Perfect for fans of Maggie O’Farrell, Elizabeth Strout, Patrick McGrath and Nathan Filer.
Would your life unravel if someone you knew committed suicide? Theirs did.
Faye’s heart still belongs to her first love, Jack. She knows he might have moved on, but when she decides to track him down, nothing prepares her for the news that he’s taken his own life. Faye is left wondering how to move forward, and whether or not Ethan will let her down again.
And when she tells her friends, the news ripples through their lives too.
Abbie finds herself questioning her marriage – and wondering if she was right to leave her first love behind. Poor Olivia is juggling her job and her boyfriend with supporting her friends and trying to deal with a death of her own. And Jack’s death has hit Beth the hardest – even though she never never him. Is she about to take her own life too?
While the four friends take it in turns to explain what happens after Jack’s suicide, third-person flashbacks are skillfully interwoven to add a real richness and depth to this heart-wrenching story.
Targeted Age Group:: 20-35
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I have suffered from mental health issues for over four decades and felt there weren't enough novels out there looking at these issues.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
My four main characters all contain parts of me in them, plus people I've met and also people I've imagined. I like sitting in cafe windows people-watching, making up lives for the people who pass by – some of them end up being characters.
Book Sample
Prologue
Today’s the day. I’m going to do this.
That’s what I say to myself over and over in my head as I pull on my
leathers, fasten the straps on my boots and pull on my crash helmet and adjust the chin strap. Actually, I’m mumbling to myself, saying it out loud: “Today’s the day. Today’s the day.” I take a quick look round to make sure there’s nobody around to hear me. Not that it would make much difference. I’m so focused on today I have no space in my thoughts for other people.
I walk up to my bike. She’s a beauty. I think bikes are female, like ships are. There’s something enslaving about her curves, the way she calls me. I’m addicted to the buzz I get when I ride her. I don’t even need to be going quickly. I like to think she responds to my every move, but I’m also conscious of the sliver of fear I get whenever I twitch the throttle and her engine growls.
I put the key in the ignition, climb over her, then put my gloves on, taking time to pull my jacket sleeves over the edges. There’s nothing quite like the pain you feel deep in your bones from riding a bike in the cold when you’ve got a draught between your layers. I’ve got a patch of skin on my lower back that I believe has been damaged from my early days of riding when my trousers and jacket didn’t zip together. The nerve endings on a 10in-by-2in stretch of skin have never fully recovered, not even after hour upon hour of hot baths.
Kicking up the stand, turning the key, pulling in the clutch, putting her in first, I’m a conductor in front of an orchestra playing his favourite piece of music, I know every move. I pull down my visor, my final move before I pull of from the kerb and join the living.
“Today’s the day.”
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