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Title: Solo
Author: Jill
Mansell
Pub Date: January
3, 2017
ISBN: 9781492632429
It all
starts at a party, as these things often do…
· A
one-night stand with far-reaching consequences
· Momentarily
enamored guests going home with all the wrong people
· An
unfaithful wife struck by jealousy and getting a dose of her own medicine
· A
shocking family secret revealed at the worst possible moment
One fling
follows another, and now the whole community is embroiled in a great big web of
deceit, the untangling of which will charm you, amuse you, make you laugh and
make you cry.
Whatever’s
going on in your life, Solo by Jill Mansell is the perfect distraction right
about now…
With over
10 million copies sold, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jill Mansell writes irresistible and
funny, poignant and romantic tales for women in the tradition of Marian Keyes,
Sophie Kinsella and Jojo Moyes. She lives with her partner and their children
in Bristol, England. Website
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QUESTION
Do you have a
designated writing spot?
I have two. If I'm writing in bed I have a brilliant view over the sports
field behind our house, so there are games of football, rugby, tennis, cricket
and hockey going on. We've just started having American football matches here
too, so that's fun. It probably distracts me from my work, but I'll put up with
it!
My other favourite place to write is in my gorgeous crimson living room,
sitting on my reclining sofa with the TV on. Because I write by hand with a
fountain pen, I can write easily in either of these places.
EXCERPT
I
must be drunk, thought Tessa, kicking off her shoes and sinking into a sitting
position on the edge of the vast, canopied bed. When a man like Ross Monahan
urged you to spend the night at his place and assured you that you were quite
welcome to the bed—he would be happy to sleep on the settee—you
knew you were playing with fire.
Either
drunk or crazy, she told herself as she pulled her dress over her head, threw
it in the direction of a large, red-velvet chair and wrapped herself in the
dark-blue toweling robe he had left for her.
But she
knew she wasn’t that drunk. She was enjoying the game which had begun so many
hours earlier. The challenge had been thrown down and she couldn’t resist it.
She was going to seriously enjoy being the only woman in the history of the
world to have slept in Ross’s bed…alone.
His suite
of rooms on the top floor of the hotel was as sumptuous as she had imagined,
particularly since seeing the rest of The Grange earlier. Like stowaways, they
had remained closeted in the conservatory until the early hours of the morning
when the last guests had departed, either roaring off into the night in their
smart cars or retiring to their rooms in the hotel.
Then,
taking her hand, Ross had given her the full guided tour, showing her the
elegant sitting rooms, the restaurant, the squash courts, the superb gym and
the spectacular indoor swimming-pool built inside a second, even larger,
conservatory, illuminated by underwater lighting and surrounded on three sides
by more tropical vegetation. Ross was as proud of the hotel as a new father.
Tessa had been touched by his enthusiasm. But if he was under the impression
that she would be so overwhelmed by this display of his success that she would
leap into bed with him, he was going to be disappointed.
Saying no
was much, much more fun.
Firmly
securing the belt of the far-too-big robe around her waist, she threw back the
bedcovers and slid between cool white sheets, just as a cautious knock sounded
at the door.
“It’s OK,
I’m decent.”
“Pity,”
said Ross lightly. He was still dressed, and carrying a folded blanket over one
arm.
Tessa
gestured at the bed. “This is awfully kind of you. You’ll probably have a
terrible time trying to sleep on that settee.”
“Probably.”
He gave her a mournful look, then grinned. “But I’ll survive.”
She
watched him fling the blanket over the narrow leather Chesterfield. “And it’s
four thirty now. Nearly time to get up again anyway.”
“Don’t
remind me.”
“I’m very
grateful.”
“Absolutely
no problem.”
Tessa
pulled the covers up to her chin and smiled at him. “You’re a true gentleman.”
“I believe
you,” said Ross. “Thousands wouldn’t.”
She
watched him hover for a few seconds beside the sofa, wondering no doubt if she might
change her mind. Then, giving him one last big smile, she plumped up her
pillows and turned over. “Mmm, well, thanks again. Good night.”
Tessa
didn’t know what time it was when she shifted in her sleep and first realized
that she was no longer alone in the bed. Her bare leg was resting against
another bare leg, definitely not her own.
Sleepily, almost subconsciously, she
stretched out her hand and encountered a smooth, warm back. She became aware of
the very faint scent of aftershave and toothpaste, and the quiet, regular
breathing of someone deeply and peacefully asleep.
To her
great surprise, Tessa was neither shocked nor annoyed by this invasion of her
privacy. It was, after all, his bed and a narrow, slippery leather Chesterfield
was about as conducive to a good night’s sleep as a tin bath.
In fact,
she realized drowsily, she had forgotten quite how nice it felt to lie next to
another body, accidentally brushing against an arm or a hip, sharing each
other’s warmth and enjoying the primal instincts of simply being together.
With a
guilty start she came properly awake. For the way her fingertips were trailing
down Ross’s spine wasn’t in the least bit accidental. And, without even
realizing it, her own left leg had managed to fit against the curve of his
right one with all the snugness of a missing piece in a jigsaw.
This was
taking the enjoyment of sharing each other’s warmth a little too far.
Regretfully
easing her leg back to her own side of the bed and removing her hand from his
back, she closed her eyes and attempted to distract her mind from its
traitorous wanderings. She had always believed that physical intimacy—not just
sex—was something like a video recorder or a Magimix: what you didn’t have, you
didn’t miss, it just faded from your mind and became unimportant.
It had
been almost a year since her last relationship had ended. At first, of course,
she had missed the hugs and the kisses—and the sex—but certainly
not enough to go rampaging round Bath in search of males, any males, with whom
to satisfy the need for physical contact.
And pretty
soon she had become used to being and sleeping alone once more. The withdrawal
symptoms had been mild. Because hugging and kissing and sex weren’t physical
addictions like heroin. They were something that was nice but also quite
possible to live without.
On the
other hand, a year was a long time.
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