Women's Fiction
![Helen Monks Takhar - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_helen_monks_takhar.jpg)
Such a Good Mother: A Novel
Some women would do anything for their children. This provocative novel "goes straight for the jugular of modern motherhood" (Lindsay Cameron, author of Just One Look)-from the author of the "addictive" (People) thriller Precious You.
"Mothers and hustlers can be a lethal combination-and the perfect recipe to keep you up all night."-Amanda Eyre Ward, New York Times bestselling author of The Jetsetters
Rose O'Connell is barely surviving. Her marriage is rocky; her son isn't fitting in at his new school, the prestigious Woolf Academy; and their tiny apartment in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood can barely contain her family. As she struggles to make ends meet on her junior bank teller wages, Rose finds that life as the only mom in a name tag and uniform at the Woolf's shiny school gates isn't easy.
Not so for those in the elite and secretive Circle-a tight-knit group of wealthy mothers, led by the charismatic and glamorous Amala Kaur-who rule the school. When the mysterious death of one of the Circle's members creates a vacancy, Rose dares to hope she could fill it and transform her life.
Amala's shocking decision to invite Rose into her clique provokes resentment among the Circle, especially when her fortunes, self-esteem, and status start to soar. But Rose soon realizes the true price of being on the inside. Far from being a dream come true, the Circle proves her worst nightmare. Unlike the woman she replaced, can Rose escape with her life?
Taut, complex, and compulsively readable, Such a Good Mother is a razor-sharp take on the myth of having it all.
"Mothers and hustlers can be a lethal combination-and the perfect recipe to keep you up all night."-Amanda Eyre Ward, New York Times bestselling author of The Jetsetters
Rose O'Connell is barely surviving. Her marriage is rocky; her son isn't fitting in at his new school, the prestigious Woolf Academy; and their tiny apartment in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood can barely contain her family. As she struggles to make ends meet on her junior bank teller wages, Rose finds that life as the only mom in a name tag and uniform at the Woolf's shiny school gates isn't easy.
Not so for those in the elite and secretive Circle-a tight-knit group of wealthy mothers, led by the charismatic and glamorous Amala Kaur-who rule the school. When the mysterious death of one of the Circle's members creates a vacancy, Rose dares to hope she could fill it and transform her life.
Amala's shocking decision to invite Rose into her clique provokes resentment among the Circle, especially when her fortunes, self-esteem, and status start to soar. But Rose soon realizes the true price of being on the inside. Far from being a dream come true, the Circle proves her worst nightmare. Unlike the woman she replaced, can Rose escape with her life?
Taut, complex, and compulsively readable, Such a Good Mother is a razor-sharp take on the myth of having it all.
Editorial Reviews
"I picked up Such a Good Mother and was absolutely transfixed. What mother hasn't considered doing absolutely anything to get into a circle of friends who can make her life more bearable and give her children access to the best things in life? I completely identified with Monks Takhar's heroine, Rose . . . until I couldn't believe what I was reading. Mothers and hustlers can be a lethal combination-and the perfect recipe for a novel to keep you up all night."-Amanda Eyre Ward, New York Times bestselling author of The Jetsetters
"Wickedly paced and devilishly clever, Such a Good Mother showcases the terrifying lengths some parents will go to secure privileges for their children. A delicious and addictive read that goes straight for the jugular of modern motherhood."-Lindsay Cameron, author of Just One Look
"Everyone wants to join The Circle. But is it all that it's cracked up to be? Who is conning who? And can one woman outplay them all? If you're looking for smart, suspenseful prose, look no further. Helen Monks Takhar is now on my favorite list of authors. . . . Exceptional, taut, and emotional storytelling in Such a Good Mother."-Georgina Cross, author of Nanny Needed
"Fiendishly entertaining . . . A suspenseful and unsettling cautionary tale. Monks Takhar remains a writer to watch."-Publishers Weekly
"Wickedly paced and devilishly clever, Such a Good Mother showcases the terrifying lengths some parents will go to secure privileges for their children. A delicious and addictive read that goes straight for the jugular of modern motherhood."-Lindsay Cameron, author of Just One Look
"Everyone wants to join The Circle. But is it all that it's cracked up to be? Who is conning who? And can one woman outplay them all? If you're looking for smart, suspenseful prose, look no further. Helen Monks Takhar is now on my favorite list of authors. . . . Exceptional, taut, and emotional storytelling in Such a Good Mother."-Georgina Cross, author of Nanny Needed
"Fiendishly entertaining . . . A suspenseful and unsettling cautionary tale. Monks Takhar remains a writer to watch."-Publishers Weekly
Readers Top Reviews
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
December
The boy's gold-and-maroon cap disappears around the corner. Jacq and I follow it and the squeaksqueak of his brogues as he turns down yet another dark, wood-paneled corridor. I'm trying my best to be more sure-footed, anticipate the turns ahead, ones I should know are coming. This was once my old high school and I must have been this way hundreds of times before, but either I've blocked my memories in the near twenty years since I last set foot inside this building, or everything about the place is as different as they say it is. I begin to wonder, if I was left alone here right now, whether I'd know how to get back out again.
My sister-in-law tracks the fast-walking boy, oblivious to my queasy disorientation. "You'll be walking miles tonight!" Jacq calls behind him, but the boy doesn't seem to register her attempt at lightheartedness as he comes to an abrupt stop in front of a set of double doors.
"This is the registration zone. Welcome again to The Woolf Academy. We hope tonight helps you find the most appropriate setting to educate your child." The boy can't be more than ten, but he sounds like a gentleman from the 1940s. He has what people say is the Woolf polish. The boys and girls who go here emerge with the combination of manners and confidence, not to mention grades, they'd normally achieve only from attending some ancient public school, not a free school that's been open only a few years. He shakes my hand, then Jacq's.
"Cheers, little man. You like it here, then?" Jacq asks, causing the boy to blink and look about him nervously.
"The Woolf is the top-performing school in the region. It strives to instill confidence and aspiration in every pupil." The boy pauses, then nods at the ceiling with his eyes wide open, before snapping them shut, as if he's trapping the words he needs to remember from somewhere above him. "Attending this school is a privilege."
"Is that so?" Jacq sends raised eyebrows my way, the kind that say, Well, la-de-dah!, then goes to peer through one of the door's small rectangular windows. "Better get ourselves in there, then."
I go to peek through the other window and fail to still the gasp in my throat.
Now, at least, I know exactly where I am.
It's the old school hall: double-height ceiling and more wood paneling, a large open space with nowhere to hide. My insides twist, my body now unable to deny that the worst years of my life happened within these walls.
But that was then, this is the here and now, I tell myself. I'm not the same person the girls bullied here. I'm a mum, married to the man I love, with a respectable job at the bank. I'm not who those girls said I was.
Through the window, I can see in front of the hall's stage two empty chairs waiting behind a long desk. Jacq pushes one of the double doors slightly ajar and a waft of familiar odors hits me: floor wax, snapped pencils, disinfectant. Whispers reach me from the freed air.
Rotten Rosie. Rotten Rosie.
I steady myself against the doorframe.
"You OK? Rose?"
"I'm fine."
I push the door on my side open and approach the deserted desk as confidently as I can manage, but the heels of my boots seem to make a terrible clatter, rupturing the silence. The hall's lights heat the crown of my head so intensely it's as if a spotlight is tracking my every step, and while I realize the ridiculousness of this paranoia, something inside tells me not to turn around, in case someone does indeed have me in their sights. Old habits.
"Hello?" I make myself speak, fearing Jacq's about to shout something like, Come out, come out, wherever you are! But my voice is too quiet to be heard.
Laughter from somewhere needles my ears. My stomach squirms, memories I'm desperate not to disturb agitating closer to the surface. Me, alone, looking over my shoulder, then suddenly surrounded, stiff in the dead center of a ring of my tormentors.
"Anybody there?" Jacq calls.
"Good evening."
A very thin blond woman emerges from another pair of double doors to the left of the stage. I breathe out, stealing a quick glimpse of the room behind her before the doors swing shut. I can see parents laughing loudly, people seeming to fizz with a confidence they wear so lightly they don't even realize they have it. The doors close with a swish.
The blond woman wears a white boiler suit and huge silver bracelets that clunk as she walks toward the desk without even giving us a glance. It's the first day of December and freezing, so I threw on my old three-quarter-length Puffa over my smartish black trousers and trusty (if faded) charcoal polo neck. But as the blond woman turns her eyes to me, my...
December
The boy's gold-and-maroon cap disappears around the corner. Jacq and I follow it and the squeaksqueak of his brogues as he turns down yet another dark, wood-paneled corridor. I'm trying my best to be more sure-footed, anticipate the turns ahead, ones I should know are coming. This was once my old high school and I must have been this way hundreds of times before, but either I've blocked my memories in the near twenty years since I last set foot inside this building, or everything about the place is as different as they say it is. I begin to wonder, if I was left alone here right now, whether I'd know how to get back out again.
My sister-in-law tracks the fast-walking boy, oblivious to my queasy disorientation. "You'll be walking miles tonight!" Jacq calls behind him, but the boy doesn't seem to register her attempt at lightheartedness as he comes to an abrupt stop in front of a set of double doors.
"This is the registration zone. Welcome again to The Woolf Academy. We hope tonight helps you find the most appropriate setting to educate your child." The boy can't be more than ten, but he sounds like a gentleman from the 1940s. He has what people say is the Woolf polish. The boys and girls who go here emerge with the combination of manners and confidence, not to mention grades, they'd normally achieve only from attending some ancient public school, not a free school that's been open only a few years. He shakes my hand, then Jacq's.
"Cheers, little man. You like it here, then?" Jacq asks, causing the boy to blink and look about him nervously.
"The Woolf is the top-performing school in the region. It strives to instill confidence and aspiration in every pupil." The boy pauses, then nods at the ceiling with his eyes wide open, before snapping them shut, as if he's trapping the words he needs to remember from somewhere above him. "Attending this school is a privilege."
"Is that so?" Jacq sends raised eyebrows my way, the kind that say, Well, la-de-dah!, then goes to peer through one of the door's small rectangular windows. "Better get ourselves in there, then."
I go to peek through the other window and fail to still the gasp in my throat.
Now, at least, I know exactly where I am.
It's the old school hall: double-height ceiling and more wood paneling, a large open space with nowhere to hide. My insides twist, my body now unable to deny that the worst years of my life happened within these walls.
But that was then, this is the here and now, I tell myself. I'm not the same person the girls bullied here. I'm a mum, married to the man I love, with a respectable job at the bank. I'm not who those girls said I was.
Through the window, I can see in front of the hall's stage two empty chairs waiting behind a long desk. Jacq pushes one of the double doors slightly ajar and a waft of familiar odors hits me: floor wax, snapped pencils, disinfectant. Whispers reach me from the freed air.
Rotten Rosie. Rotten Rosie.
I steady myself against the doorframe.
"You OK? Rose?"
"I'm fine."
I push the door on my side open and approach the deserted desk as confidently as I can manage, but the heels of my boots seem to make a terrible clatter, rupturing the silence. The hall's lights heat the crown of my head so intensely it's as if a spotlight is tracking my every step, and while I realize the ridiculousness of this paranoia, something inside tells me not to turn around, in case someone does indeed have me in their sights. Old habits.
"Hello?" I make myself speak, fearing Jacq's about to shout something like, Come out, come out, wherever you are! But my voice is too quiet to be heard.
Laughter from somewhere needles my ears. My stomach squirms, memories I'm desperate not to disturb agitating closer to the surface. Me, alone, looking over my shoulder, then suddenly surrounded, stiff in the dead center of a ring of my tormentors.
"Anybody there?" Jacq calls.
"Good evening."
A very thin blond woman emerges from another pair of double doors to the left of the stage. I breathe out, stealing a quick glimpse of the room behind her before the doors swing shut. I can see parents laughing loudly, people seeming to fizz with a confidence they wear so lightly they don't even realize they have it. The doors close with a swish.
The blond woman wears a white boiler suit and huge silver bracelets that clunk as she walks toward the desk without even giving us a glance. It's the first day of December and freezing, so I threw on my old three-quarter-length Puffa over my smartish black trousers and trusty (if faded) charcoal polo neck. But as the blond woman turns her eyes to me, my...
