BLOG TOUR: "The Light of Paris" Eleanor Brown

Today I'm delighted to take my turn on the Blog Tour for "The Light of Paris." This is a really charming and endearing read -I would highly recommend it- particularly for those of you who enjoy dual story lines, female characters and novels operating in two different times. Eleanor Brown writes very well and it is an interesting exploration of women's journey for self discovery in two very different eras.

I'm thrilled to be able to share with you an extract from the book which I have received as a real treat from the publishers! So without further ado, read on for a taster of the opening chapter and then add the novel to your Summer Reading pile!

one

Madeleine

1999

I didn’t set out to lose myself. No one does, really. No one purposely swims away from the solid, forgiving anchor of their heart. We simply make the tiniest of compromises, the smallest of decisions, not realizing the way those small changes add up to something larger until we are forced, for better or worse, to face the people we have become.

I had the best of intentions, always: to make my mother happy, to keep the peace, to smooth my rough edges and ease my own way. But in the end, the life I had crafted was like the porcelain figurines that resided in my mother’s china cabinets: smooth, ornate, but delicate and hollow. For display only. Do not touch.

Long ago, I might have called myself an artist. As a child, I drew on every blank surface I encountered—including, to my mother’s dismay, the walls, deliciously empty front pages of library books, and more than a few freshly ironed tablecloths. In high school, I spent hours in the art room after school, painting until the sun coming through the skylights grew thin and the art teacher would gently put her hand on my shoulder and tell me it was time to go home. Lingering under my Anaïs Anaïs per- fume was the smell of paint, and the edges of every textbook I owned were covered with doodles and drawings. On the weekends, I hid from my mother’s bottomless disapproval in the basement of our house, whereI had set up an easel, painting until my fingers were stiff and the light

had disappeared, rendering the colors I blended on the palette an indis- criminate black.

But I hadn’t painted since I had gotten married. Now, I spent hours leading tour groups through the Stabler Art Museum’s galleries, pointing out the beautiful blur of the Impressionists, the lush clarity of the Roman- tics, the lawless color of Abstract Expressionism. As we moved between the rooms, I showed them the progression of the paintings, movement washing into movement like the confluence of rivers, the same medium, the same tools, yet so completely different in appearance, in intent, in heart. No matter how many times I explained it, it seemed beautifully impossible that Monet had been creating his gentle pastorals less than a hundred years before the delicious chaos of Jackson Pollock’s murals.

It was almost enough.

Usually Tanis took the older kids; she had four teenage sons and wasn’t afraid of anything. But she was out, and the other docents were booked, so the coordinator asked if I would take the group. I had hesi- tated for a moment—teenagers seemed scary and uncontrolled, all loose limbs and incomprehensible fashion decisions and bad attitudes—and then told him I would. Their teacher would be with us, after all, and she had requested one of my favorite tours, on artists and their influences.

When I met them in the lobby, I asked the kids their names and who their favorite artists were, to which they, predictably, reacted as though I were trying to get them to divulge state secrets. Their teacher, Miss Pine, was young and slender, with hair that fell loose around her shoulders, more knot than curl, as though she wound her fingers in it all the time. I—and most of the women I knew—wore slim sheath dresses with elegant scarves, an acceptably polite pop of color, but Miss Pine was wrapped in a pile of boysenberry-colored fabric that looked less like a dress and more like a collection of handkerchiefs that had been safety-pinned together. She must have been wearing bracelets or bells, because she jingled as she

moved. Either that, or she was hiding a number of out-of-season reindeer

underneath those swathes of fabric.

“How long have you been teaching?” I asked, making conversation as we headed to the first stop on the tour, followed by our little ducklings, the floors creaking agreeably beneath our feet.

“Almost ten years,” Miss Pine said, smiling at me. I must have made a face of horror, because she laughed, a light sound with a rough edge that made me smile just to hear it. “They’re not so bad, are they?”

Glancing over my shoulder at the kids, who meandered along in our wake as we climbed the wide marble staircase to the second floor, I laughed too. “Not so bad.” The boys were bouncing off each other like pinballs, a couple of the girls walked with their heads bent together in the inimitable intimacy of teenagers, a few others drifted off to the edges of the staircase to look at the paintings that lined the walls or the sculp- tures on the landing.

“I just have lingering flashbacks to my own experience. I didn’t cope so well with high school kids when I was in high school myself. I basi- cally spent four years slinking around, trying to fly under the radar.”

Miss Pine waved her hand, setting off her bells again. “We all did. It’s much easier from this side of the desk, I promise you. Plus, you get to try to make it a slightly less miserable experience for them than it was for you.”

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, first stop,” I said when we reached the Renaissance room. I turned to face them, clapping my hands together and then instantly regretting it. I was not an earnest, hand-clapping, Precious Moments stationery–using sort of person. “What do you know about Renaissance art? Lay it on me.”

The kids, who had been chattering enthusiastically as we walked, of course chose that moment to fall sullenly silent. Elementary-aged chil- dren seemed almost violent in their desire to speak, hurling their entire bodies into the air when they raised their hands, as though they were

controlled by marionette strings. But these high schoolers were draped

with languid adolescent ease that didn’t hide the twitch of their eyes, their anxious fingers worrying their pencils, the edges of their sketch pads. I had thought for sure the Renaissance paintings might get them, all those nudes with their tender, pale skin and tactfully placed hands and leaves, but they seemed only politely interested.

“Come on, people,” I said. “I’m getting you out of school for the day. The least you can do is answer my questions.”

Miss Pine and a couple of the kids grinned. Eliza, a girl with long brown braids and a T-shirt bearing a faded print of Munch’s The Scream, raised her hand. She reminded me a little of myself at that age—a spray of pimples across her forehead, curls breaking free of her braids, a thick, sturdy body. She held a paintbrush between her fingers, perhaps in case of an unexpected art emergency, which kind of made me want to give her a hug.

“My savior!” I said. “Pray, my lady, speak.”

Eliza flushed a little as her classmates turned to look at her, but when she spoke, her voice was loud and clear and confident. Or at least as con- fident as a teenage girl could be, her voice lilting up into questions at the end. “They were really interested in, like, Classical art? Like, Greeks?”

“And the Romans, yeah!” I said. I was so excited someone was actually talking that I might have spoken a little too loudly, because a boy named Lam, his black hair swept into a style that made him look as though he were standing in a wind tunnel, actually took a step back. I cleared my throat and tried for something a little less enthusiastic, the reserved voice I used in the rest of my life, where I spent all my time talking about things I didn’t care about. “They were fascinated by Greco-Roman culture, and you can see those influences everywhere. Take this painting, for instance,” I said, pointing at a piece by an Italian artist. “Do you see these sculptures running along the top of the building in the background?”

The kids leaned forward and I suppressed a grin. So they were inter-

ested after all. It was just a matter of breaking through their external cool

to find the real people underneath.

Lam spoke up. “It looks like those friezes on the Parthenon.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” I said. “And that’s not an accident. They were trying to revitalize art, so they went looking for the pinnacle of artistic achievement, and they found it in Classical art.”

“So they were copying?” a short, slender girl asked. I couldn’t remem- ber her name. When she had introduced herself, I was distracted by how small and insubstantial she seemed, as though she were a shadow her owner had left behind.

“It’s not copying,” a boy named Hunter said, his words dripping with disdain. “It’s like, inspiration.” The shadow girl dropped her chin, shrink- ing even further into herself, and I wanted to rush to her rescue. Hunter was good-looking in the irritatingly effortless way some teenage boys have, their features delicate and girlishly pretty, and I could tell from the way the other kids arranged themselves around him that he was the cen- ter of their social constellation.

Fortunately, Miss Pine stepped in before I had to. “Dial down the attitude, Hunter,” she said mildly, and I watched the kids shift again, Hunter deflating slightly, the shadow girl glancing up from underneath her eyelashes, the others looking somewhat relieved. I gave Miss Pine a mental high five. “It’s a fair moral question, given how much you all get harangued about plagiarism.”

“And that’s really what we’re here to talk about today, right? Where artists get their ideas, their techniques, their style,” I said.

“From each other,” Eliza said, waving her paintbrush at me. “Exactly,” I said. “Why don’t we go check out the Neoclassicists and

see some more examples?”

Our conversation was livelier in the Neoclassical room, where I man- aged to engage the kids in a conversation about the Romans, possibly be- cause I mentioned vomitoriums. Proof that no one ever progresses past

the age of thirteen, and when nudity fails, gross-out humor is always a

good idea.

When the kids had exhausted their (fairly impressive) repertoire of throw-up jokes, I gave them a few minutes to linger in the room. Some of them were sketching wildly, and I felt my fingers itch as I watched them. The self-conscious tightness that had surrounded them fell away, and their inner eager elementary schoolers sprang out. Long ago, that would have been me, so desperate to create I could hardly keep my hands still.

I leaned against the wall, and Miss Pine came to stand beside me. “Anyway,” she said, continuing our earlier conversation as though it had never been interrupted, “teaching is really the best way to stay in touch with my own art. If I’m encouraging them to create, I’d feel like a fraud if I didn’t do it myself. What about you? Are you an artist?”

“Oh, no. I mean, I took art in school, but that’s not, I mean, it wasn’t real,” I said hurriedly, lest she get the wrong idea.

“Really?” She raised a pale eyebrow. “But you talk about it so pas- sionately. I just assumed . . .”

Tamping down the longing that always emerged when I was talking about art, I shook my head. “I wanted to be a painter, but I just . . . I guess I just grew out of it.”

The truth was far too difficult to explain, especially to Miss Pine, with her heart big and warm enough for these kids and their self- conscious eyes, and the earnest chitter of her jewelry. This was the bar- gain I had made. I knew Phillip had married me partially because he had zero taste and I knew something about art, but I was only allowed to be in contact with it in the most clinical of ways, preferably ones that made him look good. I could visit dealers and haggle over paintings for his office, or for the condo, purchases based more on square footage and their power to impress and/or intimidate the person looking at them than on artistic merit. I could lead tours here, volunteer, but I couldn’t

make art myself.

My Review of "The Light of Paris"

This is a really pleasing read following the two lives of Margie and Madeleine, grandmother and grand-daughter, on their journeys of self discovery- decades apart, but full of similarities.

Margie's story is set in 1924. Unhappily confined by the expectations of her parents and society, she finds herself trying to reject the inevitable path of marriage and submissiveness that lies ahead. Taking the opportunity to travel to Paris as a companion to another debutant, Margie then finds herself inspired, awakened and empowered by the people and city. But can it last or will she eventually have to return to "real life" and all it's constraints?

Madeleine's story is set in 1999 (although it sometimes feels more like the 1950s!) and sees her returning to her mother's house to contemplate the unhappiness and the restrictions she feels marriage and society have imposed upon her; suffocating her real desire to paint and carve her own path out for herself.

Both stories are about self discovery and the role of women in society. When Madeleine stumbles across her grandmother's diary, she is fascinated to read of her time in Paris and all the artistic and interesting people she meets. What she is not prepared for is the secret that she unwittingly discovers as she learns more about her grandmother's time there. It helps her to consider her own position in life and within her marriage. Can it give her the confidence to make decisions and changes that were beyond her grandmother?

I thought this story was beautifully written. It was compelling and the alternating story lines were full of interesting similarities and overlaps despite their distance in time and location. It is a reflective book and very pensive in its style but both the main female protagonists are vivid and very easy to form a relationship with. They are both engaging and relatable.

Margie feels like a woman before her time. Her mother is obsessed with her marriage and Margie is very bored with being a constant disappointment or a doll that won't perform.

"Margie crossed her eyes. There was going to be no husband. She knew it, and she guessed her mother knew it, and only said things like that to keep the fiction alive, for whose benefit she wasn't sure."

It feels very Austen -like at times; it is the 1920s and yet Margie is totally defined by her marriageability and how she is regarded within their class of society. Her mother has nothing else to really do but negotiate a match. Indeed, Mr Chapman's proposal is similar to that of the dreadful Mr Collins in "Pride and Prejudice". He begins with "I'm sure you're aware of how closely your father and I work together," then continues with the very pragmatic "it is an alliance I wish to preserve at any cost." Margie's response - as it so often does - made me giggle: "Margie wished there were a nearby plate of potatoes she could put her face in." She knows little of what her father does, (interesting historical comment on how some men still persisted in refraining from involving women with business and finances) only that he has something to do with the Washington Senators - a basketball team - but she's never allowed to go to the games as " 'The obligations of someone of your class' apparently didn't include eating peanuts, or doing anything fun, for that matter." Mr Chapman then tells her that he'd "like to cement that relationship by marrying (her)". So romantic! Any reader is going to find it hard not to sympathise with her plight. Margie's dry, sarcastic reactions - whether only unspoken or not - bring a lot of gentle humour to the novel and make her a very appealing young woman. It reflects her intelligence and exaggerates the importance of her trying to escape such a restrictive future.

Madeleine too is insightful, resourceful, bright and talented. She is very creative and her link with art is an important part of her characterisation. She is very similar to Margie. For Madeleine there are times when it feels that despite the progress made in Women's Rights, things are still complicated for women. And Margie's voice often felt as contemporary as a woman speaking in the 1990s. Both are very authentic and I was as intrigued with each story line. The alternating order of the tales encourages the reader to keep turning the page. The final twist, although creating a great ending and a necessary part of the plot, wasn't the thing that really struck me or kept me wanting to read more; I just wanted to know what happened to them both. I was part of their emotional journey of self awareness.

The chapters are relatively short and the plot is well controlled. I liked the author's use of language and found the description effective and at times, beautiful. The setting of Paris is really captivating and I would recommend the book to people who are interested in this period in time or Paris as it is a big part of the novel.

Overall, this is a thoughtful and interesting story of two women in two different times as they learn about love, duty, ambition and fate. I would strongly recommend you take a look!

My thanks to NetGalley for an advanced copy in return for a fair and honest review.

"The Year of Living Danishly" Helen Russell

Denmark is officially the happiest nation on Earth. When Helen Russell is forced to move to rural Jutland, can she discover the secrets of their happiness? Or will the long, dark winters and pickled herring take their toll?

A Year of Living Danishly looks at where the Danes get it right, where they get it wrong, and how we might just benefit from living a little more Danishly ourselves. 

I read about this on Twitter - it was recommended as a summer read. I ordered it through the library. 

This is a really interesting but light and easy read. 

Russell has divided her book into 13 chapters - one for each month of the year and an extra one for Christmas. Each looks at a different aspect of the Danish culture. My favourite chapters were "Forgetting the 9-5" and "The Kids are Alright" but there were some really fascinating insights into the Danes attitudes to equality  as well. At the end of each chapter there are about four or five short summarising bullet points which capture the more flippant sense of fun in Russell's writing, for example: "Denmark is really really cold in January", "Being a toddler in Denmark is off the scale fun," and "Danes are adept at looking on the bright side even in the bleak mid winter." 

Reading this book is like sitting over coffee with Russell or receiving a letter from an old friend - or maybe checking in to their blog post! Russell's writing is colloquial, humorous, relatable and contains a good balance of perspectives and areas of the Dane's culture to appeal to everyone and give a rounded account of all she experiences. It's a mix between a travel journal and a self help book - in fact the introduction is subtitled "The Happiness Project". 

Indeed I am tempted to join Russell in Denmark! There seems to be a lot of interest in the Dane culture at the moment with the recent number of "Nordic Noir" tv series and crime fiction available, but perhaps the overwhelming darkness of these shows and books is misleading. It seems that the Danes are a nation of sharing folk with admirable family values, plenty of wholesome hobbies and a good sense of equality - all of which makes them proud, happy and content. I'm not sure how I would fair with the darkness of the winter but the concept of "hygge" where the whole country basically hunkers down, only socialise at home with close family, insist on a lot of eating and focus on staying cosy and warm did sound appealing. I would also be delighted if my husband was able to keep to their working hours and would love to see more businesses adopting the concept that overtime meant inefficiency! 

I enjoyed this book and certainly learnt a lot about Denmark. I might not be able to move there, but what's to stop me attempting to adopt a few of their attitudes and trying to nurture my own "Happiness Project" here in Hertfordshire! 

You can follow Russell on Twitter @MsHelenRussell 
For more recommendations and reviews you can follow me on Twitter @katherinesunde3 (bibliomaniacuk) or sign up to receive future posts via email.

"Ignoring Gravity" Sandra Danby

"I've been surrounded by lies all my life, who can you trust if your parents lie to you?"

Meet Rose; confident, self assured, grounded and a woman who knows who she is. Except she doesn't. While clearing out her mother's belongings following her death, Rose comes across her mum's diaries. At first she enjoys reading the extracts, entertained by her mum's young voice which is so different from the adult character Rose knew and loved. But, as she reads on she discovers a deep secret. Rose is adopted. All that she thought was true is in fact a lie.

Rose, a journalist, sets out to uncover the truth about her family in a very practical manner as if it was a research project from work. She is methodical and thorough even when what she uncovers is confusing and upsetting. The reader is with her every step of the way.

Rose can be quite sharp and caustic at times which reflects her trauma from not discovering that she is adopted until she is an adult. She feels deceived and let down by her family. It affects her relationship with her father and her sister. She has to deal with her bitterness and jealousy:"If I was so special, why have you never told me?"

I liked her references to literature as she tried to come to terms with her past:
"Reading Harry Potter made two things clear. First don't believe everything people tell you about your parents. Second, never trust your initial assumptions."

The revelations affect everyone close to Rose and Danby's story has several twists and turns. As Rose's friend observes, "You've really unleashed the genie haven't you?" As more secrets and revelations present themselves, Rose struggles to come to terms with the truth she is uncovering.

Alongside this thread is another storyline concerning Rose's sister, Lily, who is desperate for a baby. The book explores her heartbreak, hopefulness and roller coaster of emotions as she tries to work out why she is having so much trouble conceiving. The suggestion that it might be heredity again reflects Danby's interest in families, inheritance, nature v nurture and the importance of knowing where you come from and where you belong.

This is a book which deals with a lot of complex, sensitive emotional issues. As well as topics such as pregnancy, menopause and adoption, it also includes themes of jealousy, rivalry, obsession and love.  Danby must have spent a great deal of time researching both main plot lines to be able to explain adoption and infertility in the depth and detail that she does.

Danby plans to continue the story introduced in "Ignoring Gravity",  featuring Rose as an "Identity Detective". I think her writing will become stronger as her series progresses. In this novel, both Lily and Rose are very obsessive in their quests which at times, for me, became a little overwhelming. I think this book will definitely appeal to anyone who has experienced adoption or enjoys novels about family issues. The reviews on Goodreads are very impressive with an array of 5* ratings.

Thank you so much to Sandra Danby for sending me a copy of her novel in return for a fair and honest review. I wish her all the luck with the second instalment her series and the continuing story of Rose.

For further recommendations and reviews, please follow me on Twitter @katherinesunde3 (bibliomaniacuk) or sign up to receive future posts via email.

"A Boy Made of Blocks" Keith Stuart

This is a tender novel, inspired by Stuart's own relationship with his son who has autism, about a father trying to rebuild his complicated relationship with his son and how they begin to bond over the computer game of Minecraft. It's an emotional read with moments of sadness, frustration and anger but yet full of humour, warmth and love. It reads very much like a Nick Hornby or David Nicholls book; accessible, fluid, easy and engaging- a good light read.

The book opens with Alex, the father, separating from his wife Jody as the pressure of raising a son whose condition is so consuming and demanding that it has sadly become too much for both of them. Alex gives an honest and frank admission of the effects of parenting a child with autism:

"We've basically spent out whole marriage worrying about Sam - his outbursts, his silence, the days he'd scream at us, the days he'd hide in his bed and shrink from any contact at all. Days and days, stretching out to months, trying to anticipate the next breakdown. And while we were coping with that, the things that Jody and I had together somehow faded away."

It's difficult enough to prioritise your relationship with small children anyway, so I can certainly understand Alex and Jody's situation - neither are to blame and neither are too angry but there is a sense of mental and emotional exhaustion which makes the effort of each other too much. However, Stuart's writing is humorous and the fact that the story comes from Alex's point of view rather than Jody's probably helps distance the reader from becoming overwhelmed by the emotional issues in the novel. I really enjoyed Stuart's wry comparisons about how Alex and Jody respond to their separation, for example, the women go out to lunch with that "effortless unguarded frankness that most men are incapable of. You know:'Have some of this lemon cake, it's lovely and also, tell me more about the emotionally apocalyptic disintegration of your nine-year marriage?'" The men have a conversation about football which includes a couple of very loose similes for Alex's situation. Other than that it is largely ignored and Alex finds himself camping on a flat airbed in his friends flat, seeking refuge in the pub or in a video game.

However, Alex is not shallow and he is not unaffected by the separation. He is a dedicated father who loves his son Sam deeply. He fights for Sam - "you learn the rules and exploit them..you fight for every test, every consultation, every specialist.." He just struggles with how to parent him at times. And this is not something he can be admonished for - in fact, it encourages more empathy - it is his care, love and responsibility for his son that has lead to his sense of failure and helplessness.

"Sam is the planet of concern and confusion that we have been orbiting for most of our relationship."

And he feels guilty that they have struggled so much when their diagnosis is that Sam is on the upper end of the autism spectrum - "the easy end. The shallow end....the underlying message being: you've got it easy compared to other parents." But as Alex states, "labels only get you so far." When Sam is screaming and shouting they can say "it's Autism" but "Autism is a sort of malevolent spirit, a poltergeist, a demon. Sometimes it really is like living in The Exorcist." Labels don't "help you sleep, stop you from getting angry and frustrated".

"Because of autism, there is no Jody and I, there is Jody, me and the problem of Sam. That's how it feels. But I can't say that. I can barely think it."

The novel also offers insight to the day to day struggle of living with autism. Stuart's convivial language easily conveys situations and provides pertinent, striking examples without sounding in any way educative or text book like. This is not a "guide to dealing with autism" or an autobiography but there are some descriptions which I thought really captured what parents with children who have autism must feel. As Alex tells us "Autistic children do not all have special powers.... To Sam, the world is a gigantic engine that needs to function in a certain way, with predictable actions, in order to ensure his safety...... everyone else is playing this huge game and he's got to try to figure it out as he goes along. It's exhausting ....we have to explain everything over and over...some rules will never make sense to him."

But such heart rendering explanations are often contrasted with comments that will raise a smile and reestablish the balance of this ultimately "feel good" read. I especially liked the things Sam has "shared" with people as he often says the first thing that comes into his head and with very little awareness of what's appropriate and what should not be repeated to people's faces, although excruciating for Alex and Jody, it did make me giggle! Or Alex's account of breakfast:

"CAREFULLY CUBED fruit. Have you ever cut apples into exact one-centimetre cubes at five in the morning? It's tough- especially when the recipient makes Gordon Ramsay look laid back and amenable."

Or during a very public tantrum:
"Jody had to restrain me from picking Sam up, handing him over to the concerned woman on the deckchair next to us and saying. "Here, honestly, you take him."
Although I think there is not a parent among us who has not had that feeling at some point!

Then there is a shift in the novel. Alex and Sam discover Minecraft. With three young children myself, this is a game I am very familiar with and to be honest, what attracted me to the book in the first place. For those not in the know, Minecraft is basically like lego but on screen. You create virtual worlds, build the most awesome structures, raise animals and it seems to have endless potential. I think it is a very imaginative and creative game which probably teaches engineering, planning, maths, architecture and story telling. For Sam, it gives him a world which he can control. A world in which the the rules can be ambiguous and ever changing but ultimately, a world in which he is in charge and he understands how to operate within.

To begin with, Alex and Sam simply find the gentle background music of the game "hypnotic" and then when Sam explains some aspects of the game to Alex he speaks the longest sentence Alex has ever heard; "It pours out unselfconsciously. No stutters, no breaks.....it feels revelatory." They then use the world of Minecraft to navigate the real world, using it as a distraction when they are out or making parallels and comparisons so that Sam is suddenly walking past dogs or things that usually act as a trigger obliviously, so deeply engaged in his virtual universe. And then they are able to use Minecraft to talk about autism.

"I am like a Creeper!"
"What because if people get close to you, you explode?"
"Yes!"

While finally managing to connect with Sam, Alex has a series of epiphany like moments about his relationship with Autism, with Sam, with Sam's education, with Jody and suddenly by seeing the world from a different perspective, he gains clarity and understanding. Alex almost "wakes up" after having travelled as a "passenger staring out the window at the rolling scenery" and now wanting to "drag the driver out, punch him in the face and steal the car." He wants to "reconnect with the world." By the end of the novel I was wondering who Minecraft really saved and who really was the character needing saving.

What is really engaging about this book is the down to earth tone of narrative and the very "up front" and honest voice of Alex. He is a very likeable character; he is ordinary, he is fallible, he mishandles things, he makes mistakes. He is a parent trying to do his best. This book is an emotional journey for him but it is written with a gentle warmth. It is not moralistic or patronising. Although a very valuable and interesting account of autism, it is as much about parenting, marriage and facing responsibilities and a great read for anyone with children. It didn't feel like a novel "about autism", it felt like watching Hugh Grant in an amiable Saturday afternoon movie. In fact, I hope it does make it to the screen as I think it would be an excellent BBC drama.

Stuart has added an afterword about the true story behind the book. He says:
"Video games get a bad rap; we often think of them as things we need to control and limit- by they can also be a permissive space where people learn and share and create, without judgement or confinement."

And I'd like to leave you with his final thoughts:
"Life puts up so many barriers to people who are different. Any tool that helps us to appreciate those people - whoever they are, however they differ from us- is a precious thing. This is what I learned and what this book is about."

Thank you to NetGalley and the publishers for approving me an advanced copy of this novel in return for an honest and fair review. I really enjoyed it and rate it a 4/5 read.

If you like the sound of this book, try Lisa Genova "Love Anthony" for another story about the parent of an autistic child - also reviewed on this blog, use the search box to help find it.

For more recommendations and reviews, please follow me on Twitter @katherinesunde3 (bibliomaniacuk) or sign up to receive future posts by email.

"Local Girl Missing" Claire Douglas

Twenty years ago, Frankie's best friend Sophie went missing in their home town of Oldcliffe on Sea, leaving just one trainer behind on a deserted, deteriorating pier. Out of the blue, Frankie, who has moved away to try and overcome her heartbreak from loosing Sophie, is coerced into returning to Oldcliffe by Sophie's brother Daniel as a body has been discovered. A body they believe to be Sophie. Finally having to confront the truth that Sophie is dead, Daniel and Frankie try to once and for all unearth the truth behind that night and at last follow up their resounding feelings that Sophie's death was not accidental. Who was Sophie with? Why was she on the pier? Did she jump? Is her boyfriend Leon hiding something? Can Daniel and Frankie ever find the closure they need?

"It's a dreary afternoon just after lunch when I finally find out that you're dead." What an opening line! Its 2016 and this is Frankie, addressing (the dead) Sophie. Daniel has informed her that they've found a body and Frankie realises she "can't delude myself anymore." Sophie isn't travelling, hasn't assumed a new identity, isn't stumbling around somewhere having lost her memory. She's dead. She disappeared from a club late one Saturday night and somehow, met her death by the pier. Death by misadventure. Frankie's fingers start to pull at her hair - a bad habit she has tried to retrain herself away from - as her feelings of grief well up inside her. Her response to Daniel's conversation reflects the depth of her trauma and the significance Sophie's death has had on her. I loved the fact all of Frankie's narrative was addressed to "you" - Sophie. This was incredibly effective!

I had barely finished the first chapter when I found myself physically settling back into my chair, tucking my legs under my knees and assuming a position in which I was not prepared to move for some time. I knew from the opening that this was going to be an excellent book. I knew from the opening that I would not be parted from this book until it was finished!

Although there seems nothing untoward or unlikable about Frankie, there is an atmosphere of foreboding from the outset. Her reluctance to return to a "town where a dark secret of the past is never forgotten or forgiven", a place she "vowed never to return", immediately creates tension. As she tells Sophie more about her current life, her comparison of her relationship with partner Mike to their new kitchen - "it's all looks so clean and new on the outside but on the inside the hinges are loose and there are cracks in one cabinet" is very revealing. Her reflection that Mike lacks the "emotional capacity to cope with me or rather my issues" and how they have too quickly (after a mere 2 months) become too "intricately bound, financially and emotionally like two threads tied in a knot" immediately alerts the reader to some deeper issues. Sophie's death appears to have had a much more dramatic impact on Frankie that possibly it should have. Why?

Douglas then incorporates extracts from Sophie's diary twenty years ago in the run up to her disappearance. I was very taken with this narrative device, hearing from a "dead" character is intriguing and very effective - if not slightly chilling. As we hear more from Sophie, I began to question Frankie's account of the friendship. The dynamics between the pair clearly more complex than it first appears. As Sophie writes, Frankie is in "some of my most treasured childhood memories; and in some of my worst." Please tell us more Sophie......Just what happened all that time ago on that Saturday night? Has Frankie's memory distorted over time? Or because Sophie died, is it impossible to remember how things really were? Is she a reliable narrator? She's a troubled soul- in her late thirties, childless, divorced, a stressful job and with a very sick parent in hospital....what effect does this have on her perspective and memory?

But what about Sophie? She is more naive, more vulnerable and more in awe of Frankie. But ultimately this is her teenage diary - can this really be any more reliable?

Douglas is unrelenting in building tension and unfailingly ends each chapter on a powerful cliffhanger. This book is captivating. If anyone is sitting next to you, they will soon tire of your sharp intake of breath every time you reach the end of the section and can barely get your fingers to turn the page quickly enough as the urgency to read on is so compelling.

As Daniel and Frankie try to revisit the past and put together the few clues and weak, unsatisfying pieces of evidence, things begin to take a more harrowing and gripping turn. We meet the dark and mysterious - possibly violent- characters of the girl's boyfriends, Leon and Jason. Frankie says if she'd known she'd be forced to see them again "I'd have never agreed to come back".........

Or what about Daniel, Sophie's protective older brother? After all, he's the one that's insisted Frankie returns to her home town and now she's here, she's haunted, chased and terrified by her past and the ghost of Sophie.

I can't tell you anymore without accidentally revealing any spoilers even though I would love to write more about the characters, the plot, the tension.... the brilliance! This book is a web of self deception, insecurities, jealousy, hatred with predatory characters. I found this book totally gripping and I really enjoyed the writing. Douglas had me completely hooked from the first page to the last and this was absolutely my cup of tea. Dark, twisted, suspenseful, complex and full of surprises. As chilling as Elizabeth Haynes, Sam Hayes, Cass Green and as unsettling as Liz Nugent and Mark Edwards.

My only tiny tiny tiny tiny reservation was about the Epilogue. Satisfying and not out of place, but for me, I wasn't totally convinced it was needed. What did you think?

I have Douglas's other novel "The Sisters" on my TBR pile. I assure you, it will not be sitting there for very long. More and more please Claire Douglas - this was a 5* read!

My thanks to NetGalley for an advanced copy of this book in return for a fair and honest review.

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