04 March 2026
‘Highsmith herself would raise a glass’ – SARAH HILARY
‘Drew me in from the very first page and had me hooked throughout’ – PHILIPPA EAST
‘An intriguing cat and mouse game, which will keep you reading into the early hours’ – TINA BAKER
‘You are quite the chameleon, aren’t you? You could wear anything, do anything, and yet you choose plain, plain, plain. Is it all a front for a secret life?’
When the vivacious Sofia Carstairs arrives in her sleepy country village, Anna knows her life will never be the same again. Her new best friend is carefree, elegant and intoxicating. Her life doesn’t revolve around church flower arrangements or Sunday lunches with the in-laws. Sofia reminds Anna of the person she used to be, before she worked so hard to fit in that she practically disappeared.
But is it enough to just be Sofia’s friend? Anna wonders what it would be like to be Sofia, if only for a little while. But once Anna starts pretending, she finds it easy to pretend the rules don’t apply to her. How far will Anna go to get what she wants? And what will she do to those who stand in her way?
Full of sharp observations and shocking twists, The Artful Anna Harris is perfect for readers looking for the next The Talented Mr Ripley.
Involuntarily I scan what I can see of him. His legs, tucked under the table, are a mystery but his torso is dressed in a long-sleeved stripy Breton top – not an item a Slater would wear, or most men come to that. The backs of his hands are hairy, suggesting there is more fur lining his body. No ring. His face is slim, sun-weathered, with wrinkles that frame his smile; his eyes are dark and his hair, which is a melange of browns, would benefit from a cut. He might be a tree surgeon or a landscape gardener. Something outdoorsy and wholesome. Although he doesn’t have dirty nails. (Maybe he’s a ceramicist, says some little voice in search of a tortured artist.)
‘What about you? Ever had the urge to play table tennis in the buff?’
‘I feel the cold,’ I say.
‘I’ve always thought that’s more of an attitude than an actual thing.’
‘You think cold is imagined?’
‘I think cold is a fact and feeling the cold is a decision.’
This man has poured the last of his tea from the pot. I find myself panicking he might leave before I want him to.
‘But there are biological responses to cold – shivering, goosebumps, pale skin. Surely you’re not a science-denier?’
‘I’m not a creationist, if that’s what you mean. Although it does have a lovely sound.’ He repeats the word slowly and I stare hard at his mouth. ‘I like words with lots of syllables. Mellifluous. Sartorial.’
‘Diaphanous.’ Sofia’s dress, a billowing red sail, dances in front of my eyes.
‘Yes. That’s not a word I ever use but I like it very much.’ He cocks his head to one side; it is unaccountably adorable. ‘Diaphanous.’
He drains his cup and rubs his right eye hard like a tired toddler; signs our time is drawing to a close. I have a compulsion to give significance to this accidental meeting, this collision of nimble tongues and vivid ideas. So, I hold out my hand.
‘It was nice to chat,’ I say.
We shake hands. And I dare myself. (Never will I turn down a dare.)
‘I’m Sofia, by the way.’ I mimic her intonation: a short first syllable, almost missing the ‘o’, and a long swishing tail.
‘Sofia. That’s gorgeous.’ He means the name: I know that. ‘I’m Mark.’
‘Goodbye, Mark.’
On the walk back to the hospital, titillated by my impromptu subterfuge, I imagine I am Sofia. I hold my chin a little higher and swing my arms energetically.
‘Pretend’ always was my favourite game.
