on me. Her second husband hit her once. He cried. They both knew the marriage was over in that moment.
Poor Henry. He was a good man, but they brought out something terrible in each other, like allergic reactions. Her mind wandered off down the road of her long and complicated relationship history. His had sounded so real. It must have had some truth to it? So says the novelist who makes up relationships for a living.
Of course he could have fabricated his relationship history, you idiot. She kept talking. Better to talk than to think. I was quite deluded. It was like being massaged by a giant-handed ghost. The sharpest knife-point of her humiliation was this: before, if Frances had been asked to pick the sort of person likely to fall for an internet scam, she would have chosen someone like this woman, with her bulky body, buzz cut and questionable social skills.
Not Frances. Was there anything better than a new relationship? Her whole career was based on the wonder of new relationships. The laugh told Frances everything she needed to know. Jan was newly in love. Romance would never be dead for Frances. It took two hours. Frances waited, giving Jan the opportunity to wax lyrical about her new boyfriend. She tried to imagine him for herself. A local country cop. Broad-shouldered, with a heart of gold.
Gus probably owned a dog. A lovable dog. Gus probably whittled. He probably had a tuneful whistle. He probably whistled while he whittled.
But Jan had gone silent on the subject of Gus. After a while, Frances kept talking, as if Jan had actually shown interest.
For the hope. I create fictional characters for a living, and then I fell for one. Maybe she was just embarrassed for Frances. Wait till I get home and tell Gus about this loser. Gus would give a long, low tuneful whistle of surprise and sympathy. It hurt in a glorious, necessary- feeling way. When they need me. Just a shadow. Frances considered asking her about the missing contraband, but how would the conversation progress?
Finally, Jan spoke. It was the theatrical language of movie stars and motivational speakers. If she went too long without writing she lost her mind. What if she was never published again?
Why would anyone publish her again? She chose another spot for knuckle-digging. She wanted more information before this creepy silence began. She sounded a little robotic now. She was remembering some of those angry online reviews. A bell rang once. It reverberated with the melodic authority of a church bell, clear and pure.
The director of Tranquillum House, Maria Dmitrichenko — Masha to everyone except the tax office — sat alone in her locked office at the top of the house as the third bell rang. Even from all the way up here she could sense the silence fall. She bowed her head towards her favourite fingerprint- shaped whorl in the surface of her white oak desk. She was on her third day of a water-only fast, and fasting always heightened her senses.
The window of her office was open and she breathed in great gusts of clean country air. Why was she thinking about this? It was because her ex-husband had emailed yesterday, for the first time in years. And yet she did remember everything about that first day, after those endless flights Moscow, Delhi, Singapore, Melbourne ; how she and her husband had looked at each other in the back of that little van, marvelling at all the lights, even in the middle of the street.
It was bizarre the way they did this! So friendly! But then — it was Masha who first noticed this — when they turned their heads, their smiles shrank to nothing. Smile, gone. You could see the polite smile as a wonderful or terrible thing. Her ex-husband smiled back. Masha did not. Nu naher! She did not have time for the past right now. She had a health resort to run! People were depending on her. The silence would give her guests clarity.
It would frighten some of them, they would resist, and people would break the silence, accidentally or deliberately. Couples might whisper in their beds, but that was fine. The silence would set the right tone going forward.
Some guests treated this place like summer camp. Middle-aged women got overexcited at not having to cook dinner each night. All that high-pitched chatter. She had learned the funny ways of her guests.
Now she took precautions. Security cameras around the property. Regular monitoring. Bags were checked. All for their own good. She thought being stranded was the worst thing that could happen. She was wrong. Mira needs to get home for the holidays.
But when an incoming blizzard results in a canceled layover, it looks like Mira might get stuck at the Philadelphia airport indefinitely. And then Harper, Mira's glamorous seatmate from her initial flight, comes to the rescue. Harper and her three friends are renting a car, and they can drop Mira off on the way home. But as their trip begins, Mira discovers her fellow travelers aren't friends like she thought—they're total strangers. And every one of them seems to be hiding something dangerous.
Soon, Mira is in a panic. The roads have gone from slippery to terrifying. People's belongings are mysteriously disappearing. Someone in the car is clearly lying If she wants to make it home alive, she'll need to uncover the truth about these strangers before this nightmare drive turns fatal.
Then comes that dreaded moment: He thinks they should have a talk. Braced for the worst, Ellen is pleasantly surprised. A Penguin Book Club Pick The thrilling novel from the 1 New York Times bestselling author of First Comes Love raises the daunting question: In the midst of a scandal that threatens a perfect life, how far are you willing to go to protect the ones you love? Nina Browning married a third-generation Nashvillian, enjoys a newly lavish lifestyle thanks to the sudden success of her husband's tech business and has a son, Finch, who just got accepted to Princeton.
Thomas Talone is a single dad, works multiple jobs and has a daughter, Lyla, who was recently accepted to Nashville's most prestigious private high school on a scholarship. They couldn't be prouder. Then scandal strikes, and the worlds of these very different families collide. Lyla passes out at a party, drunk and half-naked. Finch snaps a picture, types out a caption and click--sends it out to a few friends.
The photo spreads quickly, and soon heated reactions bubble throughout the already-divided community. Before long, the families find themselves in the midst of an ethical war as their community takes sides, throws blame and implodes.
The gray area between right and wrong grows thick, and Nina and Tom are forced to question every assumption they've held about love and family loyalty. Emily Giffin tells a riveting story of characters who face impossible choices--but emerge to live a life truer to themselves than they ever had before. A masterful follow-up to the New York Times bestseller All the Missing Girls—the gripping story of a journalist who sets out to find her missing friend, a woman who may never have existed at all.
Unable to find friends, family, a paper trail or a digital footprint, the police question whether Emmy Grey existed at all. And mark Leah as a prime suspect.
Fighting the doubts of the police and her own sanity, Leah must uncover the truth about Emmy Grey—and along the way, confront her old demons, find out who she can really trust, and clear her own name. The regulars are telling stories to while away the dark hours, when the door bursts open on a grievously wounded stranger.
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