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About the author:
Her job right now is taking care of her younger daughter, but previously she worked many thrilling jobs in administration, including one in an insurance claims office (wholly unrelated to the one in ‘The Dr Pepper Prophecies’…).
What inspired you to write your book?
Laughing myself silly at Sophie Kinsella’s ‘Can You Keep a Secret?’.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Excerpt from Chapter 1 – 620 words
Okay, I’ve had five minutes of panic. The guy who was leering at me now thinks I’m about to throw up, because I’ve been leaning back with my eyes closed and a tortured expression on my face. I’m thinking clearly now.
I might not be pregnant. I have been late before. I even skipped one period altogether when I went on that stupid crash diet after GCSEs. What I need is a pregnancy test.
Somewhat inconvenient then that the plane won’t even land for another three hours. And Martin’s picking me up at the airport. They really should sell them on the plane.
Okay, I’m thinking. There are other ways to tell if you’re pregnant, aren’t there? Like…okay, I know I read somewhere that you have vivid dreams when you’re pregnant. And I did have a great one last night. Colin Firth, the lake scene in Pride and Prejudice.
But then, who hasn’t had that one?
Nipples. Your nipples go dark brown or something.
Except I can’t really get my breasts out on a plane.
Or can I?
I go to get up and nearly gut myself with the seatbelt I’d forgotten I’d put on. Now the window seat guy thinks I’m running off to be sick. I sit down again, jarring my spine, take a deep breath and try again. Undoing my belt this time.
I walk unsteadily to the toilet. In fact my knees feel a little weak. It’s low blood sugar, that’s all. Or maybe food poisoning from the failed cloning attempt they gave us for lunch.
I’ve slipped into denial now. I’ve always liked denial. The sky is always blue and there’s never a queue at the post office.
Or the toilet. I bet someone’s trying to join the Mile High Club. I never applied for membership. I don’t like using aeroplane toilets, let alone want to have sex in one. They’re dirty and the lighting makes you look terrible. Plus, is there actually space?
I finally get into one. I lock the door, pull my top up and my breasts out. Then I study them very carefully. They look normal to me.
Of course, it might just be too early for it to show.
What else? There must be something else. Morning sickness – don’t think so. Dizziness – low blood sugar, low blood sugar. C’mon, I watched all those medical dramas. Think.
I have it! If you’re pregnant, your cervix turns blue!
Well that’s a fat lot of use, isn’t it? I can’t exactly get a quick look at my own cervix.
Or can I?
I mean, theoretically, all I need is a mirror.
It might work.
And it’s not like I have anything better to do.
I pull off my knickers and hike up my skirt. Hmm, in fact, I’d better take it off. I dump them both on the toilet seat.
First hitch, mirror is on wall.
Finally, gymnastics comes in handy.
I get one foot up by the wash basin and keep the other on the floor. Then I sort of tilt myself so I can see. It’s not working. I can’t see the right bit of me.
I get onto the toilet seat, put my leg up again and try that. That’s better. I’m kind of in the right place now. I try to see.
Nope, no good. Can’t see anything. Need a smaller mirror. And maybe a miner’s helmet for my finger.
It was never going to work. I’ve gone mad, haven’t I? Post traumatic stress disorder.
I try to get down. I catch my foot on the tap. Oh shit, I’m falling!
My butt hurts. And I hit my head on…
Oh, God, no.
The ‘call for help’ button.