Get Booked – Author Read Extract Compilation & Reviews 250923

Hello, you are listening to Get Booked with me, Hazel Butterfield, for Women's and Men's Radio Station. Welcome to today's show. Today we're having a deep dive into past shows and the author-read extract The Facts of Salt and Skin by Eliza Henry-Jones, Generation Anxiety by Dr. Lauren Cook, The Graveyard Shift by Maria Lewis, and finally The Secret Life of Carolyn Russell by Gail Aldwin. All our past guests on the show. Just a quick reminder that you can pop onto womensradiostation.com/shows/get Get Booked to hear the full interviews. I think it's quite nice sometimes to sit back and be read to by the past guests here at To Get Booked, a bit of a try before you buy, and they're all absolutely fantastic books. Let's go straight into today's author read extract. Here is Salt and Skin. By Eliza Henry-Jones. Chapter 1: February, their first year. The boat seemed large at the dock, but now that they're rumbling away from Big Island, it seems flimsy and ludicrously small. Luda tries to think of the last time she'd been on a boat before coming to the islands. Years ago, someone's 30th birthday on the thick marshy water of the Hope Turn River back home in Australia. Even back then, the river's level had been low, and the unpleasant smell of wet things made dry permeated the boat, making people drink more than they should have. Ewan whistles under his breath, doing whatever a seafarer does in the cabin of their boat. Luda's two children, Darcy and Min, are out on the deck with her. Darcy, the eldest, is slouched against the gunwale, looking as though he's waiting for a late bus that's going to take him from one bland place to another. Min, two years younger, clutches at a pile of rope. Luda notices, but does not point out that it's not fastened to anything. Min is pale and looks almost bewildered by the world viewed from the small and rumbling fishing boat. When she notices Luda's gaze, she scowls. Fierce, fractious little Min, who is not so little anymore. 14, Luda thinks, with the usual jolt of shock. She's 14. Ewan cuts the engine and the boat immediately begins a slow spin in the currents. The intimate sound of water against the side of the boat. Ewan comes out of the cabin, he's leaning low over his eyes. "You can really see the erosion of the cliffs from here," he says, and points. Of course, Wittera's almost forgotten why she's here. Almost. They've been here a week. Ewan is trying to help her find her feet as quickly as possible, so that she can get on with the work of documenting the damage climate change is doing to these islands. Taking photos, writing funding applications. It is, she knows, not a particularly popular topic in the local fishing circles. Through his subcontracting to the council for these sorts of climate change adjacent projects, Ewan has made himself something of a pariah. Still, he smiles at her now, smelling of coffee and brine. He looks far older than 27. Luda studies the shoreline that Ewan's pointing to. It's low tide now, the sea pulled back to reveal a short sloped skirt of rippling sand up to the base of the overhanging rock. Figures walk along the sand leaving silvery footprints, their pants rolled up, shoes in hand. Now cavorting, chasing each other, a mother and child, looter things, but the shore's a bit too far away to be sure. She cocks her digital SLR camera, focuses on the cliff face, the beach, the figures which, with her camera's zoom, she can now make out more clearly. Yes, a little girl with curling bronze-red hair, she looks 6 or 7 or 8. She's with a muscular woman who is perhaps in her mid-thirties. Lüder follows them for a moment with her lens. What she sees is the easy intimacy of a parent and child at this age, the way the child's body still touches the parent's without thought, the mindless automatic easiness of it. Had Lüder ever appreciated it the way she should have? She misses it now. She feels like a voyeur. They'd have no reason to imagine a camera trained on them from the fishing boat. The eye gives her a little thrill, shivery and darting. "Sandstone," Ewan says. "You can make out the bands of it, see?" Luda has noticed that Ewan engages in quick, heavy bursts of interaction and then retreats back into himself. He continues to talk about erosion and deposition behind her, further along on the deck. He will be talking to Min, but it is Darcy who will be listening closely, storing the information up in that terrifying vault of a brain he has, Min tends to let information trickle over her, off her, like water. She remembers the broad strokes of things and how they fit together, while Darcy has always been preoccupied with the finest details. Luda snaps a few frames. She inspects them and is impressed by the mood of the midwinter light. She had expected it to be perhaps glaring or dull. She lifts the camera back to her eye, trains it back on the cliffs. And then the world collapses. A cracking sound, a flurry of movement as sheets of rock fall onto the narrow sloping beach. Stillness. And then the awful keening of a woman parted from her child. "Ali! Ali! Ali!" Swearing, Ewan hurtles into the cabin, fires up the engine and begins making calls on his phone. For a moment the three mannequins are alone on the deck. Min and Darcy watch their mother, still peering through the lens of her camera. 'Jesus!' Darcy says over the throb of the engine. 'Mum, put it down!' Luda looks up. Her face is bright, almost feverish, her horror has twisted itself into something that makes Darcy show his teeth. Ewan eases the boat as close as he can to the shore, and then he drops the anchor and throws himself off the side into the water. He swims until he can touch the sandy bottom, then he begins an awkward lunging. Darcy follows, his freestyle strokes unpracticed, but still somehow graceful. Min, who has never swum more than a few strokes here and there, hangs over the water's edge, white-faced. Luda, who can swim better than either of her children, stands up. Min spins around. "Don't! Don't go!" Min has always been the bolder of her children, the sort who insisted on dressing herself from before she was 2, who used to scream until Luda unhitched the leading line from her pony's bridle. The panic in her voice is new, and so Luda sits down on the deck, holding her camera in both hands. On the shore, Ewan helps the woman dig frantically through the rubble. Darcy stands in the shallows, staring up at the cliff face from which stones still trickle. "Move!" he yells, his voice carrying over the water. Ewan looks up, but the woman, bloody-fingered from the scrape of the rocks, does not. Ewan grunts and pulls the woman away from the rubble. She fights him, fingernails and teeth. "Let me go! Let me go! Ali!" Darcy moves quickly to the beach, where he wraps a long arm around the woman's waist. He continues to writhe. To kick, to scream. It takes both Darcy and Ewan to pull her away from the cliff face. Min sits down, shuts her eyes and covers her ears. Luda thinks, unbidden, of red hair tangled under rocks. Blood. No. She can't. She cannot. Luda has long known that the world is full of awful things and that if you let them inside you, if you let yourself linger or think, they'll damage you, these things, as surely as a gun or poison or the flash of a man's fist. ISO, shutter speed, aperture. Luda squeezes the camera like she's holding someone's hand. She raises her camera, takes another photo, then another. Nobody sees. It's just skin. That's all she can capture of a person. Skin. Luda feels like a ghost. Quicksilver. She thinks that this is her power. Chapter 4. February, their first year. Everyone on the islands knows about Theo, the foundling child, the selkie. Stories of him are passed from person to person, sometimes with words and sometimes without. The knowing is this: Theo runs like he can't quite believe that he has legs. He roars and rages on the whaling cliffs, flinging rocks out into the sea. He collects old shells and rocks and sea glass from the disappearing shorelines. He stores them in his room, piles and piles of rubbish left by the ebbing tides. It makes the whole house smell like salt and rot and damp stone. Iris wrinkles her nose but never comments. He works on a couple of small farms south of the town. He likes the animals and they seem to like him. Cows mostly, a few sheep. They stay close to him if he's mending a fence or pipe in the fields, nibbling at his jumper and snuffling at his hair. The knowing is this: he has webbing between his fingers. Scales too, probably. His fingers are green. They're silver. They're brown and furred, like the hide of a seal. The knowing is this: Theo seems calmer with animals than he is with people. Soothed by the feel of their warm breath, the sound of them grazing, the cows chewing their cud, the way they drink from the trough or pick their way through the mud near the gates. He was found 10 years ago. His age on that day was estimated to be 7 years old. It is therefore generally accepted that he is now 17. He lives with Iris, who is far too old to have raised a child, who is too old now to be parenting a teenage foundling. He cannot read. He pissed himself until he was 13 years old. He creates strange artworks, all pulsing curling greens and blues. The knowing is this: he hates the Kirk, that he is drawn to the shore of Shawnee. But he will sit there, webbed hands in his lap, looking out at the ever-encroaching sea, trying, everyone says, to find his way home. Such a fantastic book. I cannot recommend it enough. And another book that I have read quite recently that I just thought was brilliant, especially if you're one of those people that loves to read a book but just Can't Find the Time. Talking to Ghosts at Parties by the author Rick White. These are what we classed as flash fiction. There are some excellently profound nuggets among these random and astute observations of humanity showing up in a great variety of ways. It's a selection of flash fiction taking you on many different journeys, some sad, many of them funny and most of them just a tad bonkers. They're all open to subjectivity at times, kind of getting the reader to think and decipher the meaning for themselves. I love the introspective nature and how the characters randomly showed up in other scenarios of just as their lives overlap. It's great to read and a nice change from committing to longer works of fiction. You can find out more about the books that I read at hazelbutterfield.com. Click on the blogs and there's various links on there for how you can get hold of the books. On to the next reading, and we have an extract from Dr. Lauren Cook on her book Generation Anxiety. It looks different for each person, but ultimately, our brains love to introduce all kinds of wacky, unpleasant, and worst-case-scenario thoughts and images that make us do a double-take on ourselves. That is simply what the brain does. While there are findings indicating a wide range in the number of thoughts we have in a given day, at a minimum, the brain churns out about 6,000 thoughts a day. Better yet, Most of those thoughts are considered to be negative in nature and repetitive in context. This is how the brain has held power over you. Each time an upsetting idea or image pops up, you may have said to yourself, "What's wrong with you? You're so disgusting, weird, stupid, messed up. How could you have had this thought?" You start worrying that it's just you who's had these thoughts, and before you know it, You've got a classic case of what we call meta-worrying. What's meta-worrying? It's when you start worrying about how much you're worrying. Sound familiar? You notice yourself obsessing about that interview, that date, or that conversation from 7 years ago, and before you know it, you're freaked out because really, you shouldn't be this freaked out, right? Then start the mental cues. But why am I so worried? What does this mean that I'm so worried? Is this a sign because I am so worried? Or the best, I'm noticing that I haven't been as worried lately. Perhaps I should be worrying about that. Notice a key word there: should. As the saying goes, when it comes to anxiety, so many of us are shoulding on ourselves. We internally scold ourselves for something we have literally no control over—our minds. I don't mean for that to unnerve you. I say it to help ground you. Because once you know that it's not your fault that you feel anxious or that you have uncomfortable, scary, or gross thoughts sometimes, that's when you take the wheel again. That's when you start to actually feel like you have some control in your life again. The brain is a wild and free agent. It comes up with all kinds of odd, quirky, frustrating thoughts. But that's just the brain being its true self. In fact, the brain loves to come up with the worst-case scenario where we lose our job, we found out our partner is cheating on us, and we all die from a huge meteor hitting the Earth. Okay, I'll stop there with the examples. The great news is that we are not the sum of our thoughts. If we were, we honestly wouldn't make much sense. A thought is simply a thought. It doesn't mean it has actual truth. Let me say that again in case you missed it. A thought is just a thought. It doesn't mean it's valid, real, or accurate. It could be, but It might not be either. Starting to get curious and even a little cautious about the data your brain is trying to give you is going to help you stay afloat in your water that much longer. The sooner we can realize this, the more liberated we are to engage with our experiences and relationships. We are no longer a victim to the mind and what it's trying to tell us. In other words, the jig is up., and the brain can get in line because you're no longer buying the BS. Speaking of BS, I'm calling out positive thinking, changing your thoughts, or training your brain, because as much as we may want to control our thoughts, our brains can be unruly. That's why, for example, mindfulness is a practice that's about building awareness of our thoughts. It's never an act of mastery. You may have found yourself especially frustrated because you've tried all the brain hacks to change your thinking and it's just not cutting it. People can get into some really dangerous territory because they've been told that if only they could think positively, they would feel better. Or they've been told that they can pray it away, ignore it, or change it. And you know how this goes, thanks to meta-worrying. That tends to only amplify the thoughts and corresponding distress when we can't in fact change our thoughts. So let me say this loud and clear: there's nothing wrong with you if you have anxious or obsessive thoughts. We all have them from time to time. For some, it just happens to be a little or a lot more frequent. This isn't by happenstance either. There are literally mechanisms in the brain that contribute to people experiencing ruminating thoughts. Specifically with obsessive-compulsive disorder, or OCD, we see overactivity in the orbitofrontal cortex, or OFC, anterior cingulate cortex, or ACC, and caudate nucleus. So while you may be feeling like you've been responsible for giving yourself these upsetting thoughts that just won't seem to go away, it's actually your brain doing the work for you. How kind. Now, I know, I'm going to put it simply, this plane sucks. This is the part of the acceptance work that's the struggle. Many of us go through a period where we resent our minds, compare ourselves to others, and say, "Why me? Why do others seem so unbothered by their minds and I'm over here losing sleep, second-guessing everything, and feeling miserable?" If you feel like it's unfair, it is. Just as some people are not able to use their legs to run or their eyes to see, some people have minds that auto-populate with indecision, morbidity, and catastrophe. But just as a person does not have a choice in the matter of their legs or their eyes, the same goes for how the brain functions as well. Thankfully, there are approaches we can take regarding how we respond to these thoughts. But at an entry point, we have to acknowledge and accept when the brain feels like a relentless tyrant inside ourselves. When we come to terms with this reality, it's common to go through a grieving process. I've seen it with many clients, especially those who have had decades-long battles with anxiety and/or depression. It makes sense that we feel this sadness. If we could make the anxiety go away, we would, wouldn't we? And we've tried valiantly too. Just in 2019 alone, we spent $225 billion on mental health services, an increase of 52% since 2009. Many of us cycle through therapists, medications, and the latest trend treatment fad, hoping that will cure us finally. But the struggling sometimes is what it means to be human, what it means to have a brain. When we can allow ourselves to feel the sadness that the brain hands us, we can learn how to cope with it. We're no longer living in a space of denial where we doubt ourselves. Instead, we're acknowledging it for what it is. Now, at first this may feel like defeat, that by accepting your anxiety, you're losing the battle in your brain, but it's actually winning the war. I get what it's like all too well. Anxiety has tried to rule my life in so many ways, but I would say none more so than with respect to my decision about whether or not to start a family. Anxiety has told me, "You wouldn't be a good mother. You have no experience." It's also tried to tell me, "You like control too much. Babies are the definition of a lack of control." And my favorite, "A baby would change everything. Why would you want to mess everything up?" Really fun being inside my head, right? It doesn't help that my experience with emetophobia has added on some nice excuses for why I could never become a parent. After all, when you're basically deathly afraid of vomit, who would willingly enter into potentially 9 months of morning sickness? Yep, you know I've researched hyperemesis gravidarum, which is when you basically throw up every day of your pregnancy and sometimes get hospitalized because it's so bad. To then have a child who could projectile vomit on you and at you at any given moment. So you can see that as I'm now in my 30s, this tape has played out for a while. While these thoughts floating in my head and churning in my stomach, it's all really confusing. Even more confusing is that anxiety often makes us want to be everything to everyone. It tells us to conform, to wash ourselves away entirely. It tells us not to stand out, speak up, or share our true identities. It tells us that we are only loved and accepted when we agree and go with the crowd. As someone who has straddled that line, I can tell you it's much better to be on the side where you embrace yourself fully. And counterintuitively, people tend to connect with you even more when they see you allowing yourself to be true to you. It's okay to own and accept who you are. I know your anxiety, and especially your perfectionism, may have told you for years that no one loves you, that you're ugly, or that you're an idiot. It doesn't mean there's actual validity to these thoughts. Once we break this association, the guilt and shame can start to go away. We begin to learn that you may have the thought that you are stupid, but— it does not mean you are actually stupid. You may have the thought you're not creative, but that doesn't mean you're not actually creative. Now you may be asking, "But Lauren, what if my thought is actually true?" And sure, I'm not telling you to invalidate yourself completely, but could it be that you're being way harder on yourself than you would with anyone else? Could there be evidence that you may in fact not be the ultimate the failure or loser you've told yourself that you are. You get to decide what you believe, who you want to be, and how you want to live your life. There is no number of anxious thoughts in your brain that can ever stop you from being the person you want to become. So while you can't control the thoughts, you can control what you do with them. How you respond to your thoughts is where you get your power back. Seriously, I found this book so helpful to work through. I struggle with anxiety, I think many of us do, and there's some great coping mechanisms in there just to help you through. Another book that I read recently is Sad Girl Novel by Pimpheng Kamaya. And I'm loving the emergence of these kind of stream-of-consciousness style novels that assist a deep dive into someone else's psyche, the intricacies of their thought patterns, sense of humor, ego, and sense of awareness. In the case of Kim, the main character in Sad Girl novel, her loneliness and wanting someone to care, but only when she wants it. Is that familiar? Exploring wanting to achieve, be unique, but lethargy relentlessly taking over. Navigating cultural nuance, ideologies, and understanding of the components and viewpoints of mental health can be a mental workout on its own. A fantastically designed book written beautifully, focusing on realism rather than sensationalism, that takes you on a self-reflective journey on just how amazingly talented are absolutely the worst Kim thinks she is. This is what we do here at Get Booked for Women's and Men's Radio Station. It's all about talking to authors, chatting about anything and everything books related, and all the joy, enlightenment, and escape that good books can provide. Now time to hear our next reading from the author Maria Lewis on The Graveyard Shift, a fantastic slasher thriller. Yo, what's up? My name's Maria Lewis. I'm the author of The Graveyard Shift, which is a pop cultural slasher, and I'm gonna read you a chunk from it. BTWs, I'm notoriously a bit shit at this, so you'll just have to bear with me. "Is that necessary?" Rochelle asked as the younger detective slid a small digital voice recorder onto the table. "It is, I'm afraid. This is just a line of inquiry at the moment, but having our conversation on file will help us down the line." "It's fine," Tinsel told them both. "Really, I want to help any way I can as soon as I know what this is about." "I'm Detective James, and this is Detective Senior Sergeant Durani," he said, smiling at her in a way that was friendly but also highlighted the laugh lines around his eyes. The older cop took over, flipping open a small notepad as he consulted what was written there. Last night, or this morning rather, shortly after midnight, the neighbours of Amira Brandt called police to report a disturbance at her property. Officers at the scene discovered Miss Brandt deceased. Due to the nature of her injuries, we're treating the matter as a homicide. The name flagged something in Tinsel's mind, but she couldn't immediately recall what it was as she concentrated on the information detectives were telling her. "Her mobile device was discovered near the body, the last call being registered to this station, we believe, shortly before her time of death. The number is 1800 44836," Tinsel finished, earning an interested stare from the officer. "That's our call line," Rochelle said. "When we run competitions or have people dial into the show, that's the number they call. It's 1-800-HIT-FM." "Miss Brandt dialed this number and was on the line for several minutes," Detective Senior Sergeant Durani frowned. "We were told here by your station manager that you're the only one who works the overnight shift, is that right?" "The graveyard shift," Tinsel corrected. That's what my show is called. I work from 11 through to the breakfast show at 6. It's supposed to be the dead zone. Do you remember speaking to anyone last night? Detective James asked. Were there any— I know her, she whispered, shock spreading through Tinsel's limbs as she realized why the victim's name was familiar. Detective James leaned forward in his chair. You know Miss Brandt? I mean, not know her know her, Tinsel clarified. "But she called into the show last night. She's called in a few times." "Was there anything unusual about the call?" the older detective questioned. The silence was heavy as Tinsel attempted to take another sip of tea, her hand shaking enough that it was noticeable to the other people in the room. "Tinsel," Rochelle started, straightening up in her chair. "I thought it was a prank," she whispered, eyes wide as she looked at the two detectives. It was a Halloween show, you know. There's always at least one or two people calling in pretending to be Hannibal Lecter or something. When was this? Detective Senior Sergeant Durani was scribbling notes. Uh, I have to check the logs, but around 12:30, maybe a little bit later. And you were alone in the studio? No, I mean, usually I am, but Luisa Cursa was there as well. She stayed late after her shift. She heard the call too. "Louisa hosts the aperitif," Rochelle supplied. "It's the mid-evening show from 6 until 11 after dry finishes." "Wait," Detective James said, putting up his hand. "What do you mean heard the call?" "It was live," Tinsel explained. "I opened up the lines and a woman called Mira Brandt rang through to try and win tickets to a movie premiere." "Walk me through what was said exactly." "It was a question about a rap song. She answered and then... I don't know. I thought she had dropped off the line. She went quiet. I prompted her and she spoke up and..." Tinsel's throat felt thick as she swallowed, realizing for the first time just what she might have heard. Rochelle's hand touched her wrist gently, a gesture of sympathy. Her eyes felt like they were filling to the brim and she blinked rapidly. Trying to keep it together. I really enjoyed chatting to Maria Lewis a few weeks ago. Please do pop on to our SoundCloud at womensradiostation.com to check out the full interview. She was so much fun. Next up, and our final extract of today, is from The Secret Life of Carolyn Russell, read by the author Gail Aldwyn. The Secret Life of Carolyn Russell, written and read by Gail Aldwyn. Chapter 1, 2014. It was well past 5 o'clock when Stephanie prepared to leave the office. Glancing through the window, a great belly of clouds suggested a downpour was likely. She opened her desk drawer expecting to see her foldable umbrella tucked beside the desk tidy which always contained a ready-sharpened HB pencil. Not in its correct place, Stephanie wondered where the hell it was. From the corner of her eye, she saw Doug approaching. He probably wanted to share one of his larger-than-life stories, and she really wasn't in the mood. 'Can I have a word?' he asked. 'I was about to go home.' 'It's important,' Doug frowned. 'Let's go to my office.' 'Shit, right this minute?' Doug didn't answer, just turned, and Stephanie was obliged to follow. They walked through rows of abandoned hot desks. Koncięcia's colleagues cleared their workspaces while others left the detritus of a birthday celebration: screwed-up napkins, cake crumbs, and a shrivelled pink balloon. Stephanie remembered the days of greasy fingerprints on a shared keyboard, Honestly, there should be some rules about office hygiene. That was before the restructure at the West Country Post. Now she had a permanent base in a quiet corner and the title of Features Editor. Doug took his place behind the desk and Stephanie sat opposite. 'What's all this about?' she asked. Doug tapped the manila folder in front of him. 'I expect you know what's coming.' 'Expect what?' Stephanie undid a button on her cardigan as heat surged. Of all times to have a hot flush. 'You must have heard the rumours.' 'Rumours?' Her fingernail snagged on the buttonhole stitching. Oh, for an emery board, also stored in her desk tidy. She was tempted to bite the jagged edge of nail to prevent it catching on anything else, but she stopped herself. 'Are you all right, Stephanie?' 'Absolutely.' She crossed one tenteignière pale crystal leg over the other. 'This business needs knocking into shape and economies have to be made,' said Doug. 'Don't worry, I'm not going to stockpile the office stationery to take home.' Doug didn't even crack a smile. 'Jokes aside.' 'Bloody hell.' She flapped her collar in an attempt to cool down. The Menoese sage tablets she'd been taking for the last few months were having little or no effect. 'There are to be redundancies.' 'I see.' She glanced at Doug and his look of consternation made her realise she should say more. 'If it's the only way forward.' 'I'm glad you feel like that. I've been dreading this moment.' 'My shoulders are broad, Doug. You know I can take on extra responsibilities.' 'You don't understand.' Doug's expression was strangely contorted. This made Stephanie focus. Her cheeks were rosy and probably complemented her— his cheeks were rosy and probably complemented her own shade of too much heat. 'What's wrong?' she asked. 'I'm afraid it's your job that's being cut. I'm very sorry.' As the news sank in, Stephanie sagged. Doug droned on about payments and notice periods and new beginnings, but nothing registered. 'I thought we were...' She was going to say friends. Christ, how had it come to this? She'd been at the Post for so long. 'What about the big new project?' 'Change of plan,' Doug sighed. 'You know how it is.' Returning to her desk, Stephanie saw the umbrella hanging by its cord from the coat stand. There it was. She gripped it, thinking somehow the folded spokes could steady her. Loyalty to the Post meant nothing. She flung the umbrella at her chair, and when metal hit metal, there was a loud dong. Fortunately, no one saw her little act of rebellion or the tears streaming down her face. Time to just squeeze in one more final extract, a past guest on the show. And I know it is a show that many of you really enjoyed, and thank you so much to all of you that get in touch about the shows. The fantastic guest, Juliette Boggio, with her book Shooters. We're going to have a quick listen to an extract and her follow-up book, Chasing the Light, is now available to order on julia-boggio.com. Of all the weddings in the world, why did she have to turn up at this one? Krish admires his boss Connor Knight and wants everything he has: the successful business, a funny talented wife like Stella, and the gorgeous child. And Krish thinks he's on the verge of getting it too. His new business cards are hot off the press, and the engagement ring is burning a hole in his pocket. And then his ex-girlfriend Francesca shows up at a wedding he's shooting. 5 years ago, Francesca broke their hearts when she suddenly ended their relationship. When circumstances throw them together and passions reignite, will Francesca finally share her painful secret? And as Chris watches the cracks in Stella, and Connor's marriage begin to develop, will he reframe his idea of what the perfect life actually means? I cannot wait to get my teeth sunk into Chasing the Light. Here is an extract from Shooters. Hello, and this is an excerpt from Shooters by me, Julia Boggio, and before I start, I just want to say that this is a British rom-com. I have lived in the UK for most of my life, but my British accent is appalling, so I'm not going to torture you with that. So you just have to imagine it. So let me set the scene. At this point in the story, Stella, our heroine, is on a residential photography course at a château in France, led by the talented but arrogant Connor Knight. The model for that day's styled shoot has called in sick, and Connor needs somebody to get into the wedding dress and model for the class. He asks Stella. She is persuaded to say yes, although under duress. She feels less put out, however, when the handsome Jean-Luc turns out to be her pretend husband. Connor sees Stella flirting with Jean-Luc and he doesn't like it one bit. Here we go. Connor cleared his throat. "Today we're going to concentrate on posing hands. Aside from the eyes, the hands are the most expressive part of the body." He looked at Stella and Jean-Luc. Standing like a couple and narrowed his eyes. "Stella, can I borrow you for a moment?" She stepped up and waited for instruction, aware that every eye was on her, including Connor's. It made her feel lightheaded, or maybe that was the hairpins sticking into her scalp. She should have told the hairstylist how uncomfortable they were. "May I touch you?" The question took her by surprise. Blinking, she sent a silent plea to her cheeks not to betray her embarrassment. He repeated the question. "Do you mind if I touch you?" "N-no, that's fine." Her mouth felt dry. She could really use a glass of water. Glancing back towards the students, Connor said, "Always, always ask your models or clients if you can touch them before you pose them. You don't want to come across as a pervert." "Gunner, hear that?" Flash joked. "Haha," Gunner replied. Connor took a step towards Stella. "Hands are expressive." They showed tenderness? He reached up and cradled Stella's cheek in his fingers, surprising her. She could feel the calluses on his palm against her face. Remembering she had a part to play, she raised her eyes to his, and for a moment their gazes locked together, his pupils darkening as she watched. It was just part of the act. Disinterest? The moment snapped and his touch disappeared as he casually slid his hand into his pocket, twisting away. "Passion." He placed his hands on her waist, pulling her towards him and crumbling the fabric of her dress in his fingers. She wondered if he felt the jolt of heat below his belt too. "Or sensual." He raised his hand to her face once again and dragged the back of his fingers slowly along her jawline. Stella didn't know how much more of this she could take. Each spot he touched lit up and she hadn't breathed since he started the demonstration. She couldn't tell if she was sweating because of the hot mid-morning sunshine or Connor's attentions. Probably a bit of both. "Don't ever be lazy when it comes to hands. Here's the difference in a nutshell. This says nothing." He placed his hand flat against the upper part of Stella's arm, the crest of a robot. Next, he changed the shape of it, adding a slight bend to his fingers, pressing them into her flesh just a little bit. "This says I love you." The hairs on her arms stood up. The last man to say that to her had been Nathan, and it had been a lie. Just like now, she reminded herself, keeping her face carefully blank. He stepped away. Jean-Luc moved in, taking her arm. She smiled gratefully at him, and he blew her a kiss. "Any questions so far?" Connor asked. "Can we begin with the passionatance?" Jean-Luc said, sweeping his gaze across the ladies in the crowd. Lilywen and Karen tittered. Connor turned towards Stella and Jean-Luc, his gaze snagging on the protective way Jean-Luc held her arm. Stella pursed her lips to stop herself from laughing. If she didn't know better, she'd say Connor was exhibiting signs of jealousy. He obviously liked being the alpha male and Jean-Luc was encroaching on his territory. This could be fun. "No, in fact..." Connor tilted his head and thought, "You know what? The bride is more important anyway." The groom is really just a prop, so why don't you go take a seat? He gestured towards the sun loungers at the pool. And we'll let you know when you're needed. D'accord? I am your servant, Jean-Luc said, bowing his head. Before he left, he leaned over and took Stella's hand in his, placing a delicate kiss on the back of her fingers. À plus, chérie. We don't have all day. For the next hour, Stella held pose after pose. Connor crossed her arms, uncrossed one hand and brought it to her face, put the other arm on her waist, and made sure to capture each move on camera. The novelty of modeling quickly started to thin— to wear thin. The dress seemed to be shrinking, as though her sweat was making it shrivel. The corset ribs, which hadn't bothered her at the beginning, now dug into the top of her hip. She also worried that she was beginning to melt. The makeup artist flitted in and out, pressing more powder onto Stella's face. There must have been at least 10 layers of powder by now. As her coursemates clicked their shutters, she wished she were on their side of the lens. However, she wasn't, so she should just do the best job she could. Of course, modeling was a masterclass in itself. Knowing how it felt to be posed by someone as talented as Connor gave her more of an insight into the skill involved. She absorbed the minute changes he made to her chin, her shoulders, her hands, committing them all to memory. To elicit authentic facial expressions, he listed prompts to use, tricks like telling the groom to whisper something dirty in the bride's ear to get a big laugh. "I do that," said Gunnar. "It always works." It felt intimate whenever Connor pointed his lens at her. Sometimes he would pause before taking the picture, those seconds before he hit the shutter release hanging expectantly in the air. She could feel him studying her through the viewfinder, his dominant eye having free rein to roam over her from head to toe, checking her position. If she were doing it correctly, he would take the picture. If she were doing it wrong, he would lower the camera and coach her into a better pose, sometimes using his hands to maneuver her, always asking permission before he touched her, of course. When he showed her the pictures on the back of his camera, she couldn't believe it was her. Between setups, she glanced towards Jean-Luc. He seemed quite happy, sprawled on the sun lounger, smoking a cigarette and texting. The stylist stepped into shot to fix the train of the dress, and Stella wished she would loosen some of the buttons, just to give her a touch more breathing room. But she was too shy to ask. All the students were as active shooting her as they had been working with the professional models. They crowded around Connor, striving to get the same angles. During one setup, something long and hard appeared between Connor's legs. He dipped his head over his shoulder. "Alan, mate, some personal space?" "Sorry," Alan replied from the ground. He hunched lower so he could move his big lens lower, between Connor's knees. As they each took turns directing the poses, Stella's stomach grumbled. She realized she'd skipped breakfast. At the next break, she'd ask somebody to get her a snack. "Connor, love," said Lilliwen with a mischievous glint in her eye, 'Would you mind showing us some couple poses now? I think it would be really helpful.' Karen, Lisa, and Hannah chorused their agreement. Connor sighed. He called to Jean-Luc, beckoning him to return. Extinguishing his cigarette underfoot, Jean-Luc stood. With the slow, deliberate saunter of someone who knows he's attractive, he ambled towards the group. From his pocket, he took out a packet of mints and threw a couple into his mouth. "Ready for ze action, as you say," he quipped, stopping next to Stella. She was glad to have her husband back. "Right then." Connor shifted his camera to his free hand and motioned for Jean-Luc to stand behind Stella. Liliwen raised her hand. "Sorry, Connor?" "Yes?" "What if I want to pose the man with his hands on the woman's, you know, her arse? How do you make it look tasteful instead of horny?" "I don't think Stella wants to—" "No, it's fine. I don't mind," she said from behind a guileless smile. Lillian was obviously trying to help Stella realize the dream of screwing a Frenchman. For the fun of it, Stella was happy to play along, even if she had no plans to sleep with anybody. Besides, it seemed to irritate Connor. Jean-Luc looked delighted. "Right." Connor's nostrils flared as he took a steadying breath. "Remember, as I said earlier, the groom is only a prop in a wedding photo." The bride is always the focus. Stella, can you step in front of Jean-Luc and face him? She followed his instruction. She would ask for a break after this pose to get a drink and some food. She could feel a hunger headache developing with the accompanying dip in mood. Now, place your hands on his cheek. Actually, no, just off his shoulder. He stood back and examined his models, running his fingers over his jawline in thought. Okay, Price, stick out your left hip and lean to the right. "Now drop your back shoulder." She tried to do as he asked, but she felt distorted, her body going in one direction and her dress straining to go in the other. "Is this how it's supposed to look?" "You're doing it perfectly." Much to her annoyance, Stella glowed at his words. She fought with the muscles at the corner of her mouth, trying to keep them from betraying her pleasure at his approval. He asked the stylist to adjust the train of her dress while he twiddled with the dials on his camera. Stella wished he would hurry up. Her hip was aching. Okay, final touches now. Jean-Luc, put your hand respectfully on her bottom and bring your lips closer to hers like you're about to kiss. He mumbled this last bit. Standing back, he pointed the lens at them and shot a few frames. He examined the back of his camera, nodded, and said, okay, got it. You can break the pose. Stella sagged with relief. The dress was really starting to chafe, and she worried her breasts were going to pop out of the top the way her torso was twisted. "Wait a second," Alan objected. "We haven't had a chance to take the photo yet." "Alan!" She lifted back into the pose. Jean-Luc's smile turned sly as he said to Connor, "What is that thing you said to do when last I modeled for you? Whisper des choses coquines?" Without waiting for an answer, he brought his mouth close to her ear. His hot breath tickled the delicate skin of her neck and she shivered. He tightened his grip. Just loud enough that others could hear, he murmured, "Je pourrai te dévorer toute crue." Really sorry about my French accent. I don't know what I'm saying. Having no idea what he was saying but enjoying the subtext, Stella erupted in croaky laughter. The shutters clicked like castanets behind her, trying to capture the look of jocularity on her face while her sexy model husband groped her bottom. Laughing made her remember how parched she was. When was the last time she drank water? Hours ago. The sun was high, despite the shade, its rays hammering down. Her stomach gurgled again. Oh, that's right, no breakfast. And the dress was so tight, the ribbing of the corset excavating her skin. And her inner thighs burning, chafed and sweating. She tried to breathe her way through it, but the stale cigarettes on Jean-Luc's clothing mixed with mint on his breath made her head spin. A wave of dizziness washed over her. Her grip loosened and her head tipped backwards. The last thing she remembered before passing out was Jean-Luc's frantic eyes and his empty hands flailing at the air. And that's it. As said, apologies for my French accent and the French words. I hope you enjoyed that. For all you fans of thrillers out there, I did read a fantastic book over the summer. It was released on the 3rd of August of this year, The Good Daughter by Laura Van Rensburg, an eerily suspenseful novel that takes you on a traumatic ride through the grief persecution and entrapment of being a good daughter, and how institutional abuse can lead you to do crazy things. The more people treat you like you're crazy, how long before you start to believe it? Or be it. Religion isn't for everyone, and not all religions have everyone's best interests at heart. In fact, what crosses the line of a religion to a cult? Are you devout or brainwashed? Good or subservient? But when feminism is a bad word used to describe moral decline, your own family can no longer be trusted to have your best interests at heart, and you have more in common with strangers getting you to question your own way of life, all you have ever known, the alarm bells ring. How the hell do you escape being good. The Good Daughter by Laura Van Rensburg. It's brilliant, honestly, really enjoyed it. A fantastic thriller. And another one, if you want something a little bit more lighthearted, that although it can get you ruminating about past relationships, I really enjoyed Seven Exes by Lucy Vine. That novel you kind of read by the pool or in the queue at passport control, giggling to yourself like a plonker. Many of us have had a cacophony of exes that have been dodgy in a meticulous amount of ways, both truly and self-preservedly. Hey, subjectivity is a thing. With hindsight, looking back at the ones that you remember, for whatever reason, have we remembered them correctly, honestly, and sympathetically? Does experience make us regret the decisions we made, or nostalgia cloud our judgment? Well, I guess there's only one way to figure that out. Visit more like some kind of messed up voluntary Scrooge epiphany, but in real life. 7 Exes by Lucy Vine is so funny, it's relatable, and it's full of great characters. And also, do you know what, these books, but yes, they're fictional and they're fun, but they're sometimes great to get us rethinking. Sometimes we think, oh, you know, what if? And then we just need to remember there's a reason that we end things, and the majority of the time they're very good reasons. Thank you so much for listening to today's show. I hope you enjoyed the slightly different format and just sitting back and having somebody else just read to you different extracts of books and seeing what maybe you should give a whirl next. You've been listening to Get Booked with me, Hazel Butterfield. Thank you so much, and please do pop on to mensradiostation.com and womensradiostation.com to check out all the other fantastic shows that we produce on a weekly basis.