BOOK REVIEW AND BLOG TOUR THE WAITING GAME BY JESSICA THOMPSON

I am delighted to be part of the blog tour ! I will be sharing my review and a exclusive extract from the waiting game 🙂

Here is the sneak peek ;

Nessa’s mobile rang in her pocket. There were only a couple of people ambling around the library. A young, athletic-looking man was picking his nose in the history section, and an older lady was sneaking a look at a surprisingly extensive selection of erotic fiction. She was sure nobody would notice if she picked it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, is this Mrs Bruce I am speaking with?’

‘Yes, it is, how can I help?’ Nessa responded, suddenly standing up straighter and taller than she had been beforehand, and taking a few quick steps away from the counter. Something about the cold, official tone of the caller made her feel like this wasn’t going to be good.

‘My name is Mark, I’m a manager at Hotwire, Tottenham Court Road. I’m here with your daughter, Poppy,’ he said.

‘Right . . .’ Nessa responded, her heart racing. She imagined all the possibilities. Perhaps Poppy had fainted and they had been forced to call an ambulance. She had been having some migraines and dizzy spells recently . . . Or what if she had actually become secretly involved in a gang, and someone had attacked her in a shop? What if a giant piece of advertising board had come loose and landed on her head? There were huge bits of heavy Perspex lettering in there. JesusfuckingChrist, she thought to herself, adrenaline rushing through her body as all the possibilities flickered through her mind. She pictured her daughter lying on the ground in agony,

impaled by a giant letter ‘H’.

‘What’s going on? Is she OK?’ Nessa asked, with urgency.

‘Yes, yes, she’s fine. Well, she’s a little upset, she’s here with me in my office . . .’

‘Has she been hurt?’

‘She’s not hurt, but can you come to the store now?’

‘You silly, silly girl,’ Nessa said, the moment they got off the train at Clock House Station. They trundled up the steps towards the street. Poppy was ahead of her mum. The sun was just starting to set. Sweaty office workers sped past them, clutching bottles of Pinot Grigio and bunches of sagging roses, exhausted from their day in the city.

It had been so hard for Nessa to hold her tongue on the journey home. She was furious at her daughter. Poppy had sat next to the window, glaring out at the suburbs, studying each and every one of the houses she looked upon, as they rushed through Ladywell and Lower Sydenham. The numerous gardens were dotted with old washing lines, broken trampolines and rusty barbecues.

Poppy bit her bottom lip, looking as if she was trying desperately not to melt down in front of all these strange, judgmental faces with their sweaty foreheads and piercing gazes. She knew that if too many tears fell, she would cry herself a lake, and she wouldn’t be able to stop it happening.

Nessa had wondered about all the things she would say to Poppy when their front door was closed. The approaches she could take as a mother were numerous, and these choices were difficult.

Tough love vs gentle nurturing.

Screaming rage vs stunned silence.

Let’s talk about this vs go to your room.

The calm-yet-disappointed approach which was often quite the stinger, she recalled, from her own childhood, when her second foster father, whom she adored, would refrain from yelling and would simply say ‘You let me down.’ When he uttered those words, it was as if he’d given up on her. That was the scariest thing of all, to be given up on . . . For someone to throw their palms to the sky and decide you were no longer worth the effort.

 

And heres my review

‘The moon was speckled like a bird’s egg. It hung reliably in the blackness above Will Turnbull and Nessa Grier who sat side by side on a bench as the leaves fell around them, landing softly on the thick, wet grass. Their knees were just touching, hearts pounding hard.’

Nessa Bruce waits for her husband to come through the double doors. She’d waited for him to return home from Afghanistan for what felt like forever, and now the moment was finally here. But Jake isn’t… Jake Bruce hasn’t come home, and it looks like he never will.

Nessa’s life – and that of her daughter Poppy – is turned upside down in an instant. What has happened to the elusive man at the centre of their world? They hold onto the hope that he is still out there somewhere, alive… but as time passes by, Nessa is forced to look at her life, at the decisions she has made and the secrets she has kept. For maybe somewhere within it all lies the answer to the question she’s desperate to answer – where is the man she loves?

The Waiting Game is perfect for reading groups with lots of twists and turns, and big topics such as mental ilness, discussed in a fresh and sensitive way.

I am delighted  to  be taking part on this blog tour and was thrilled to receive a copy to review . 

I read all of Jessica’s previous books consciently last summer and loved every one  . .

Each took a piece of my heart and made me cry.

This one didn’t make me cry but its a powerful read .

Jessicas writing Is beautiful and emotive and captures the very essence of love .

There is a darker undertone  to this book compared to her others and deals with serious matters in a sensitive manner .

I could relate to Nessa in many ways,having a troubles teenage daughter ,beng skint and feeling the aftermath of a difficult childhood. I too grew up in care and it does leave cracks that for me has never healed and moulds you as a adult .It affects how we perceive relationships and love people and you could feel the inensty of her love for her daughter and her husband .

Nessas life is turned upside down one day and has confusing impact on her life and makes her reflect but does she have a helping hand in the shadows giving her hope?

A brilliant thoughtful sensitively written book about love loss and hope .

Jessicas writing never fails to make me feel  warm and reminds me what love is and that’s powerful when you been single as long as I have 🙂 

Here are the details for the blog tour .

blog jess

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