I'm so pleased to be part of the Blog Tour for
Bride Without a Groom by Amy Lynch
About the book...
Bride Without a Groom is witty and packed with brilliant observations of Rebecca Costello’s desperate attempts to get her boyfriend Barry to propose to her. Rebecca is the ultimate Bridezilla – but with a twist - as the only wedding she’s planning is the one in her imagination! So when an exhausted Barry ups and leaves for a business trip to Bangkok where he creates a few misdemeanours of his own, Rebecca is left heartbroken and alone. She’ll do anything to get her man back – but has she gone too far this time? And will Rebecca want Barry back when she finds out what he’s been up to?
Amy Lynch is an author of women’s commercial fiction and writing is her passion. She loves to write humorous romantic fiction, but not always with fairy tale endings! She has published fiction in magazines, and has worked in the charity sector for twelve years. She is married with two young children. When she is not writing, Amy can be found juggling school lunches and two Shetland pony-sized rescue dogs. Now, how’s that for multi-tasking? Amy is the author of two novels, Bride Without A Groom and Does My Bump Look Big In This? Her third novel is in progress.
The letter from the Tooth Fairy
The tooth fairy made her very first visit to the Lynch house last night. Let’s just say that on an excitement scale of one to ten, it was an eleven. You see, during a posh Sunday lunch at the golf club with the in-laws, out popped my six year old daughter’s tiny bottom tooth. Next thing you know, I’m scrambling under the table to find it, as my daughter squeals in delight. The tooth had been wiggling about all week, threatening to escape, and the little keepsake box from her teacher was at the ready.
Now, paper money, the child informed the amused grown-ups at the table, is better than coin money. And sometimes, she educated us, the fairy left little letters to the children. Some of the girls in her class had lost teeth, you see, so she was quite up to date on the old tooth fairy etiquette. Our younger child was less interested in tooth fairies. He was busy cramming the remaining profiteroles in his chocolate-smeared gob while his sister created a charming distraction. You have to admire the little guy, he didn’t waste an opportunity.
‘Ah yes,’ my mother-in-law winked, ‘the children must be in bed early tonight. They must be asleep when she comes.’
Afraid to miss out on the cold hard cash, the kids were out like a light. This was handy, because my husband and I got to watch back to back uninterrupted episodes of ‘Game of Thrones.’ Before going to bed, my husband put a large two Euro coin into the little white box, along with the teeniest letter you’ve ever seen. The mastermind behind the letter, of course, was me. It was a complex, long-winded note, explaining that the tooth fairy (Frenchy) was going to use the tooth to make a necklace for her sister (Pinky) whose birthday it was, and that there was to be a great ball held in Fairyland, and all of the fairies would be dancing in the moonlight. And yes, before you ask, I’d had a large glass of wine before writing it.
At exactly six forty five on a Bank Holiday Monday morning (blast that flipping tooth fairy, this was even earlier than Christmas morning) the children leapt from their beds, exclaiming the good news. The tooth fairy, as promised, had come up with the goods.
What delighted us the most was not that our daughter insisted that she was going to treat the entire extended family (including long lost cousins) to ice-creams with her mega two Euro coin, but that she was able to read the teeny letter aloud, all by herself. In fact, she read it to everyone we met today.
The love of reading comes from me. When I was little, dad and I used to adore flicking lazily through The Beano. Later, we progressed to Roald Dahl, our library cards frayed at the edges from frequent Saturday visits. When I close my eyes, the illustrations by Quentin Blake are still visible in my mind. These days, I’m reading ‘The Magic Finger’ to the children, who share my love of Roald Dahl, and have a library card each.
At eight o’clock every night, my daughter begs for more time before lights out, so that she can finish reading. She permanently has a pen in her hand, doodling and writing constantly. At night, I creep into their bedroom, avoid the creaky floorboard, and remove the pen from her little hand. She says that when she grows up, she wants to write books, just like her mummy. Perhaps the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. When I look at my daughter, I see the same love of reading and writing, the same hard-working, chatty personality, the same freckled nose. The bookworm gene, I now see, passes from one generation to the next. And just think of all the wonderful stories just waiting to be enjoyed!
I'll be posting a review here over the bank holiday weekend - please come back:)