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About the author:
Inga lives in the city with her husband, who makes sure she looks great on all the photos and two kids. She dreams of moving into a cottage in the most remote corner of Scotland, where she can write steamy contemporary romances, stare at the Ocean and eat scones. Her daughters aren't impressed.
She loves to write as much as she loves to travel. She combines the two in her novel and on her award-winning family travel blog Coolkidzcooltrips. You can also find her sitting at the computer before dawn and on the playground every afternoon chasing her girls and thinking of the next plot twist.
What inspired you to write your book?
I actually got the idea for the book, when we were in the North of Scotland on holiday, staying in the small whitewashed cottage overlooking the cliffs and the sea. Not wanting to leave, I figured if I write about it, I can keep returning there in mind over and over again.
Here is a short sample from the book:
As I absentmindedly pick up the sandwich and take a bite, just to keep myself occupied, I try to convince myself I am just late. Another part of my life that is lagging behind. No big deal. The bites are like bricks beneath my teeth. I can’t swallow, my mind isn’t convinced. Instead, there’s this tiny voice – one I absolutely hate whispering what I don’t want to hear.
‘Helena, something came up. I’ll have the draft done by Friday.’
Screw it. Suddenly, I have a new priority. Shut the voice inside me down with hard evidence. I won’t be able to do any work, anyway. Though I feel brave in theory, in practice my fingers shake as they hover over the send button. Then I close my eyes and click.
I am late I text Chris.
U always are. I’ll wait.
A second message. Thanks for coming x, he adds.
He doesn’t get it. I dial his number and notice my hand is shaking as I bring the phone closer to my ear.
‘It’s not that time of the month, Chris.’ I mutter, because suddenly it’s important nobody hears me.
He chuckles. ‘Fine, I am sorry, okay. Now I’ll head to the bar and save you a seat.’
‘I am late. As in L.A.T.E.’
‘What are we talking, an hour or more, Soph?’
I take a deep breath, because he’s still not getting it. ‘Weeks, Chris.’
He pauses and I know he is slowly registering what he heard. He mumbles something I can’t hear.
‘Maybe I am not,’ I say. ‘I don’t know. You know I don’t keep track of these things. It’s not like I am dating. I go with the flow, literary.’
Oh, shut up, Sophie, is all I am thinking while I am blabbering.
‘Please, I don’t think I can do it. Can you buy me a test or something? Maybe two?’ Are these things so difficult to figure out? I am having trouble breathing as the situation becomes more real. ‘Meet me at my place? Fuck, Chris. This is not happening.’ I plead because I just can’t do it on my own.