Introducing the first Alex Abbott thriller from former-Special Forces soldier turned No. 1 bestselling author Ollie Ollerton
Forget Bond and Bourne,
it’s time for a new kind of hero…
Ex-special forces soldier Alex Abbott escaped the Middle East under a cloud and now lives hand-to-mouth in Singapore. Scraping a living as a gun for hire and estranged from his family, Abbott is haunted by ghosts of the past, drinking to dull the pain. Life’s tough, but there is one upside – at least he’s not in Baghdad. That’s about to change….
When a job goes badly wrong, Abbott’s in hot water. Next, he learns that his military son, Nathan, is missing in Iraq. Knowing something is wrong, needing to find his son and desperate for redemption, Abbott has no choice but to go back. Returning to Baghdad, Abbott renews old acquaintances and begins his search for Nathan. The body count rises as old wounds open and he struggles to confront his demons, self-medicating the only way he knows how. But when one of his old crew turns up dead in mysterious circumstances and the link with Nathan is clear, Abbott begins to suspect a trap.
But who is the hunter? And who is the hunted?
Ex-special forces soldier Alex Abbot goes from one bad situation to another and ending up in Singapore haunted by his past and taking the occasional job as a gun for hire to fund his drink habit until his son, Nathan, goes missing, last seen in Baghdad, a place Abbott thought was firmly in his past…
This book is about a hero haunted by his past it has all the elements you would expect from this type of book, special forces, a missing child, fights, betrayals, old and new friendships and all while giving a glimpse of what life in Baghdad is like. It was page turningly good and I flew through it in a few days.
What a brilliant step into fiction by Ollie Ollerton. This was an action packed, fast and furious first novel and I will definitely be looking out for more. If you love Chris Ryan Strike Back books then you will enjoy this one.
Thank you to @Tr4cyF3nt0n and @bonnierbooks_uk for my #gifted copy in exchange for review.
Emily is sure she’s getting this baby stuff all wrong. Why does everyone look like they’re smashing motherhood when she’s barely made it out of the house? She’s usually covered in sick, eating yet another beige freezer dinner, and relying on wet wipes to clean the baby, herself and the house. And coffee. All the coffee. Surely she can’t be the only new mum totally winging it?
Emily’s about to discover that when you’re starting a family, what you really need are your friends…
Our baby is stuck. The previously calm birthing room is full of doctors shouting at the midwives. ‘We need to get her to the operating theatre, now!’ one yells. ‘Why the hell isn’t she there already?’ I strain to see behind me as the pain grips and twists. ‘Nick? NICK? Where are you?’ ‘Here,’ Nick says. His hand firmly grabs mine. ‘What’s happening?’ I shrill, my voice not sounding like my own. ‘It’s OK, Emily,’ my midwife reassures me, ‘you’ve been in second stage labour for some time now. We are going to help you get your baby out.’ She squeezes my shoulder and hurries out of the room. ‘Nick, what’s happening? What does she mean?’ I demand as my entire innards crunch and tighten in the world’s strongest vice. ‘It’s going to be alright,’ Nick says. ‘How do you know?’ I screech at him. The mother of all contractions takes hold as I’m wheeled down the corridor. ‘Holy fuck!’ I hear myself scream. The porters push the trolley through the swing doors and the waiting doctor greets me, ‘Hello, Emily, I’m Doctor Marston. We’re going to move you into a sitting position and ask you to keep very still as I insert a spinal drip into your back. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ I respond, as the contraction eases and I get my breath back. ‘OK, Emily, you need to keep still. That’s it, remain absolutely still.’ Can he stop asking me to stay still? It’s like asking a boxer to remain static as his opponent repeatedly punches him in the face. My body wants to push our baby out. ‘Right, it’s in!’ he says triumphantly, and my midwife appears, guiding me back into a horizontal position on the bed. ‘You’re so close, Emily, you can do this,’ my midwife encourages. ‘I can do this,’ I agree weakly. ‘You’re doing brilliantly.’ Nick wipes my sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his jumper. This isn’t how it’s meant to happen. I wanted ‘Here Comes the Sun’, the Nina Simone version, playing triumphantly as my child effortlessly slipped into the world. I’d imagined doing the whole thing drugfree; that I would get the baby out on willpower alone. It’s all typed up in the birth plan. Why isn’t it happening like the birth plan? ‘Get my baby OUT!’ The wave of another kneeshaking contraction is starting to rumble. I can hear a low, Maorilike wail, which I assume is coming from one of the other rooms but as I draw breath, I’m surprised to fi nd it’s me making the noise. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask as a doctor straps monitors to me linked up to big beeping machines. ‘Is there something wrong with the baby?’ I panic. Where’s Nick? He’s not next to me anymore. ‘Nothing’s wrong. You’ve been crowning for a while now and your baby has just become a bit distressed so we need to monitor the heart rate. Just try to relax,’ the doctor explains. ‘Nick? Nick?’ Where has he gone?
‘I’m here. I’m right here,’ he soothes as I grab for his hand and pull him close to me. He’s changed. He’s wearing blue scrubs, George Clooney in ER style, and a net that tames his uncontrollable curly hair; he looks like he works in a chip shop. Where did he get the outfit from? ‘They know what they’re doing, Em.’ His voice is calm but his eyes look wild with fear. My breath is becoming shallow and panting. People sound like they are talking underwater and the skin on my face feels like it is about three sizes too small for my skull. I squeeze Nick’s fingers together so tightly that his hand starts to twitch. I close my eyes and try to take in a deep breath but only feel as if I can fi ll about ten per cent of my lungs. ‘Just breathe, breathe, Emily. Release it slowly like we practised. Make your lips really tight. Like a cat’s bum, remember?’ Nick’s voice sounds far away and echoey. I exhale and open my eyes. My vision has altered, the harsh strip lights have developed a seventies porno soft focus quality; the doctors busy around me through a frosted pane of glass. Nick grins at me and I know he is trying to mask his panic. He’s squatting down so he’s at eye level but his face is too close to mine. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek and it smells like Cornish pasties. ‘I love you. I love you so much. You’re doing so brilliantly. You’re amazing. Keep going, keep going. You’re nearly there.’ He squeezes my hand and emphasises every word. I try to reply but no sound comes out. He tucks a sweaty clump of hair behind my ear and I momentarily close my eyes. When I open them, my legs are in stirrups. I hadn’t even felt them move. These drugs are brilliant. Why hadn’t I asked for them sooner? Stupid, self-righteous birth plan. I start to melt into a drug fuelled bliss. My head feels like it is full of cotton wool; sentences drift off unfinished. I try to smile at Nick but only half my face moves, like a kind of Anne Robinson wink. ‘That’s my girl.’ He leans over and kisses my forehead. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he whispers, ‘we’re so nearly there. I’m so proud of you.’ I reach out to touch his face but my arm feels like it weighs a ton so I drop it back down onto the bed. My midwife has both her hands pressed deep into my stomach to feel when I am contracting; I can’t feel anything at all now – thank fuck for drugs. ‘OK, OK, this is it. I can feel another contraction coming, Emily. I need you to do one last big push for me, can you do that?’ ‘How? I can’t feel anything. How do I push?’ My body is completely numb from my lower chest downwards. ‘Imagine you’re doing a poo. Push like you think you’re doing a poo, Emily,’ she orders. ‘NOW! DO IT NOW!’ The world suddenly stands still. I’m looking at the silent, scarlet faced midwife barking orders at me. Her mouth is moving but I can’t hear her. I am utterly gripped by fear. I can’t do this, I can’t do this. I want all this to stop. I can’t do this. I’m not ready. I scrunch my eyes shut as the tears spill down my cheeks. Can all this just stop for a moment? I’m not ready. Then quick as a fl ash I’m back in the room like I’ve been given a shot of adrenaline. A glob of spit sprays out the midwife’s mouth as she screams, ‘I SAID NOW, EMILY!’ I shut my eyes again, but this time, a sheer determination takes over my whole body. I tense every muscle I can feel and focus on tensing all those that are numb. I imagine myself sat on the toilet and then push. And push. And push. And push. ‘And PUSH. Keep going. The head is almost out. Your baby is almost here. ONE MORE BIG PUSH, EMILY!’
The doctor standing between my legs is nodding frantically at the midwife. Fuck. This is it. Come on, Emily, you can do this. Let’s get this baby out. I gulp in another huge breath, grip Nick’s hand with all my might and scream a deep, powerful scream from somewhere right down in my solar plexus. ‘That’s it, Emily, that’s it, keep going. This is the one, we’re going to get your baby out on this one, KEEP GOING,’ she bellows. I gasp for another lungful of air and use the last bit of upper body strength to bend forward, imagining I’m doing the biggest poo of my life. Suddenly there’s a sharp tug between my legs followed by what sounds like someone spilling a pint of water on the floor. ‘Yes! Well done, Emily, your baby is here.’ Our baby is here. Everything pauses. There is a collective intake of breath followed by an ear bleedingly loud wail and the room becomes a hive of activity again. I flop back on the bed, sweat dripping in my eyes. ‘Daddy, do you want to come and see what sex it is?’ It takes me a moment to realise the doctor is talking to Nick. ‘Oh my God, Emily . . .’ His voice cracks. ‘It’s a girl, she’s a girl!’ ‘Can I see her?’ I croak. The doctor carefully places her on my chest. I’m stunned by the alien feeling of having the weight of a one breath old human being on top of me. She has tiny, tiny fingers with titchy fingernails and a mouth the size of an old five pence, opening and closing like a goldfish. We have a daughter. All slippery, a full head of black hair matted to her purple scalp with blood and discharge.
I look up at Nick, who is taking a picture of us both on his phone, and say in a voice that comes out so deep it sounds more like a burp: ‘It’s our baby.’ Later, we look back at that photograph which he immediately texts to everyone we know, and both comment on how much I look like a transvestite. ‘Do you have a name?’ a nurse asks. Nick and I look at each other and without hesitation, proudly say, ‘Lucy’, in unison. Of the five million names we toyed with, we always came back to Lucy. We don’t agree on a lot of things, but thankfully we agreed on this. There is another tug between my legs. I’ve been so busy staring at our baby, I hadn’t noticed the doctor was still ferreting around down there. She looks up at me and says, ‘Would you like to see your placenta?’ I nod before I’ve really had a chance to think it through and she passes it to the midwife who presents me with what looks like a massive bloody steak. ‘Are you keeping it?’ she asks. ‘Am I what?’ ‘Some people like to keep them, have it dried and made into capsules, or necklaces.’ She’s still holding the meat tray of bloody flesh. ‘Err . . . No, no, I’m fi ne thanks.’ ‘Yes, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.’ She shrugs, putting it down. ‘Can I hold her?’ Nick whispers. ‘You can do better than that, would you like to cut the cord, Daddy?’ I wish she’d stop calling him ‘Daddy’. It’s totally creeping me out. Nick looks terrified as the midwife gently takes Lucy from me and hands him a pair of scissors. He says afterwards how he wished the midwife had done it. ‘It was horrible.’ he explains.’ ‘Like sawing through really gristly cheap meat, knowing that you might slip and stab your new born baby.’ Nick picks her up tenderly and holds her in the crook of his arm. He reminds me of the Athena poster, if the guy was dressed like he worked in a chippy. A wave of emotion shudders through me. This is my family now. Nick passes Lucy back and I wrap a sheet around us both. A purple, wrinkly hand rests on my chest territorially and I think, I’m your mum. I’m your mum. I’m your mum. The room has emptied so it’s just me, Lucy, Nick, the midwife and one doctor, who looks at me reassuringly as she settles on the stool between my legs, which are still strung up in the stirrups. ‘Just relax,’ the doctor says perkily. ‘We had to cut through several layers of your vaginal wall to get your baby out, so I’m going to sew it up for you. You won’t feel a thing for now. I’ll tidy it up as best I can so it’ll be nearly as good as new.’ I don’t think I ever want to use my vagina again. She might as well just sew the whole thing up. ‘Would you like some tea and toast?’ the midwife asks in a kind voice that makes me want to cry. I am suddenly the hungriest I’ve been in my entire life, having done the whole labour on two peanut Tracker bars and a Milky Way. Under normal circumstances, that would be an in between snack snack. I give my brand new baby a big sniff on the top of her sticky head, and gratefully say, ‘Yes please.’ ‘I’ll go and put that toast on for you. Just relax, you’ve done the hard work now.’ She smiles. Those words stick with me, and later I will think how cruel it is to mislead someone so much, so early on.
The hard work has only just begun…
Thank you to @orionbooks and @alexxlayt for letting me share this extract with you as part of the blog tour.
Meet Paro. A girl with a strong will, a full heart and much to learn. Born into a family reeling from the ruptures of Partition, follow her as she crosses the precarious lines between childhood, teenage discovery and realising her adult self all while navigating different cultures, religions and identities.
Returning to her core themes of feminism, healing and mythology in her most powerful and personal work yet, Nikita’s masterful poetry, along with her beautiful hand-drawn illustrations, taps into the rich well of Hindu mythology, conjuring up jasmine scented voices and ancestral smiles as Paro confronts fear, desire and the very darkest parts of herself in the search for meaning and empowerment.
This is the story growing up, of how a girl named Paro sees the world and how the world sees her.
‘It’s your hardest days As much as your best days That help you grow’
There was so many pages I tabbed of quotes I wanted to share but in such trying times I felt that this one would really resonate. Paro is so perceptive from such an early age, seeing things that a lot of people don’t realise until much later in life.
After finishing this book I took some self care time and lay in bed with a brew and an eye mask and let the words wash over me. It’s brilliant is my simple conclusion. The way the author manages to put down so many complexities in two/ lines of free verse is astounding and Is one that I’m sure will keep coming back to me.
Thank you to @randonttours @nktgill and @eburypublishing for my #gifted copy in exchange for review.
Nikita Gill is a British-Indian writer and artist living in the south of England. With a huge online following, her words have captivated hearts and minds all over the world. Nikita is an ambassador for National Poetry Day and is a regular speaker at literary events. Her previous works include Fierce Fairytales and Great Goddesses. The Girl and The Goddess is her first novel. With over 558k followers on Instagram, 125k likes on Facebook and 36k followers on Twitter, Nikita’s fans include Cara Delevingne, Alanis Morisette, Jameela Jamil and Kristen Bell.
A feel-good, festive read to keep you cosy this winter. For fans of Heidi Swain, Sarah Morgan and The Archers.
Recently divorced, the family home sold and her son all grown-up, Clare is at a crossroads. She’s dedicated her whole adult life to her family, and now it’s time she did something for herself.
In the lead up to Christmas, Clare decides that a bit of time in the countryside might be just what she needs, so she moves back to Little Bramble, the village she grew up in. But living with her mum for the first time in years – and not to mention Goliath the Great Dane – can be challenging.
When Clare finds herself running the village Christmas show, it feels like she has purpose in her life again. Bringing together people from all sides of the community, and all walks of life, will Clare manage to pull off a festive feat like no other? And will she find the new start in life – and possibly love – that she’s been looking for?
‘Look at me, Mum!’
Clare Greene’s heart fluttered. She turned, expecting to see her son, but instead her gaze fell on the empty space in the back garden where the swing used to be. Th e house and gar-den were full of ghosts and, as she made her way round one final time, she was being assaulted by memories and voices from the past.
Closing her eyes, Clare could picture her son, Kyle, swinging high, remember her anxiety that he’d fall off and hurt himself. But his laughter as he’d soared through the air and the joy on his face as he’d called to her, keen to garner her approval, had made the fear worth it. Her ex-husband, Jason, had taken the swing down years ago, but it had stood there for a decade, from the time Kyle was seven, and he’d had so much fun on it. Kyle was twenty-one now and at university in Bath studying performing arts – a grown man and no longer her little boy.
A cold wind whipped around the garden, tugging at her coat, and she shivered. Time had passed so quickly: she was forty-five and often felt that her life had passed her by, that she had practically sleepwalked through the days. If only it were possible to have some of that time back to savour the good times . . .
Her heart lurched and she pressed a hand to her chest. Looking down, her eyes found her wedding ring. As difficult as it would be, she really needed to take it off . Jason had re-moved his when the divorce was finalised, sighing at the white mark that remained on his finger. Just like the emotional scars left by the end of their marriage, it would take some time for physical marks like that to go.
She trudged back up the garden to the semi-detached house, went in through the French doors and closed them behind her, lifting the handle slightly until it clicked, then turned the key. Th ere was a knack to locking these doors. They should have had them fixed years ago, but it was one of a list of jobs that had never been done and now it would be someone else’s problem. But the new owners would also have so much to enjoy here. Clare had loved her home and was sad to leave it, but she knew it was time, even though her throat tightened as she realised she would never walk on the lush green lawn again, never sit on the patio as she savoured her morning coffee, never listen to the jazz drifting from next door on sunny afternoons. Her fragrant roses would be tended to by someone else, the shed would house the tools and bikes of others, and the birds that flocked to the feeders would become accustomed to different humans.
Slipping out of her garden shoes and into her plimsolls, she made her way through the open-plan kitchen diner with its large fi replace and driftwood mantelpiece, her soft rubber soles seemed strangely noisy on the wooden boards, the sound, echoing around the empty house, making it feel as though she had company. The furniture had been moved into storage and the clothes and belongings she couldn’t bear to part with, such as Kyle’s baby photo albums, from a time when people had actually printed photographs, were packed in her treasured Mini Countryman, the remaining finance on it cleared with some of her half of the house sale. Th e car had seemed to groan under the extra weight but she felt compelled to take them with her.
She passed the lounge where she had given birth to Kyle three weeks before his due date, taken by surprise as she’d thought the pains were practice contractions. He’d slid out onto the rug, red and furious at his early arrival. Kyle’s entry into the world had been dramatic and he hadn’t changed a bit; he still enjoyed being the centre of attention. Clare had been just twenty-four then, so young and innocent, convinced that life had plenty to offer and that she was destined for some-thing special, even though she hadn’t had a clue what that something would be.
How things changed.
In the hallway, where the October sun streamed through the window above the door, she took slow deep breaths, treasuring the sights, sounds and scents of home, storing them safely in her heart. Who knew when she would have a home of her own again? When her vision blurred, she knew it was time to get moving.
Her mobile buzzed in her pocket, making her jump, and she pulled it out to check the screen, expecting a message from the removal company. When she saw Kyle’s name, her heart lifted.
Hope you’re OK. I know today will be difﬁcult, but you can do it! When one house door closes another one opens and all that. Let me know when you’re safely at Nanna’s.
Love you millions! X
Clare hugged her mobile to her chest for a moment, thanking the universe for the gift of her precious boy. Whatever happened, she had a wonderful son and she would always be grateful for that. After fi ring off a quick reply, she slid her phone back in her pocket then opened the door and stepped outside, put the key in an envelope and posted it through the letter box, preparing to start the next chapter of her life.
Clare was ten minutes away from the village where she had grown up, but it would probably take her twenty to get there because she was stuck behind a tractor. Her Mini ambled along through the narrow country lanes and her feet ached from braking and pressing the clutch as she had to stop/start the car. Behind her, a row of cars was building and she knew it wouldn’t be long before some of the drivers started beeping at her, pressurising her to overtake. But Clare knew better; these lanes could be deadly and visibility was poor. Th ere was always the risk of crashing into some idiot taking the bends at sixty miles per hour.
The whole journey from Reading to Little Bramble in Surrey only took about forty minutes, but she had to admit that she hadn’t made it very often, particularly over recent years. Th ere had always been an excuse, whether it was a dinner with Jason’s colleagues from the prestigious law fi rm in Reading where he had been a partner, or an author event at the library where she had worked for twelve years as a library assistant (a job she had adored until they’d had to make some staff redundant six months ago due to cutbacks), or generally just feeling too tired to make the eff ort. A lump formed in her throat from the guilt. Her mum was seventy-five, fit and healthy, a busy member of her local community, but she wouldn’t be around forever and in some ways she’d taken her mum for granted. They hadn’t ever been that close but, even so, she was aware that she could have made more of an eff ort to visit.
She turned the radio on and listened to the DJ chatting to a celebrity author called Cora Quincy about her latest self-help book. Cora was all of twenty-five but spoke as if she’d lived a long and difficult life. Admittedly, Clare had read about Cora (a fashion model turned actress turned author who’d married someone from a boyband Clare could never remember the name of) online, and knew that she had endured a challenging childhood, but even so, her tone was slightly patronising. Clare had been married for almost as long as the woman had been alive – surely she had more life experience to draw on, more wisdom in the bank? And yet here she was: homeless, jobless, clueless about what came next.
The traffic came to a standstill as the tractor stopped to make way for an approaching car. Clare pulled up the hand-brake and turned, gazing at the hedgerow to her left, almost bare of leaves now in October’s colder days. Dark twigs poked out of the hedge, threatening to scratch any vehicles that got too close, and others stretched up to the sky like gnarled brown fingers. Beyond the hedges were fi elds where farmers grew corn and vegetables, where livestock roamed and nurtured their young.
As a child, Clare had thought she’d grow up to be a vet or own her own stables. She’d loved the wildlife around the village, had been a keen horse rider who had spent Saturday mornings at the stables then worked on Sundays at the local farm shop just outside Little Bramble, where she got to feed the chickens and ducks in her breaks, care for the motherless lambs in spring and play with the fluffy collie pups. Yes, she’d had a good childhood, even if she hadn’t been as close to her mum as she’d have liked. At university, she’d studied English Literature (after deciding at sixteen that taking A levels in the sciences was not for her), met Jason, and her ambitions had slipped away like smoke on the breeze. She’d been so infatuated with him, so taken by his apparent maturity and intelligence that she’d have followed him to the end of the earth if he’d asked her, so when he’d proposed, she’d accepted with-out hesitation.
The tractor started moving again and Clare released the handbrake and set off again at a snail’s pace.
‘Oh, absolutely!’ Cora’s decisive tone burst from the car speakers and broke into Clare’s thoughts. ‘I’d spent far too long worrying about what everyone expected of me, trying to be that perfect creature that pleased the world, and then one day . . . BOOM! I had an epiphany! I was like, alleluia! Eureka! And all that jazz.’ She giggled, clearly very pleased with herself.
‘And so . . . do you have a message for our listeners?’ Darryl Donovan, the long-time Radio 2 DJ asked.
‘I do, Darryl, I really do. Whoever you are and whatever you’ve been through, put yourself first. Decide what YOU really want and go for it! I realised, and your listeners can too, that I had to live my life for me before I could be with anyone. If you don’t love yourself, how can you possibly love anyone else?’
Clare rolled her eyes. It was all very well saying that at twenty-fi ve. It was a message Clare had heard many times in the past, but not one she’d ever managed to take on board. She’d been a daughter, a wife, a mum, a library assistant (although that had been something for her because she’d enjoyed it so much) so her roles had been centred around others and she’d been content with that. Th e idea of shaking off those responsibilities and doing things solely for herself seemed unimaginable.
Now, for the first time in her life, Clare realised that she felt very much alone.
Clare had always been a daddy’s girl and tried to make her father proud whenever she could. When he’d died ten years ago, he’d left a gaping hole which she’d struggled to fi ll. She didn’t have a close relationship with her mum. Elaine Hughes had always been busy with her own life – for many years with her job as a drama teacher, then later on with her work as a chief examiner and as chairwoman of the village amateur dramatics society. With Jason bringing his and Clare’s marriage to an end, she was no longer committed to making him happy, but this in itself was another difficult loss to deal with. And then there was Kyle: her darling son, her reason for everything, her joy. But Kyle was grown up and had gone off to university leaving Clare feeling redundant in that aspect of her life as well, especially after losing her job. Her whole life had changed when she’d least expected it. She’d been prepared for Kyle leaving home, but losing her job and her marriage at the same time was too much.
Would it be possible for Clare to start again and live her life for herself? Could she turn things around and discover what it was that she really wanted?
Th e left indicator on the tractor started flickering and it pulled into a layby, so Clare put her foot down on the accelerator and drove past it, singing along to the uplifting track from the eighties that the celebrity had chosen as her theme tune.
Perhaps the young woman wasn’t so naïve after all.
Sam Wilson unclipped the soft leather lead from his yellow Labrador’s collar then watched as she ran ahead, her long tail wagging, nose pressed to the ground. He looked forward to his twice daily walks with Scout it was his time out, his time to breathe deeply and enjoy the peace and quiet. He’d have walked anyway, but having Scout for company made the walks around the countryside surrounding Little Bramble even better. Th e two-year-old Labrador was good company: she enjoyed being outside as much as Sam did and she didn’t feel the need to fill their time together with random chatter or demands. As long as she was fed and walked, could snuggle on the sofa and was praised for good behaviour, Scout was happy, and that made Sam happy too.
Moving to the village over three years ago had been a fresh start for him and for his younger sister, Alyssa. After years of living in London, renting flats and saving hard, Sam had wanted to put down roots and settle somewhere qui-et, friendly and beautiful. Little Bramble was perfect, and when a colleague in London told him that a former university friend of hers was looking for a partner to invest in her village veterinary practice, Sam had felt a flicker of hope that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He’d travelled to the village to meet Miranda Fitzalan and had liked her blunt no-nonsense approach, her devotion to the animals in her care – and the very reasonable asking price for a share of the practice. Miranda’s former business partner had decided to retire to Spain and she was looking for someone keen to enjoy being a part of village life. Sam’s years of saving and investing his money wisely had fi nally reaped a reward.
Scout came running back to him, a chunky stick in her mouth. She dropped it at his feet and looked up at him, wagging her tail, her mouth open in what looked like a wide smile.
‘You want to play, do you?’ He reached out and rubbed her soft head and she barked in reply. ‘OK then, girl. Ready?’
He picked up the stick then swung his arm back and threw it as far ahead as he could, laughing as Scout scampered after it, knowing that this process would be repeated many times before they reached home again. Repetition and routine were the things that kept his life moving forwards and he didn’t think to want for more.
Thank you to @zaffrebooks for letting me share the first chapter with you and if you want to know more why not check out some of the other great reviews from bloggers on the tour!
In 1893, there’s no such thing as witches. There used to be, in the wild, dark days before the burnings began, but now witching is nothing but tidy charms and nursery rhymes. If the modern woman wants any measure of power, she must find it at the ballot box.
But when the three Eastwood sisters join the suffragists of New Salem, they begin to pursue the forgotten ways that might turn the women’s movement into the witch’s movement. Stalked by shadows and sickness, hunted by forces who will not suffer a witch to vote – and perhaps not even to live – the sisters must delve into the oldest magics, draw new alliances, and heal the bond between them if they want to survive.
There’s no such thing as witches. But there will be.
Alix’ first book, The Ten Thousand Doors of January was my first ever blog post, so I squealed with excitement when I got this one and it did not disappoint!
This is the story of three sisters and how, after being separated through circumstances none of them fully understand they are reunited and come together on a quest to return witchcraft to the world in order to make it a better place.
What an enchanting and spellbinding read! I loved the strong independent female characters that the author is so brilliant at creating and to touch on so many historical issues, such as gender, women’s rights, race, homophobia, sexuality, survival, feminism, that are so often glossed over in this genre was really refreshing.
I absolutely adored the addition of old fairy tales and the use of nursery rhymes as a way to pass witchcraft down through the generations and how they also came together to tell their own story.
This is the perfect book to cuddle up with on a cold October day when thoughts of Halloween and magic fill the air and Alix E Harrow is definitely on my auto buy authors list!
Thank you @orbitbooks @AlixEHarrow and @Tr4cyF3nt0n for #gifted my copy in exchange for review.
An unforgettable and heart-stoppingly romantic story of love, loss and second chances, perfect for fans of One Day and Me Before You.
If you could turn back the clock, would you choose a different life?
Ben’s always loved the month of December, but this year, with his relationship with Daphne on the rocks, it’s missing its usual magic. And then his old friend Alice gets back in touch. Ben’s always thought of Alice as the one that got away, and he can’t help but wonder: what if he’d done things differently all those years ago?
He never imagines he might get to find out… but when a stranger sells Ben a mysterious watch one freezing winter’s night, he’s astonished to wake up the next morning on 5th December 2005: the day he first kissed Daphne, leaving Alice behind.
Now Ben must make the biggest decision of his life, all over again. But this time around, will he finally find the courage to follow his heart?
Two loves. Two lives. One destiny…
This is an enchanting and modern re-telling of a Christmas Carol which I thoroughly enjoyed. It is the perfect seasonal romance. The book isn’t about Christmas so could easily be read at any time of year but, the majority of the events happen around Christmas, so it gives you that warm happy feeling to read it at that time of year.
I was annoyed by the main character to begin with, he was whinny and selfish but upon finishing the book you know that’s how he needed to be written for this plot to work. I also enjoyed this was written from the male perspective as it is keeping with the classic and so many romances are from the woman’s viewpoint.
It is beautiful story that shows us that our memories are completely subjective to the emotions we are feeling at the time and reminds us that we need to apricate what we have instead of taking it for granted.
I will be buying this for my friends to read in December.
Thank you @HQstories for my #gifted copy in exchange for review.
Everyone has a place they call home. But who gets to decide where you belong?
For years Bilal Hasham and his wife Mariam have lived contented, quiet lives in the sleepy rural village of Babbel’s End. Now all that is about to change.
On her deathbed, Bilal’s mother reaches for his hand. Instead of whispering her final prayers, she gives him a task: build a mosque in his country village. Mariam is horrified by Bilal’s plan. His friends and neighbours are unnerved. As outrage sweeps Babbel’s End, battle lines are drawn. His mother’s dying wish reveals deeper divisions in their village than Bilal had ever imagined. Soon Bilal is forced to choose between community and identity, between faith and friendship, between honouring his beloved mother’s last wish and preserving what is held dear in the place that he calls home.
This is the story of Bilal, who mothers dying wish was for him to build a mosque. A once central and included member of the community, Bilal becomes ostrisized and the target or hate crimes by people he thought were his friends. Spurred on by his wife he becomes more determined to for-fill his mothers dream despite the negativity from the community.
This is a great story of a community that on the surface appears inclusive but actually only wants to be inclusive if it works out in the direction they have planned. This is a very clever story and once I wish didn’t ring true but after all I have seen this year I fear is truer than ever and it makes me so angry.
I did feel the first half was a little slow as it set the scene but Malik really knows how to write to get you emotionally invested so be prepared!
My favourite character was definitely Rukhsana, she warmed my heart throughout and I just wanted to give her a great big cuddle! I loved that the most unlikely of characters brought them all together.
Thank you to Compulsive Reads Blog Tours and Zaffre Books for my #gifted copy in exchange for review.
Ayisha Malik is a writer and editor, living in South London. She holds a BA in English Literature and a First Class MA in Creative Writing. Her novels Sofia Khan is Not Obliged and The Other Half of Happiness, starring ‘the Muslim Bridget Jones’, were met with great critical acclaim, and Sofia Khan is Not Obliged was chosen as 2019’s Cityread book. Ayisha was a WHSmith Fresh Talent Pick, shortlisted for the Asian Women of Achievement Award and Marie Claire’s Future Shapers Awards. Ayisha is also the ghost writer for The Great British Bake Off winner, Nadiya Hussain.
Simon Selwood is an academic expert on the monogamous sexual behaviour of birds, but hopeless at finding human love. Then he meets Kim, and at last something is more important to him than ornithology.
Kim doesn’t give a hoot about birds. And at first she isn’t very interested in Simon either. Relying on what he has gleaned from observing the opportunistic pied flycatcher and other species, plus the unorthodox advice of old friend Phil, Simon sets out on a mission to discover love for himself.
But will he make the right choice?
Odd Bird takes a light-hearted look at the battle of the sexes, drawing on the surprising parallels between the courtship behaviours of humans and birds.
This is the story of Simon who has only had one relationship in his life and when that comes to an end he starts to question his ability to find love. He then meets Kim and focus’s all his attention on her, confident that she is the one for him but what if his focus on Kim stops him seeing who would really be perfect for him?
Simon is a brilliant, likeable character and you just want to see a happy end for him. I liked the humour and loved his friendship with Phil and Penny but at times I do think that there was a little too much in-depth bird terminology/ descriptions.
This is definitely one for fans of the Rosie Project or any bird lover!
Thank you to @farragobooks and @leefarniefarns for my #gifted copy in exchange for review.
My brother’s getting married in a few weeks and asked for help picking a song for his first dance. I suggested Kiss’s ‘Love’s a Slap in the Face’.
It didn’t go down well.
When she was a teenager, Zoë Frixos fell in love with Simon Baxter, her best friend and the boy next door. But his family moved to America before she could tell him how she felt and, like a scratched record, she’s never quite moved on. Now, almost twenty years later, Simon is heading back to London, newly single and as charming as ever . . . But as obstacles continue to get in her way – Simon’s perfect ex-girlfriend, her brother’s big(ish) fat(ish) Greek wedding, and an obnoxious publicist determined to run Zoë – Zoë begins to wonder whether, after all these years, she and Simon just aren’t meant to be.
What if, despite what all the songs and movies say, your first love isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be? What if, instead Zoë and Simon are forever destined to shuffle around their feelings for each other, never quite getting the steps right . . .
Love Songs for Sceptics is perfect for fans of Mhairi McFarlane, Lucy Vine and Lindsey Kelk.
Zoe is is the editor of a music magazine which is heading for failure unless she can pull off an interview with her musical icon, Marcie Tyler, who hasn’t spoken to the press in ten years. Add to that the reintroduction of Simon, her life long crush and an annoying publicist and you have a great, upbeat read revolving around the music world.
This book had an unexpected enemies to lovers trope which I absolutely love and definitely made this book for me (that and that the fact that the chapters are all song titles!!) Definitely one for the feel-good fiction fans out there!
Thank you to @randomttours and @simonschusteruk for my #gifted copy in exchange for review.
Christina Pishiris was born in London to Greek Cypriot parents, who used to bribe her to go to family weddings by promising that George Michael might be there. To deal with the inevitable disappointment, she began scribbling stories on napkins and has been writing ever since. She started her career as a journalist, specialising in the TV industry, before going freelance. Since meeting her film-maker husband she’s also moved into production, working on music documentaries.
Her hobbies include compiling cheesy 80s playlists, coveting the neighbour’s cat and writing protest letters to Guerlain after they discontinued her favourite perfume.
New Year’s Day is the ultimate cliché for Scarlett:
feeling weepy, check
broken sense of self, check check check
Jobless and stuck living at home with an academic mother who has no time for pep-talks, the one saving grace for Scarlett is that her friend, Billie, still works at the pub down the road. But even the pub is losing its appeal. Desperate to do something, she moves to London with no plan, no money and nowhere to stay. Unsurprisingly, she finds herself crashing on her ex-boyfriend’s sofa with all of her terrible life choices for company.
It’s after Scarlett starts interning at a modelling agency that she takes her first step to becoming something – but it’s also her first step to becoming something else. Each terrible decision she makes leads to another and her life begins to spiral. But people are starting to know her; she’s starting to become someone. And surely it’s better to be someone – even if it’s someone you hate?
With a vein of dark humour at its core, The High Moments offers an astute, often stark look at the fashion industry and the issues you can face as a woman in your twenties – fans of Girls and Emma Jane Unsworth’s Animals will love this.
This is the story of Scarlett who has finished Uni and is jobless and back in a hometown that she hates. She dreams of being a fashion designer even though she hasn’t studied it at University and has only ever made one dress for her A Level Art. After another argument with her Mum she sets off to London and by some miracle lands herself a job at a model agency. It is the story of what she will do to get ahead and be liked and popular on social media.
This book is a read for a Summer afternoon in the garden or to take to a beach. I didn’t like the main character Scarlett at all, she wasn’t a nice person. She wasn’t a good friend, she wasn’t a good daughter and she used people in a terrible manner. I have a feeling that we are supposed to empathise with her slightly but I just didn’t. What it did show was the pressure of life in the modern world for young impressionable women who regard popularity as validation of who they are and where followers are more important than people. Of course the main character realises the error of her ways and takes steps to transform her life so there is a positive message in the end.
Thank you to @simonschusteruk & @randomttours for my #gifted copy in exchange for review.
Sara-Ella Ozbek is a London-bred author of South African and Turkish descent. After graduating from the University of Exeter with a BA in English Literature, she interned at Vogue magazine and subsequently fell into a job at a modelling agency.
After six exciting, if somewhat draining, years as an agent, she left to pursue a career in writing. She attended the New York Film Academy screenwriting programme then went to Los Angeles where she joined the hustle of the screenwriters. Out of the frustration and misery came her first novel, The High Moments.
Aside from the novel, she has written non-fiction for titles including Because Magazine, Suitcase, Tatler, Drugstore Culture, Voyage D’Etudes and Soho House Notes.