For the first time since starting my blog almost 4 years ago, I am taking a blogging holiday for a few weeks.   I have a period of extended leave from work and intend to make the most of it by having some quality reading time and much needed R&R  🙂  I have a pile of books that I’ve selected although I’m sure this will change depending on mood, (none of the above are my chosen books BTW!).

I have blog tours, reviews and guest posts lined up for when I return at the end of August/September plus I shall be planning a giveaway to celebrate my 4th blogiversary at the end of August.

Have a lovely summer everyone (at least what remains of it) and happy reading!







It was a pleasure to be involved in the publisher blog tour for the hardback release of Before You Go earlier this year.  I loved this book and you can read my full review here and this is just a snippet –

This is a wonderful poignant story of love, regret and the difficulties of trying to make relationships work.

I loved this story. The writing is beautiful and perceptive and I took the characters to my heart, flaws and all. Do put this on your reading lists, you won’t regret it

The paperback, with its new cover, is being published by Pan *TODAY* and to celebrate, I’m thrilled to share with you a lovely guest post from author Clare Swatman.


My Fairytale Came True

By Clare Swatman

Once upon a time there was a little girl who really loved listening to stories. Then one day, her teacher told the little girl’s mother that her daughter would never be much of a reader. The little girl thought this seemed strange. She was only six and she loved stories. Why wouldn’t she be able to read them very well?

By the time she was eight she loved reading. She devoured Enid Blyton books – her favourite was The Magic Faraway Tree and she loved Malory Towers. She thought one day she might be in the Secret Seven.

Then one day she decided she wanted to be a journalist. It looked fun, and glamorous. She also longed to write a novel, something that other people would love reading, that would whisk them away to another place, another time. But that would have to wait. She was too busy having fun.

After getting her A Levels and a degree in French and Spanish she started working as a journalist for women’s magazines in London. It was the life she had always dreamed of. But she still longed to write a novel. It’s just that several attempts to start one hadn’t ended well, and she was beginning to think she’d never actually do it.

Then one day, when her children were very young, she decided that it was now or never, otherwise she would always regret not having tried. She had an idea bubbling away, which had formed when she was writing real life stories. She’d always wondered what would happen if some of these people could go back in time to before the awful thing that had happened to them, and what they would change.

Over the next year she wrote Before You Go in coffee shops and libraries while her kids were at nursery. By Christmas she had a first draft.

It wasn’t until almost 18 months later that she got up the courage to send it off to anyone to read – and that was when her long-held dream finally became a reality as she found an agent and a publisher. Her little idea was about to be turned into a real-life novel!

And now, Before You Go is out there in the world, and that little girl who was told she would never be much of a reader has become an author. And she knows she will never have any regrets, because she gave it a go – and her dream came true.

(Hopefully Not) The End


Thank you Clare, and also my thanks to Jess at Pan Macmillan for inviting me to take part in the paperback celebrations.


|   About the Book   |

Before You Go is powerful story of love and loss perfect for fans of Me Before You and One Day, by debut author Clare Swatman.

When Zoe’s husband Ed dies, her world caves in. But what if Zoe can get Ed back?

You find your soulmate . . .

Some people stare love in the face for years before they find it. Zoe and Ed fumbled their way into adulthood, both on different paths – but always in the same direction. Years later, having navigated dead-end jobs and chaotic house shares, romance finally blossoms. Their future together looks set . . .

Then the unthinkable happens.

One morning, on his way to work, Ed is knocked off his bike and dies. Now Zoe must find a way to survive. But she’s not ready to let go of the memories. How can she forget all of the happy times, their first kiss, everything they’d built together? Zoe decides she has to tell Ed all the things she never said.

Now it’s too late. Or is it?

|  About the author  |


Clare Swatman is a journalist for a number of weekly women’s magazines. Clare was Features Editor for Bella and has written for Best, Woman’s Own and Real People. She writes for her local magazine as well as the travel pages for Take a Break. Clare lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two boys.
Before You Go is her first novel, and she’s busy working on her second.


Author Links :  Website  |  Twitter   |   Facebook   |   Amazon UK   |   Goodreads


Published by Urbane Publications

ebook & paperback : 6 July 2017

Genre: Thriller, crime, horror thriller

304 pages

For my turn on the final day of the Nemesister blog tour, I’m delighted to have something a little bit different to share with you.  Sophie has kindly provided a short story, featuring one of the book’s characters.  Over to you Sophie!


When I write, I often take a break from my manuscript by writing short stories in the background of the main story, just to allow the novel to percolate away in the background without losing touch with its world. This is one of those stories, written about two characters, one who appears in the book, one who doesn’t. I though you might like to read it as a taster for the book, and if you’re working at your writing too, you might give the technique a go as a way of working through plot issues.

Hope you enjoy


Beatrice French goes to town

The esplanade was hot. Beatrice French was hot. As she walked, she was aware that her flip-flops were sticking to the soles of her feet, so they weren’t so much flip-flopping as squish-squashing.


Sweat had pooled under her breasts and the folds of her belly, soaking the cot-ton of her dress.


She adjusted her parasol and flicked on her battery operated hand fan.

‘Worth ever dang cent.’

What in the hell am I doing this for, anyway? Pastor Jones would have a blue fit if he knew. Didn’t he spend the whole sermon a few weeks back, preachin’ against the evils of horoscopes and tea leaf reading, sayin’ as how they were nothing more than Satan’s calling cards? If he knew what I’m up to, why, I’d never look him in the face again!

The place was three up on the left. Beatrice paused to buzz the fan over her face and squinted at the turning. It was on the shady side of the street, well, it would be, wouldn’t it? Surely nobody would think anything of her crossing over and walk-ing on that side, not in this damn heat? Hell, nobody had looked at her twice yet, they didn’t tend to these days. She flip-flop-slip-slopped to the curb, counted four cars passing and stepped onto the broiling asphalt.

She’d gotten the card from Georgia May’s house the last time she’d been over. All over the place they were, them cards, and Georgia May not the least bit ashamed. Always there, she was, swore by her; getting her this and her that read, and talking to Buster May, though he’d been dead for six years.

‘How you know you’re talkin’ to Buster?’ Beatrice had asked, not quite able to call Georgia May a liar to her face. ‘What if it turn out you’s just talkin’ to some nasty ole devil or some-such?’

‘I ‘spect I am,’ Georgia May said. ‘Seein’ as it’s ole’ Buster.’

It sure was cooler now, she could feel it through her flip-flops. As she took the turning she lowered her parasol as if to shield her face from on-lookers, only nobody was looking on, save for Jesus, who saw everything, parasols or not.

‘You’re just gonna have to forgive me,’ she muttered. ‘I know I’m bein’ previous, an’ you’re probably gonna send me a sign tomorrow to make me look a fool for not trusting you, but I gotta find my boy, really I do. I know you look out for me, and the shop’s alway’s busy, but my sort of customer, they just got their own way o’ doin’ things. Some weeks, all that gets a woman through is a tint an’ set, and what can I do if they ain’t got nothing in their pocket books till payday? Sure, we all been there.

Beatrice flipped off the hand fan, tucked it into her purse and took out the card. It read Angelic LeBeau. Even now, twenty years or more since they’d last seen each other, Beatrice was not going to spell it the way she did on it, even in her mind.

Lord, I’m sorry for the hell I put her through in High school. Don’t make no odds that it weren’t just me, that I weren’t the worst of them, not by a long chalk. Scrawny, coonass yellow faced bitch, oh, and so much worse. Never in somethin’ one might call a uniform, all holes an’ angles an’ arms folded. That was back when I was pretty, when I had something to be proud of, Lord forgive me. She folded up her parasol.

‘You can say what you like to me, Angelic LeBeau,’ she said as she took hold of the door handle. ‘Just as long as you tell me where my boy’s at. So I can tan his hide for him.’

The door chimes struck a discordant note, well, of course they would, and then there was the smell of the place! Incense and amber and cats, and cinnamon – an’ what else was that? Something old an’ stale, like thrift shops and left over attic spaces. The whole place is cryin’ out for a pound o’ elbow grease an’ shake n’ vac.

Beatrice peered into the gloom, seeing a mess of voodoo and hoo-doo; china hands and beads and charts and candles, and, oh goodness, dead things in glass jars and boxes. There wasn’t anywhere she could look and not see something to set her skin crawling, just like when she had to pay for gas at the truck stop, where the shelves were nothing but girlie mags.

‘Beatrice? Been long time since I see you.’

Oh my goodness, there she was, like a puff of smoke blown in on the breeze. Just look how thin she is, like she’d eaten nothin’ since junior prom.

‘Angelic –’ Beatrice drew her shoulders back and wiped her free palm against her thigh. ‘I know as how we were never much friends, or nothin’.’

Angelic could not have been said to be smiling. She raised her hand, one finger at a time. ‘Past’s just a whole lot o’ water gone by. Ain’t no need go swimmin’ in it.’

Beatrice sucked her teeth. ‘You don’t need use that tourist talk on me, Angelic LeBeau. I was one hell-of-a bitch to you at high school, an’ I ain’t here to ask for no favours, but I am here to say I’m sorry bout that, if nothin’ else.’

Angelic folded her arms, just like when Beatrice had seen her last, standing in the school corridor, chin jutting, defiant.

‘You best sit down,’ she said. ‘Ask what you come to ask.’

There was a round table against the far wall of the shop. Angelic nodded to it. There was something on it – please say it’s a fish bowl, please say it’s a fish bowl – It wasn’t, and there were cards too, though not the sort for bridge. All of it was sheltered by a tall Chinese screen, not exactly hidden but if you were to peer in at the window, the person sat directly behind it would be out of sight. Oh, but look at those chairs! Spindly little things they were, with slatted backs and cabriole legs. They made Beatrice think of that time at Enid’s wedding, who’d had chairs just like them with all manner of fancy stuff tied on the back. Everything had been just fine, until Mamma had gone and knocked over her wine and Beatrice had jerked her arm back to miss the spill, jamming her fat elbow through the back of the chair. It had stuck fast, trapped like a hog in slaughter crush. The shame of it! I do my best, she thought, approaching the chair as if facing an old foe, ain’t my fault you can buy two dozen doughnuts cheaper than one.

Beatrice sat and settled her hands on her lap, envious as Angelic slipped easily into the seat opposite.

‘What is it you come to ask? Must be somethin’, come all dis way on a hot day. Seen’ as you ain’t drivin’ no more.’ Beatrice didn’t ask how she knew.

‘I’m tryin’ to get word of my son, Peter.’

Angelic’s eyes narrowed. ‘You fear fo’ him?’

‘No I don’t. If he were dead, I’d have been sent the bill.’ She saw Angelic suppress a smirk. ‘But I gotta find him.’

Angelic’s brow creased into a frown. ‘Him took something from you?’

‘Sure did. Guess you don’t need the sight to know that.’ She sighed. ‘It was my own fault, I should ha’ known by now, but he got me again, windin’ me round his li’l finger like always. Took my savings, told me as he’d bring me back double, but I ain’t seen hide nor hair o’ him since.’

Angelic shrugged. ‘Not sure who you want me to ask. I speak to de dead, an’ if he ain’t dead, all I can do is ask da spirit if they’s aware of him.

You got somethin’ o’ his?’

Beatrice faltered, then touched the bracelet on her wrist, the one with the pretty blue stones.

‘He give me this…’ She eased it off and held it out. ‘I know it ain’t his as such, but he did give it me. Years back, mother’s day.’ She sniffed. ‘Lord knows where he got it. Nothin’ but paste, no doubt.’

Angelic took it and turned it about in her hands, holding it up to what light there was. The smell of the place was starting to niggle at Beatrice, she could taste it.Whatever it was, it was awful familiar. It reminded her of Peter, a little bit.

‘This won’t be no good.’ Angelic handed it back to her. ‘But there might be somethin’ I can try.’

She was dealing the cards, the slip-slip noise of them swapping between her hands like the slap of Beatrice’s feet on the hot road. Beatrice found she was watching the cards even though she didn’t want to.

‘Dat’s the seven o’ cups,’ Angelic said. ‘Him’s living in a dream, Beatrice French, one that he done chose for him self. It’s a lie, but he don’t want see it. Dis, the two of pentangles. Him’s got all in da air, keepin’ one up, den the other. He better not put a foot wrong, Beatrice French, or he gonna fall. Man can’t have two masters an’ serve both well.’

Really, what was that smell? It’s gonna be all through me, I’m never gonna be free of it. Pastor Jones’ gonna smell it on me.

‘Last card,’ Angelic said, though Beatrice couldn’t quite remember many that had gone before it. ‘Hanged man. Nuttin’ much I’m goin’ say bout dat, sept once him been the Hanged Man, him never goin’ see things as he done before. Once he done bein’ hanged, him goin’ come back to you. Up to you if you open the door to him.’

That seemed to be it. Beatrice shook herself and blinked across the table at Angelic. Now she’d cause to look, she could see how she’d aged, the lines at her eyes, deeper hollows under her cheeks. Perhaps she was right, what did all it matter anymore, the past? All those twenty-six years behind them?

‘You were expectin’ an address?’ Angelic asked.

‘Be nice,’ Beatrice said. She looked at the table, there was her bracelet. She went to pick it up but Angelic put her finger on it. Her nails were painted green, long and rounded. They made Beatrice think of beetles.


‘You want my advice? Take dis to de place three doors down, an’ ask him dere what he give you for it.’

‘This?’ Beatrice frowned. ‘This just glass?’

‘You go ask him,’ Angelic said.

Beatrice looked at the bracelet. ‘Maybe I will,’ she said. ‘Seen’ as I’m out this way.’

‘Next time, don’t pass by. Be nice to catch up.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Beatrice said.

Angelic watched Beatrice leave, waited for the door to chime behind her. Then she got up, crossed to her counter and reached under for her cel. When it was answered, she turned her back to the window.

‘O’Toole? Just sent a body your way, with something for you to look at. She’ll be happy with five hundred, only make her think as she’s robbin’ you. You set my finder’s fee to one side, an’ I’ll be expecting the same when you sell it on.’ She paused, listening to the lilt of the voice on the line. ‘Don’t waste your charm on me, you an’ I both know I don’t send you nuttin’ not worth the bother.’ She hung up, then stowed the phone out of sight.

‘No matter how far de river flow, cat you tried to drown not gonna forget nuttin’, Beatrice French.’ She sniffed. ‘I seen your boy, but I never needed no sight to see him. Him got himself hooked up with one as gonna make him regret it. Walkin’ about like a man as thinks he’s bought a turkey egg, on account of he don’t know gators lay round ones too.’

She reached under her counter for her flask, and took a long swig.


|   About the Book   |

An American Gothic thriller of deception and obsession, slicked in sweat and set in the swamps of Louisiana. It’s a psychological mystery where the female protagonist stumbles into a deserted shack with no memory but a gun in her hand. There she meets an apparent stranger, Red, and the two find themselves isolated and under attack from unseen assailants.
Barricaded inside for a sweltering night, cabin fever sets in and brings her flashes of insight which might be memory or vision as the swamp sighs and moans around her. Exploring in the dark she finds hidden keys that seem to reveal her identity and that of her mysterious host, but which are the more dangerous – the lies he’s told her, or the ones she’s told herself?

Nemesister is the thrilling debut of award winning short story writer Sophie Jonas-Hill and will be hugely popular with fans of John Connolly and Ruth Ware.

|   About the author   |


Sophie Jonas Hill lives next to the sea in Herne Bay, Kent with her husband and baby son. An antenatal teacher, Sophie is just completing Broken Ponies, the sequel to Nemesister.


Author Links:  Twitter   |   Facebook   |   Amazon UK   |   Goodreads


Published by Maze/Harper Collins

Ebook: 24 July 2017

230 pages

I took part in the recent cover reveal for A Taste of Death and am delighted to be taking part in the blog tour.  I had ordered this one as it really does appeal but as it was only published yesterday, I haven’t had time to read. For my turn on the tour, I have an extract to hopefully whet your appetite!



I heard about the first murder while I was making meringues.

Meringues, so simple, yet so fiddly. They are like a metaphor for leading a good life. On the face of it so easy, yet the potential for disaster is huge. So, there I was in the kitchen, the gigantic Hobart mixer was running, fitted with a balloon whisk attach¬ment. I had separated five egg whites and put them in the large stainless steel mixing bowl with a hundred and sixty grams of icing sugar. Sugar gives a meringue both body and weight. Body and weight. Always crucial, for both people and solidified foam dishes.

There was a pounding on the kitchen door. As insistent as the noise of the mixer, but not as comforting. It wasn’t a polite announcement of someone’s presence, it was an angry statement of intent. I slowed the mixer down, and it quietened itself from a deafening rattle to a comforting whir, then I went to open the door. I think I knew who it was before I even touched the handle.

‘Do come in, DI Slattery,’ I said politely.

The inspector entered with his usual air of haughty disdain. In the short time, only about a week, that I had known him, I had learned that the DI had what is charitably known as a forceful personality. It was typical Slattery that, instead of politely ringing or knocking on the front door, he had let himself into the kitchen yard and used the kitchen one, off limits to the public. But that’s Slattery for you, given to making statements as well as taking them down. His cold, angry eyes were aggressively trying to find any excuse to arrest me, or at least that’s the impression he gave. I could be wrong. It was certainly the look that he usually wore. Maybe deep down Slattery warmly empathised with me. Somehow I doubted it.

‘Busy, Ben?’ his tone sarcastic.

I shrugged. ‘As you see.’ I turned up the machine, watching the white mixture whirl around until stiff peaks formed. If you overbeat meringues they can weep syrup, creating an unpleasant, sticky soggy mess. In short, a disaster.

No one likes a mess.

I turned the machine off and moved the bowl to a work-surface.

DI Slattery looked at me.

‘Have you been out this morning?’ he asked. I considered the question as I sifted icing sugar and some cornflour into the mix. I think I knew that he wasn’t checking on how my running regime was going.

‘Did you know that undissolved sugar can lead to grittiness and weeping in a meringue?’ was my reply. I started folding the white powder into the very white egg mix. It’s why I was using icing sugar, rather than caster.

He gave me the kind of look which made me thankful for modern policing. Slattery, six feet two and although carrying a fair bit of surplus flesh, was a powerfully built man. Now in his forties and with nearly three decades in the force, he could doubt¬less remember more robust CID interrogation methods than polite conversation.

I had the feeling nothing would have pleased him more than a return to the good old days of police questioning.

‘In answer to your earlier question, no I haven’t,’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ he said, ‘Dave Whitfield’s dead.’




|  About the Book  |


Midsomer Murders meets The Great British Bake-Off in this foodie delight with murder at its heart.

The first murder happened while I was making meringues…

When Ben Hunter moves to become head chef at the Old Forge Café in the quiet village of Hampden Green, a tricky recipe for egg-based desserts isn’t the only thing he gets embroiled in. As he struggles with a whisk in his first week, he gets an unexpected visit from DI Slattery – there’s been a murder and he’s a suspect.

Ben resolves to get to the bottom of the mystery, and he soon discovers that this sleepy Chilterns village is covering up a whole lot more than an appetite for sweet treats…


Author Links:  Twitter  |   Amazon UK   |  Goodreads

Published by Black and White Publishing

Ebook and Paperback : 4 July 2017

288 pages

It really is a delight to be taking part in the publisher blog tour for this lovely book.  I had already bought Ann’s two previous books and they have been waiting on my Kindle for some time. After enjoying the Ludlow Ladies’ so much, I now really want to bump them up the reading pile.  For my turn today, I have both a guest post from the author along with my review at the end.


My road to publication

by Ann O’Loughlin


There is one thing for certain for most writers, the road to publication is a long, winding and often lonely road. My journey on that road was no different.

Now, as my third book The Ludlow Ladies’ Society is stacked on book shelves across the country, I sometimes pinch myself to make sure it is all for real. With two bestsellers under my belt and my books translated in to several languages, it has all been a wonderful whirlwind which may never have happened but for a good sprinkling of luck. When I finished writing my first book The Ballroom Café, I thought it would take some time, but I never knew it would take such a long time to publication.

My first battle was to find the right agent for my work. I had nearly given up, was fed up of sending out submission after submission, when Lady Luck finally smiled down on me. I was nearly at the last throw of the dice, when I decided to get a submission ready and send it to Jenny Brown of Jenny Brown Associates, Edinburgh, Scotland. Everything I read about this dynamic agent, I liked. What I had not noticed until I had the email submission ready to send was Jenny Brown’s list was closed to submissions. I wavered, unsure what to do, but decided what had I to lose. Thankfully for me, I had a whole lot to gain.

This is where Lady Luck stepped in.

Jenny Brown was returning to Edinburgh by train from a crime festival. Her laptop had not charged the night before and she was stuck with only her phone for company. Scanning through her emails, in popped mine. With time on her hands, Jenny began to read the first three chapters of The Ballroom Café.

It was not long after that she rang me requesting the full manuscript. Straight away I sent over the completed manuscript. Jenny was back within a day suggesting changes and edits. I dived in to those edits and with that came the offer of representation. I was lucky, I had taken a chance on sending the submission and Lady Luck ensured that Jenny Brown noticed it. It was the start of a great author agent relationship and a friendship which now sees us celebrating my third book, The Ludlow Ladies’ Society, make its way out in to the world.

But I am rushing on. Back to that debut novel The Ballroom Café. With Jenny’s help, Black and White Publishing came on board. The Ballroom Café by the time it was published in paperback was already a kindle bestseller and has now been published in Germany, the US, Italy, Norway with other countries set to publish in the coming year. My second book The Judge’s Wife was in the Irish bestseller charts for seven weeks and has also been translated and will be published in the US, Germany, Norway and Italy next year.

Lady Luck smiled own on me that day all those years ago. Since then it has been a whirlwind of writing, editing, publishing, translations and book events, all the time with my agent Jenny Brown by my side. I feel very lucky indeed as The Ludlow Ladies’ Society wings its way out in to the world.


| About the Book  |

Connie Carter has lost everybody and everything dear to her. To help nurse her grieving heart and to try and find answers, she moves from her home in America to Ludlow Hall, deep in the Irish countryside. All she knows about Ludlow is that her late husband spent all their money on the house – without ever mentioning it to her. Now Connie needs to know why.

At Ludlow Hall, Connie befriends Eve and Hetty and is introduced to the somewhat curious Ludlow Ladies’ Society. But can Connie ever reveal her hurt? And, more importantly, can she ever understand or forgive? As the Ludlow Ladies stitch patchwork memory quilts to remember those they have loved and lost, the secrets of the past finally begin to surface.

The Ludlow Ladies’ Society is a story of friendship, resilience and compassion, and how women support each other through the most difficult times.


|  My Review  |


American Connie Carter is the new owner of the repossessed and boarded-up Ludlow Hall, not through choice but by way of inheritance. Life has not been kind to her at all and in trying to find a way to deal with her pain she moves from America to Rosdaniel in Ireland intending to live in Ludlow Hall, a property bought by her husband and which she knew nothing about. Preferring to be alone with her memories she initially shuns company and tries to avoid the gossips but her private and sometimes aloof manner doesn’t go down well with some of the locals and it is down to some of the Ludlow ladies to hold out the hand of friendship.

The Ladies Society are a diverse group of women – the rather bossy and forceful Chair Kathryn tries to keep them in line – some of her emails are hilarious and provide a great source of humour. Widow Eve Brannigan, (known by some as ‘Mrs Ludlow’ as the former chatelaine of Ludlow Hall) has also had a poor hand dealt to her but despite this she can find the capacity for much empathy and compassion for others. Eve was one of my favourite characters and I was longing for her to find some happiness. Her button box resonated with me. My late grandmother used to have a tin full of buttons which I remember playing with as a child (and which I still have). Hetty, who runs the local guesthouse is another of the women whose public and private lives were very different. Eve and Hetty do their best to befriend Connie and try to get her to start living again, rather than just existing.

It is whilst the ladies are making memory quilts for an exhibition to be attended by Michelle Obama that the full extent of their history and secrets are revealed. Each square of material on the quilts has come from fabric or clothing that has a special meaning for the person who donated it. As they sew they are putting their heart and memories into the quilt and they use it as a way of exorcising their sadness.

There is much heartache here but at the same time it is such an uplifting story of friendship. The storyline covers some darker issues – all subjects which are not readily talked about but which nevertheless cause so much pain and anguish to those involved. Their inclusion is not gratuitous by any means but gives substance and depth to the characters, all of which are so well drawn. You can’t help but hope that life has something better in store for them once you know their history. There are some surprises in store for the reader and I certainly wasn’t expecting the way that some threads linked together.

Many years ago, I used to devour novels by the late Irish writer, the fabulous Maeve Binchy. The Ludlow Ladies’ Society very much reminded me of Maeve’s books – for that wonderful community setting, its strong female characters and humorous and emotional storylines. I thoroughly enjoyed this lovely story; it’s fairly short chapters make it a book that you can fly through and the characters are a joy to get to know. Definitely recommended.

Finally I just want to say a word about the cover.  The designer should take a huge bow.  My review copy had a completely different cover so I haven’t yet seen this in the flesh, but I love it. It looks stunning and unlike so many covers, it actually reflects the story so well.


My thanks to Sophie at FMCM for the invitation to take part in the tour and also to the publisher for the review copy.


At the time of this post, The Ludlow Ladies’ Society can be downloaded from Amazon UK for just 98p.  What are you waiting for – Go!



|  About the Author  |


A leading journalist in Ireland , Ann O’Loughlin has covered all major news events of the last three decades. Ann spent most of her career with Independent Newspapers where she was Security Correspondent at the height of The Troubles, and a senior journalist on the Irish Independent and Evening Herald. She is currently a senior journalist with the Irish Examiner newspaper. Ann has also lived in India. Originally from the west of Ireland she now lives on the east coast with her husband and two children. The Judge’s Wife has been shortlisted in the Epic Romantic Novel category of the 2017 RoNA awards.



|  Author Links  |

Website   |   Twitter   |   Facebook   |  Amazon UK   |   Goodreads