I think what I miss most about travelling is books. I remember the child-free holidays of the past where I would carefully select five novels to pack and slowly get through the pile as I lounged by the pool or beach – fishing one out of the bottom of my bag on a long journey, only returning with the ones I felt were worth the weight back home. Grains of sand and aeroplane stubs falling out months or years later, taking me straight back to that holiday. Now, two years since boarding an airplane, I treasure books more than ever as a means of transporting me away.

My brother bought me Rachel Cusk’s Outline Trilogy at the beginning of the pandemic. In the first book, Faye travels to Athens to teach a writing course. The book doesn’t have a linear plot – it is an assembly line of conversations with characters the protagonist meets, set in the stifling heat of a distant Mediterranean city. It is like watching a writer’s mind at work as she takes in different elements of who she encounters. As I read it during that first shock of lockdown I had a severe case of writer’s block – it was hot, I had little people hanging off me and I felt trapped, claustrophobic and confused. The book carried me off to Athens and into the workings of another mind where I found relief.

I re-read Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier recently. Is there anything as transportive as the first line – “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again”. Gothic unease rises like steam from the pages. Even cheery Monte Carlo whispers disaster. An enduring classic and as a writer of thrillers I am beyond jealous of the wonderful characters and hole-less twist.

Another book I find completely immersive is The Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann. A friend once pressed a copy into my sweaty palms shocked I’d never read it and with a wry smile whispered – ‘You’ll like this’. Set in post-war New York it is a rags to riches ensemble saga, licked with sickly glamour and drug-fuelled dark humour, it is a classic. Everyone is completely hideous, but in testament to the quality of the writing, endearingly so. It is full of cliches – the men are awful, but then so are the women. Everyone is running into the arms of something they hope may save them. Thinking that money or fame or pills may make them feel safe. The book is often dismissed as fluff. If a man had written it, it would be heralded as a masterpiece.

The psychological thrillers I go back to are Gillian Flynn’s. Gone Girl was such a mega-hit it re-energised the whole genre. Everything outside seems a lot brighter once you’ve been inside one of Flynn’s books. My favourite is her debut, Sharp Objects. As in Gone Girl, the protagonist returns to an oppressive hometown in Missouri. I like that beat in a book – a creeping sense of unease as a protagonist introduces the reader to a new setting where secrets linger and flawed characters emerge. Some people need likeable and relatable characters within a book. I find the unlikable far more interesting. Sure, there needs to be context and sometimes I want redemption, but often I like them just plain bad.

My Best Friend’s Secret by Emily Freud, published by Quercus, is out now. The plot is a page turner – think The Girl on the Train meets Tangerine – which explores addiction and complex female friendships, born of the author’s own experiences with sobriety. Former Vogue editor, Alexandra Schulman, describes it as “a clever tale of how our demons shape our lives.”