Welcome to my stop on the blog tour for The Mum Who'd Had Enough by Fiona Gibson!! I'm so excited to bring you an exclusive extract from this hilarious and touching book!
The Blurb:
After sixteen years of marriage, Nate and Sinead Turner have a nice life. They like their jobs, they like their house and they love their son Flynn. Yes, it’s a very nice life.
Or, at least Nate thinks so. Until, one morning, he wakes to find Sinead gone and a note lying on the kitchen table listing all the things he does wrong or doesn’t do at all.
Nate needs to show Sinead he can be a better husband – fast. But as he works through Sinead’s list, his life changes in unexpected ways. And he starts to wonder whether he wants them to go back to normal after all. Could there be more to life than nice?
Or, at least Nate thinks so. Until, one morning, he wakes to find Sinead gone and a note lying on the kitchen table listing all the things he does wrong or doesn’t do at all.
Nate needs to show Sinead he can be a better husband – fast. But as he works through Sinead’s list, his life changes in unexpected ways. And he starts to wonder whether he wants them to go back to normal after all. Could there be more to life than nice?
Here is my Extract from The Mum Who'd Had Enough!
Only a prize arsehole would flounce downstairs like a twelve-year-old, summon Scout and Bella for a walk, and march furiously down the street. The sky is drab grey, the colour of a white T-shirt that’s been washed with the darks. The dogs plod along at my side, seemingly picking up on my gloom. There’s no excitable pulling on the leads, no reaction whatsoever when a scrawny black cat crosses our path. On a positive note, there’s no sighting of our neighbour Howard with Monty either.
My phone rings, and I snatch it from my jacket pocket, willing it to be Sinead, or even Flynn, apologising – but it’s only my mate Paolo. He lives just outside town, and is happily married to Bea, with three impossibly cute children. He leaves a voicemail message, which I don’t play. I can’t face telling him what’s happened just yet.
Back home, I apologise to Flynn through his closed bedroom door.
‘S’all right,’ he growls. Instead of pestering him any further, I head downstairs and deal with the dishes I dumped in the sink last night – not because I’m some hapless male, unfamiliar with domestic cleansing rituals, but because I couldn’t even face stacking the dishwasher after Sinead had been here and delivered her speech. And now, as I sweep the kitchen floor unnecessarily, I am aware of being poised for a call, or the sound of her coming home; I don’t think the enormity of what’s happened has truly sunk in yet. I can only liken it to when Dad died. He and his friend, Nick, would often sit together, drinking tea and chatting, on the peeling bench in front of Dad’s rented cottage. It was Nick who found Dad; he’d died of a heart attack while gardening. The reality only really hit me when I cleared out his shed.
By the time lunchtime rolls around, I busy myself by making some hearty lentil soup. Never mind that Flynn only manages half a bowlful. So chuffed am I that it’s a) edible and b) ‘balanced’ (unlike its creator right now), I call Sinead to tell her all about it.
‘Look, Nate,’ she says as I pause for breath, ‘d’you mind if we leave any contact for a few days?’
‘Er, no, of course not,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘Whatever feels best for you, I’m happy with …’
Happy! Now there’s an interesting choice of word.
‘I really need some time to get my head around things. I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, I understand that …’
‘Are you all right?’ she asks, rather belatedly.
‘Getting there,’ I fib, in a silly jovial tone as I tip the remains of Flynn’s soup down the sink.
‘I spoke to Flynn this morning,’ she adds. ‘He seems okay, I think … don’t you?’
Oh, right, so they’ve been having cosy chats without my knowledge? ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I croak.
‘I’m relieved about that.’
‘Mmm, me too.’
‘Bye then, Nate. I’d better go. Abby’s just made us some lunch …’
‘Great. Bye, love.’ I sense the backs of my eyeballs tingling alarmingly as we finish the call.
Once I’ve cleared up our lunch stuff, I find myself wondering what to do next that doesn’t involve standing in the kitchen, staring into a vat of soup on the hob. So this is what the weekends will feel like now: endless, stretching to infinity
I'm really enjoying this book so far! Fiona is a great writer! My review will follow at a later date.
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