Genre Fiction
![Katherine Faulkner - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_katherine_faulkner.jpg)
Greenwich Park
"A twisty, fast-paced" (The Sunday Times, London) debut thriller, as electrifying as the #1 New York Times bestseller The Girl on the Train, about impending motherhood, unreliable friendship, and the high price of keeping secrets.
In this "gloriously tangled game of cat and mouse that kept the twists coming until the very last moment" (Ruth Ware, #1 New York Times bestselling author), Helen's idyllic life-handsome architect husband, gorgeous Victorian house, and cherished baby on the way-begins to change the day she attends her first prenatal class.
There, she meets Rachel, an unpredictable single mother-to-be who doesn't seem very maternal: she smokes, drinks, and professes little interest in parenthood. Still, Helen is drawn to her. Maybe Rachel just needs a friend. And to be honest, Helen's a bit lonely herself. At least Rachel is fun to be with. She makes Helen laugh, invites her confidences, and distracts her from her fears.
But her increasingly erratic behavior is unsettling. And Helen's not the only one who's noticed. Her friends and family begin to suspect that her strange new friend may be linked to their shared history in unexpected ways. When Rachel threatens to expose a past crime that could destroy all of their lives, it becomes clear that there are more than a few secrets laying beneath the broad-leaved trees and warm lamplight of Greenwich Park.
In this "gloriously tangled game of cat and mouse that kept the twists coming until the very last moment" (Ruth Ware, #1 New York Times bestselling author), Helen's idyllic life-handsome architect husband, gorgeous Victorian house, and cherished baby on the way-begins to change the day she attends her first prenatal class.
There, she meets Rachel, an unpredictable single mother-to-be who doesn't seem very maternal: she smokes, drinks, and professes little interest in parenthood. Still, Helen is drawn to her. Maybe Rachel just needs a friend. And to be honest, Helen's a bit lonely herself. At least Rachel is fun to be with. She makes Helen laugh, invites her confidences, and distracts her from her fears.
But her increasingly erratic behavior is unsettling. And Helen's not the only one who's noticed. Her friends and family begin to suspect that her strange new friend may be linked to their shared history in unexpected ways. When Rachel threatens to expose a past crime that could destroy all of their lives, it becomes clear that there are more than a few secrets laying beneath the broad-leaved trees and warm lamplight of Greenwich Park.
Readers Top Reviews
jenny beresford
Absolutely amazing book. Could not put this down. Having a baby i can only read when they sleep so using my free time with this book was well worth it. Looking forward to more from this author.
J Crooksjenny ber
Just finished this and absolutely loved it - a real page turner, and stayed up far too late one night to finish it, as I couldn't put it down! Really enjoyed the way the characters developed and the plot unfolded. Whilst I (thankfully) don't know any 'Rachels,' I think most people have experienced that uncomfortable situation where someone compels you to do something you really don't want to do. Also made me feel like I really want to go and visit Greenwich Park itself now, felt like she really brought the area (which I don't know at all) to life! Highly recommend!
ditchlingreaderKi
Such hype, such tantalising reviews - I fell for it all yet again. But sure enough, we're into the same old present-tense narrative ('I sip,' 'I glance,' 'I drive') delivered by featureless characters. I could not tell the three narrators apart and had to keep checking to find out who was narrating. As for editing - does nobody care what errors the author makes? Page One - somebody is found guilty in a criminal court and 'the hammer sounds.' What hammer? a gavel? there is an actual website devoted to laughing at the wrongful use of hammers/gavels in English courts of law. They are not used. AT ALL. Why doesn't the author know this? Why don't the editors know this? So I am put off straight away. Nevertheless I admit that I found the plot engaging as the story went along - until the absolutely ridiculous unravelling of the plot. The last few chapters were a complete waste of my reading time. I think that the author fed ideas into a computer and allowed it to do the rest. I think I shall steer clear of so-called psychological thrillers from now on - even if they are rated 'addictive'. - Or perhaps especially if they are so rated: how can a novel be addictive? Does that mean you keep rereading it? I certainly shan't read this stuff again.
SharonWilliam de
Katherine Faulkner’s debut novel Greenwich Park follows Helen Trope and her family (her husband Daniel, brother Rory and sister in-law Serena) as a mysterious woman, Rachel, worms her way into their lives and tries to destroy them. Helen and Daniel are expecting their first child in a few weeks, after years of heartbreak from many miscarriages. When Helen attends her first prenatal class she meets Rachel, a young, single pregnant woman. Rachel and Helen could not be any more different. Where Helen is quiet, shy, and excited about becoming a mother, Rachel is loud, smokes and drinks and does not seem all that excited about having a baby. Despite their differences, Helen is drawn to Rachel and a fast friendship is formed. But their friendship is soon falling apart, as Rachel’s behavior becomes unsettling. After a heated argument with Helen, Rachel goes missing. As the police investigate, it becomes clear that Rachel meeting Helen was not by chance. Rachel had an ulterior motive, and she was threatening to expose secrets Helen’s family has been keeping. While the story centered around Helen, and I did like her for the most part, her friend Kate was my favorite character. She is a reporter who is currently reporting on a rape case, and it is while she is working on this case that she discovers another rape case years ago that took place at the same college that Helen, Daniel, Rory, and Serena attended. As she digs deeper, she learns some disturbing facts about the case. I also really liked how she was there for Helen after Rachel disappeared and she even started investigating Rachel’s disappearance on her own. Kate’s digging into Rachel’s past turns up some disturbing facts and unearths secrets that Helen’s family was hoping would stay buried. As I said, I did like Helen for the most part, but there were a few times that she annoyed me. Helen was too trusting and naïve in my opinion. There was one point in the story when Rachel showed up at Helen’s house on the night of her and Daniel’s anniversary. She was upset and looked like she had been abused so Helen let her stay the night (rightfully so), but one night turned into a couple of weeks. Rachel pretty much took over Helen’s house and all I could think of is ‘Why are you letting her walk all over you?” I did enjoy trying to figure out what Rachel was up to. I liked the mystery about her and trying to piece things together. This book did have lots of twists I did not see coming and an ending that left me satisfied. Unfortunately though, for me the book did seem to drag at points. Despite the slow pace of the book, I couldn’t wait to find out what happened to Rachel and why she targeted Helen and her family. All in all, I thought Greenwich Park was a solid debut and look forward to reading more from Katherine Faulkner. 3 ½ stars
Short Excerpt Teaser
1. Helen Helen
AT THE TOP OF the beer-stained carpet, a taped sign on the door reads National Childbirth Trust. The doorknob feels like it might fall off if I turn it too hard. Inside there is a semicircle of chairs. A flip chart. Trestle tables with juice and biscuits. The sash windows are jammed shut.
Three other couples are here already. I am the only one on my own. We smile politely at each other, then sit in silence, too hot and uncomfortable for small talk. One bearded husband tries to yank a window open, but after a few attempts, sits down with a defeated shrug. I smile back sympathetically, fanning myself with the baby first-aid leaflet I found on a chair. We teeter like bowling pins, our swollen bellies resting on our laps, arching our backs, our knees apart, grimacing.
As the room fills, I glance at the clock on the wall. Past six thirty. Where are they? I keep looking at my phone, waiting for the flash of response to my messages. But nobody replies.
I'd peeled away from the office early, wanting to get here on time. I hadn't been the only one. The air-conditioning has been broken for days. By this afternoon the place had been half empty, just a few desk fans still whirring limply into the flushed faces of middle-aged men.
When I picked up my bag and flicked my screen off, I had glanced at Tom, but he'd been hunched on a call to building services, complaining about the temperature for the third time that day. I'd tried to catch his eye with a sort of awkward half wave, but he'd barely acknowledged me, gesturing me away with a sideways glance at my belly, his other hand still clutching the phone to his ear. I think he'd forgotten today was my last day.
Unable to face the slow suffocation of the Tube, I'd decided to walk instead. The glare had been blinding. Heat bounced off pavements and crosswalks, shimmered between cars and buses. Horns honked in sweaty frustration. It is all anyone is talking about, the heatwave. No one can remember a summer like it. We are constantly reminded to stay in the shade, carry a bottle of water. It hasn't rained for weeks. Shops are selling out of fans, ice packs, garden umbrellas. There is talk of a garden hose ban.
I decided to cut across the park, between the Observatory and the Royal Naval College. The hazy light seemed to soften the edges around everything. Office workers were spread out on the yellowing grass, shoes kicked off, ties loosened, sunglasses on. They were drinking gin and tonics from cans, sharing Kettle chips, speaking slightly too loudly to each other, the way people do after a few drinks. It had felt like walking past a party, one I hadn't been invited to. I had to remember not to stare. It can be hard not to stare at happy people. They are mesmerizing somehow.
It was hot like this the summer we graduated from Cambridge. We used to punt down the river, the four of us. Serena and me sunbathing. Rory punting. Daniel sorting the drinks out, his pale skin reddening in the heat. We'd veer into banks, get tangled in curtains of weeping willow, the sky cloudless, the sunlight catching sequin-bright on the clear waters of the Cam. It felt as if the summer would go on forever. When it ended, I feared we would lose the closeness we felt back then. But we didn't. Rory and Serena came to live in Greenwich, on the other side of the park. Daniel went to work with Rory at the family firm. And now, there's our babies, due just two weeks apart.
The course leader is here now. She jams the door open with a folded beer coaster, then picks up a sticky label and writes her name on it with a thick green marker: SONIA. She presses the label onto her chest, then dumps a faded shopping bag and some Tesco grocery bags next to the flip chart. A whiskery braid runs almost the length of her spine.
"Right," says Sonia. "Shall we start?"
She begins a practiced monologue about labor, pain relief, and Caesareans, one eyelid flickering during the embarrassing parts. Occasionally she is forced to raise her voice over a crash of pots and pans, or a burst of expletives, from the pub kitchen on the floor below.
After she has been speaking for a few minutes, I glance down at my phone screen again, just as a message flashes up from Daniel. I open it. Meeting only just finished, he says. Heading home now. Train gets in at 10. He is so sorry again about the class, says again that he wishes he could be there with me. He'll make it up to me, he says.
I know he would be here if he could, that he is gutted to have had to let me down. That this last-minute crisis meeting just came at a terrible moment. At the same time, I can'...
AT THE TOP OF the beer-stained carpet, a taped sign on the door reads National Childbirth Trust. The doorknob feels like it might fall off if I turn it too hard. Inside there is a semicircle of chairs. A flip chart. Trestle tables with juice and biscuits. The sash windows are jammed shut.
Three other couples are here already. I am the only one on my own. We smile politely at each other, then sit in silence, too hot and uncomfortable for small talk. One bearded husband tries to yank a window open, but after a few attempts, sits down with a defeated shrug. I smile back sympathetically, fanning myself with the baby first-aid leaflet I found on a chair. We teeter like bowling pins, our swollen bellies resting on our laps, arching our backs, our knees apart, grimacing.
As the room fills, I glance at the clock on the wall. Past six thirty. Where are they? I keep looking at my phone, waiting for the flash of response to my messages. But nobody replies.
I'd peeled away from the office early, wanting to get here on time. I hadn't been the only one. The air-conditioning has been broken for days. By this afternoon the place had been half empty, just a few desk fans still whirring limply into the flushed faces of middle-aged men.
When I picked up my bag and flicked my screen off, I had glanced at Tom, but he'd been hunched on a call to building services, complaining about the temperature for the third time that day. I'd tried to catch his eye with a sort of awkward half wave, but he'd barely acknowledged me, gesturing me away with a sideways glance at my belly, his other hand still clutching the phone to his ear. I think he'd forgotten today was my last day.
Unable to face the slow suffocation of the Tube, I'd decided to walk instead. The glare had been blinding. Heat bounced off pavements and crosswalks, shimmered between cars and buses. Horns honked in sweaty frustration. It is all anyone is talking about, the heatwave. No one can remember a summer like it. We are constantly reminded to stay in the shade, carry a bottle of water. It hasn't rained for weeks. Shops are selling out of fans, ice packs, garden umbrellas. There is talk of a garden hose ban.
I decided to cut across the park, between the Observatory and the Royal Naval College. The hazy light seemed to soften the edges around everything. Office workers were spread out on the yellowing grass, shoes kicked off, ties loosened, sunglasses on. They were drinking gin and tonics from cans, sharing Kettle chips, speaking slightly too loudly to each other, the way people do after a few drinks. It had felt like walking past a party, one I hadn't been invited to. I had to remember not to stare. It can be hard not to stare at happy people. They are mesmerizing somehow.
It was hot like this the summer we graduated from Cambridge. We used to punt down the river, the four of us. Serena and me sunbathing. Rory punting. Daniel sorting the drinks out, his pale skin reddening in the heat. We'd veer into banks, get tangled in curtains of weeping willow, the sky cloudless, the sunlight catching sequin-bright on the clear waters of the Cam. It felt as if the summer would go on forever. When it ended, I feared we would lose the closeness we felt back then. But we didn't. Rory and Serena came to live in Greenwich, on the other side of the park. Daniel went to work with Rory at the family firm. And now, there's our babies, due just two weeks apart.
The course leader is here now. She jams the door open with a folded beer coaster, then picks up a sticky label and writes her name on it with a thick green marker: SONIA. She presses the label onto her chest, then dumps a faded shopping bag and some Tesco grocery bags next to the flip chart. A whiskery braid runs almost the length of her spine.
"Right," says Sonia. "Shall we start?"
She begins a practiced monologue about labor, pain relief, and Caesareans, one eyelid flickering during the embarrassing parts. Occasionally she is forced to raise her voice over a crash of pots and pans, or a burst of expletives, from the pub kitchen on the floor below.
After she has been speaking for a few minutes, I glance down at my phone screen again, just as a message flashes up from Daniel. I open it. Meeting only just finished, he says. Heading home now. Train gets in at 10. He is so sorry again about the class, says again that he wishes he could be there with me. He'll make it up to me, he says.
I know he would be here if he could, that he is gutted to have had to let me down. That this last-minute crisis meeting just came at a terrible moment. At the same time, I can'...
