Where we live, on the north coast of Spain, you see van-life travellers all year round — couples doing the long slow trip along the coast, the kind of trip I did myself once, back when I was the right age for it. (There are apparently two broad ages for sleeping in vans — couples in their twenties, in beaten-up converted panel vans, and retired couples in super pristine motorhomes. I sit in the middle, being considerably closer to the latter in age, but still unable to afford anything other than the battered young person version.)
Anyway, a while back I took the dog down to our nearest beach — lonely and empty most of the year — and there was a young couple in the carpark with a battered converted style van. He was sat at a camp table repairing a coffee pot with a Germanic air of competence. She was on a skateboard, long blond hair, practicing her carves down the empty tarmac. And something about watching them — or more honestly, something about noticing the way I was watching them, half-thinking about having been young once myself — snagged. I wondered what they thought I was doing: whether I was looking at the surf, or studying them, and if so why. And I remembered the vague sense of vulnerability and threat you feel when you’re staying in a van, in a place you don’t know. Far from home, alone. And then I thought: I kind of know the answer to that, I’ve had a lifetime of it. And it’s a great setting for a story.
It ended up being one of the most fun I’ve ever written. But for various reasons I finished it well over a year ago, and had almost forgotten it was coming. But here it is: my new thriller, Perfect Stranger, published on 19th August. The carpark scene is actually in the novel, more or less exactly as it happened — though you’ll have to read it to find out why it matters.
Here’s the cover. The forest isn’t there just because it looks creepy. The book is the story of a van trip, and important parts of it take place in the endless pine forests of south-west France — the same forests as the photo above, which I’ve gone back to summer after summer for decades — and, rather less cosily, the mountain forests of Kosovo. If you want to know how they connect, can I gently direct you to the pre-order links?
It nearly wasn’t called Perfect Stranger, incidentally. As it was being written I thought of it as The Follower — but I got outvoted, on the grounds that it sounded like a book about social media (which it touches on, but nobody needs more social media in their lives), so it took a new name that sits closer in tone to Little Ghosts.
You can preorder it now, if you’re the organised sort:
And if you’re the reviewing sort — Amazon, Goodreads, a blog, a strongly worded book club — it went up on NetGalley today, which means you can request a copy and read it a month before everyone else. Early reviews matter more than authors like to admit, so if that’s you: thank you, genuinely.
That’s all for today, but I will update soon on the progress of our (attempt at making) a TV show: The Writeoff, and news of the final book in the Erica Sands series too (now finally titled The Lies.). But surely one unexpected much overdue book is plenty for one day. Particularly as we’re all going to busy enjoying watching England winning the world cup at last. Right?
Gregg
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