As Weekends Go: Jan Brigden’s most memorable weekends

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As Weekends Go is out in paperback today and, to celebrate, we have Jan Brigden on the blog, chatting about her favourite weekends … 

Whilst writing As Weekends Go, I fondly recalled memorable weekends of my own and how each of them, from the action-packed to the funny to the downright lazy, had benefitted me.

For instance, I always feel a huge sense of achievement when pounding the streets, (or by the end of a long day, dawdling …) taking in the sights and sounds of a new place, exploring its quaint and quirky sides, its glitz and charm, learning its history, sampling its culinary delights and snapping photographs, as with York, (below) the central city in my novel.

Me in grounds of RY Hotel (1) 20160707_150420 (1) Shambles (1) 20160707_150316 (1)

One of my most comical weekends away was spent huddled under four blankets at night, fending off frostbite in a rickety old caravan down on the south coast, in what felt like the coldest March on record. Yes, I know … March? What were we thinking? Alas, it was the only time all thirteen of us could synchronize our timings. Yes, the weather was foul and half the facilities closed, but we made our own fun and have never stopped laughing about it since. That has to be a positive, surely?

Equally beneficial, are those rare weekends where I find myself commitment-free. Should we be lucky enough to have two days back to back sunshine (indulge me!) simply wandering in and out of the garden in my flip flops, towel spread on the grass, radio on low, cool drink beside me, book in hand, refreshes both mind and body no end.


Obviously in winter, the book would remain, but it’d be the sofa I’d be stretched out on, with the pear cider exchanged for a steaming mug of tea or hot chocolate. You get my drift though.

I always think if you’re talking about your weekend on Monday and still talking about it months later, you know you’ve done alright.

Of course there have been less enjoyable Saturdays and Sundays, days I’d happily write off, but all in all, As Weekends Go, the good ones far outweigh the duds!

Love Jan x

As Weekends Go is now available as a paperback and available to order through all good bookshops and stockists. For buying options click HERE

For more information on the author: 

Follow @briggy44 on Twitter.

Liz Harris: How I became an author


Yesterday was paperback release day for Liz Harris and The Lost Girl. Today Liz shares her journey to becoming a writer and a little bit about her latest hero, Joe Walker … 

I give a lot of talks, and when my talk is over, I stay on to chat with the readers there, something I always enjoy doing. During the conversation after my latest talk, which was at the BeaconLit Festival at the end of June, I was asked, as I regularly am, if I’d always wanted to be an author, and who my heroes are modelled upon. Knowing that I was going to talk to you today, I thought I’d answer both of those questions for you.

Firstly, have I always wanted to be an author from the moment I knew what ‘author’ meant? The answer is no! I’ve always loved reading – I’ve read everything I could get my hands on over the years: Enid Blyton, Noel Streatfield, Jane Austen, Mickey Spillane, Catherine Cookson, Agatha Christie, Charlotte Bronte, Barbara Taylor Bradford – everything. And I’ve always loved writing essays, letters, exam answers. However, it was years before I connected my two loves. Books just happened, I would have thought, if I’d thought about it at all.

So how did I come to be an author? Well, when I finished my studies, I set off to see the world. I started in San Francisco and ended in Los Angeles. As you can see, I didn’t get far! I had six fantastic years in California, and then real life intervened and I had to return to England.

During the years that followed, I settled to life in England, which included writing voluminous letters to friends, until one day, a friend, in desperation at having received yet another ten-page letter, phoned up and suggested I wrote a novel. Hmm, I thought. I sat down at the typewriter, slipped in a sheet of paper and started my first novel. Even before the end of Chapter One, I was hooked!

Now, after six published novels and several short stories, I’m still hooked. To spend all day giving birth to new characters and situations makes for a wonderful life. I can’t imagine anything better than being an author.

As for the inspiration for my heroes, the latest of whom is Joe Walker, the ‘star’ of The Lost Girl. Joe is one of a line of heroes who have grown out of my love for Wyoming and the American West, a time when men were men, you might say.

I’m a real romantic and a believer in love at first sight. The morning after I’d met a certain Richard, I went into the school where I taught and told my friends that I’d met the man I was going to marry. The morning after Richard met me, he told his closest friend that the night before he’d met the woman he was going to marry. We married 38 years ago.

And what could be more romantic in a novel than a man who forged his life in the openness of Wyoming, beneath an endless wide blue sky; a man who was lean, tanned, athletic, at ease in the saddle, able to turn his hand to anything; a man who was passionate when he fell in love and fiercely protective of his woman?

So that’s how I became an author. And that’s also an introduction to Joe Walker, a rugged, good-looking man. I think you’re going to like him.

Liz’s new novel, The Lost Girl, is the author’s fourth paperback novel with Choc Lit. Click HERE for purchasing options. 

For more on Janet, follow her on Twitter: @lizharrisauthor

Visit her website:

A tour of Coorah Creek


It’s release day today for the e-book of Janet Gover’s Little Girl Lost – the fourth story set in the tiny Australian outback town of Coorah Creek. To celebrate, Janet takes us on a tour of the Creek.

After four books (and maybe more to come – who knows), I thought it was time I took you to Coorah Creek.

The town is fictional, but in building it, I’ve drawn on the small bush towns I know so well. I grew up in a town just like Coorah Creek – only a fair bit smaller. So come with me now and let me show you around.


This is what you see driving into my old home town. This isn’t Coorah Creek – but in many ways it is. 

Let’s start at the pub. The Coorah Creek Hotel is the heart of the town. It’s the place to get together with their friends and neighbours. A lot of community decisions are made at the pub – decisions to form a bush fire brigade or create a sports ground for the kids at the school. Small towns thrive on gossip, but the  gossip you hear at the Coorah Creek pub is the kind of gossip that will result in everyone pitching together to help someone repair their home, or clear some land.

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This hotel is actually in New South Wales – but this is what the Coorah Creek Hotel looks like – including the wrought iron on the upper veranda. The only difference, this is brick, and Trish’s pub is timber. 

This bar is in my head whenever I write a scene set in Trish’s bar… see that big walk in cold room behind the bar. Can’t you just see Syd and Jack storing the kegs there?

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When I was a kid, I once rode my pony into this bar. I can’t remember why but it must have seemed like a good idea at the time. 

We didn’t have a police station in my town. It just wasn’t big enough so the nearest police station was about eleven miles away. But Coorah Creek does have a police station. In my head it looks like this. This was the post office in my old town, but in some small communities, a one man police station would look a lot like this.


Note the faded and worn paint. Paint doesn’t last long under the outback sun.

Coorah Creek has a hall. It’s where the town Christmas party is held. This is exactly what it looks like.  As an aside, I met my first politician in this hall during a community event when I was a teenager.


The hall was built out of corrugated iron – even the outer walls. It was pretty hot inside in the summer. 

My town had a single garage. It looked like this when I was a teenager, and it still does. Change comes slowly to these little towns.


This is Ed Collins’s garage exactly. 

One of the icons of Queensland – particularly the bush – is wooden houses built on wooden stumps. I guess it had a lot to do with available building material and the need for airflow under the house. Those stumps and the metal caps on them also keep ants and termites out of the house. Most of the houses in Coorah Creek are like this.


Note the water tanks. We had no reticulated water and survived totally on rainwater or water delivered in tanker trucks when it was really dry.

That’s Coorah creek for you. There are not a lot of bright lights. There’s no shopping centre or movie theatre. But there are a lot of good people.  That’s the strongest memory I have of growing up in my small town. People would be there whenever help was needed. That’s the town I have tried to capture in Coorah Creek. I hope you’ll go and visit and meet some of my friends.

Janet’s new novel, Little Girl Lost, is the fourth book in her Coorah Creek series and is now available to buy as an eBook. Click HERE for purchasing options. 

For more on Janet, follow her on Twitter: @janet_gover

Visit her website:

Thoughts from a vampire


I really enjoy writing from two points of view, especially when the characters are as diverse as Ellie and Will. Ellie is a modern young woman at ease with the 21st century and its technology. Will, however, is a product of the 17th and 18th centuries, and although he’s ‘lived’ a long time and seen many changes, there are some things he isn’t keen to embrace. (Like mobile phones for example – he has a real problem with those). He can drive a car, but ‘chooses not to’, preferring instead to be driven by Luke or to take a cab. It must be the ‘Duke’ coming out in him, even after three centuries.

There would have to be times when Will, much as he adores Ellie, would want to be on his own. He would need to be somewhere away from the hustle and bustle of modern life – somewhere quiet and peaceful. Where better than Highgate Cemetery?  Then I wondered what he might be thinking as he walked around the mausoleums and graves late at night. Would his thoughts be serious or romantic? Possibly reminiscent? I’d like to share them with you …


The Circle of Lebanon is a favourite ‘haunt’ of mine. I say this, tongue firmly in cheek, because of course a vampire must haunt as surely a ghost must haunt? How I love the peace and solitude of this place at night. The circle of vaults and mausoleums that were dug into the hillside decades ago, stand in their brooding silence, defying mere mortals to encroach their peace. The huge Cedar of Lebanon that gives the Circle its name, towers above the mausoleums, sheltering them – I like to think – from the worst of the elements.

Highgate is where I have lived for more than two centuries, not as some would suppose, actually in the famous Cemetery, but in a fine Georgian mansion. Popular fiction and films always like to have vampires living in mouldering coffins in dusty cobwebbed mausoleums. Personally, I enjoy the finer things in life; comfortable living, expensive wine, a good malt Scotch and the love of a beautiful woman.  Although I have to admit this particular beautiful woman has very nearly been my downfall on a couple of occasions. Elinor. The love of my life. Or should that be death? I am never sure.

Unsurprisingly, Elinor’s arrival caused a lot of anger and jealousy at the time. My own maker, Khiara, arrived with a grisly assortment of … back-up … I believe is the correct term. Things did get ugly for a while. Things always get ugly when Khiara is around. Life returned to a semblance of normality once she left. Or more correctly, was advised to leave. Some of her minions did not survive the trip and, unfortunately for them, never did make it back to Italy.

Elinor and I often take a walk in the cemetery late at night. It was one of the first places we visited when she was a new, and very frightened, fledgling vampire. She very quickly developed an affinity with the place, and it has since become our solace in a city teeming with life and noise.

Elinor still has an aversion to feeding in the time-honoured way of the vampire. She simply cannot feed from a person. I respect her decision, although it does amuse me. So I hunt and feed alone. This walk around the cemetery can be thought of as my ‘after dinner stroll’ and is the reason I am alone.  Sometimes I need solitude. Almost certainly that is a male desire – not necessarily a vampire one. Three hundred years-plus makes one a little selfish, and I need to separate myself from the madness of the twenty-first century sometimes.

Elinor appeared content to soak in a bath with more bubbles than I have ever seen, reading a favourite paperback. I doubt she will miss me for a while. Not until the water is cold at least. Although temperatures mean little to us, soaking in hot water is still preferable. Thinking of Elinor makes me smile. Thinking of Elinor naked makes me want to return home with all swiftness.

I sit on a convenient grave and listen to the sounds of the night. Even that phrase partially echoes the infamous Mr Stoker’s ‘children of the night’ quote. No wolves here of course, unless you count Stevie.  I light a cigarette and watch the plume of smoke curl upwards and disappear into the night. It would be amusing if someone called the fire brigade thinking the cemetery to be on fire. Possibly not very amusing for me, should I need to explain my presence.

A bat swoops nearby, and I smile again, thinking of Elinor’s question over a year ago. ‘Can we turn into bats?’ She had asked me. I shuddered and said absolutely not. I think perhaps she felt a little disappointed that we could not. The thought to me, is quite repellent.

I finish my cigarette and stand up. Hopefully Elinor should be out of the bath by now. She wants to go to my club, Dusk, tonight, so that is exactly what we will do. Whatever my lady desires …

You can follow Will on Twitter @austen_will

You can also follow Berni Stevens on Twitter! @Berni_Stevens1

If you enjoyed reading about Will, why not try Berni’s books, where you can read much more about him!

Dance until Dawn

Revenge is Sweet


Where does fiction meet real life?


It’s paperback release day for Kathryn Freeman and Search for the Truth today. In celebration, Kathryn is here on the blog exploring the connection between the fiction she writes and her own life … 

A question I’m often asked is whether I base any of my fictional characters on people I know or have met. This question has been asked even more frequently  about my latest paperback, Search for the Truth. The reason? Search for the Truth is based in the pharmaceutical industry – an industry I worked in for over twenty years.

‘Am I in it?’ Is the most common question from former colleagues. The answer is no.

‘Is the romance based on your romance?’ I met my husband at work, but while I love him dearly, he is to romance what McDonald’s is to haute cuisine. Hence sadly, the answer is no.

‘Is Jim based on me?’ Is the question asked by my male colleagues. Jim is my hero, the head of Research and Development (R&D) and a George Clooney look alike. Clearly the answer is … no.

As I pointed out, the whole thrill of writing fiction is making things up. And the thrill of writing romantic fiction in particular, is dreaming up, okay, fantasising, about a fictional hero. Jim Knight is, I confess a combination of quite a few of my fantasies …

But while the people I write about only ever live in my imagination, some of the things they do are based on what I’ve seen or experienced in real life. For example when she’s at the airport Tess, my heroine, always likes to get to the gate the moment the flight is called. My husband is like this, and it does drive me slightly nuts. After all, they put all those duty-free shops in the departure lounge for a reason, don’t they?

I’ve also experienced the same dilemma Tess experiences when she finds herself in New York on a business trip; relax in the hotel for a few hours before the meeting, or do a mad shop/sightsee dash? Like Tess, I chose the latter.

Helix pharmaceuticals is a fictional company, but some of the dubious things it’s accused of doing are based on activities the industry has been criticised for in the past, like entertaining doctors too lavishly and not publishing all of its study results. I’ve never seen any lap dancing, I hasten to add (umm, you have to read the book for that to make sense).

So yes, even though Search for the Truth is a totally fictitious story about fictitious people who work for a fictitious company, nuggets of real life have helped to feed my imagination. What I hope I’ve done is build on those nuggets, twisted them and shaped them, so the end result is a lot more entertaining, more exciting than another day at the office :)

Search for the Truth is now available as a paperback from all good book stockists and suppliers. Click HERE for purchasing options.

For more information on Kathryn:




Before You: The inspiration


Kathryn Freeman’s new novel Before You was released this week. Here she chats about the inspiration behind the book … 

Writers are often asked where they get their ideas from. For me, in nearly every case it starts with my hero, though it’s not always obvious where he comes from. My husband thinks it’s him and while I usually nod my head and say of course dear, in Before You, he could just be right (for once). Panic not, Aiden Foster, my outwardly cocky, fabulously sexy racing driver, bears no resemblance to my husband. He was however inspired by the gift my husband gave me for Christmas several years ago. A life size cardboard cut out of Jenson Button, which sits next to my desk.*

Jenson Button cut-out: worth straining your neck for ;)

It’s very hard to have JB twinkling down at you and not want to write about a racing driver. So that’s how Before You was born.

I’ve been lucky enough to go to a couple of Formula 1 races (Spa and Silverstone) but it was only when I started researching more on the subject that I realised how much these sportsmen lend themselves to being romantic heroes. For a start, they are phenomenal athletes. Between the g-forces they experience and the heat in the cock-pit, each race is likened to running a marathon in terms of the physical endurance required. Every time they corner, a racing driver experiences forces up to four times their own weight. In fact in terms of the effect on their necks, they are said to experience three or four car crashes every lap!

Then there is the fact that while they’re coping with these g-forces, heat and inevitable fatigue, they’re hurtling round a track at two hundred miles an hour – with twenty other drivers all vying for position around them. Racing must take incredible mental strength, courage and nerves of steel, especially when you consider one momentary lapse in concentration could send the driver spinning dangerously off the track.

Aiden Foster, hero of Before You, doesn’t just have all that thrown at him, either. When he gets out of the car, his life doesn’t get any easier, what with trying to live up to his father’s racing legacy, the arrival of a troubled boy and the distractions of a pretty press offer … but perhaps I should leave you to read about all that ;)

* In case you’re wondering, my husband works for one of the companies who sponsor Jenson Button’s team, McLaren. They were doing a promotion in the coffee area and he spotted the cardboard figure and asked if he could take it home. He might not feature in my books, but a man prepared to walk through work with a cut out of Jenson Button under his arm because he knows his wife will love it, is my type of hero :)  

For more on Kathryn:

Follow her on Twitter @KathrynFreeman1

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Visit her website: 

Kathryn’s new book, Before You is out now and available to buy as an eBook from all platforms. Click HERE to view purchasing options. 

Happy Birthday Choc Lit: Telling Porkies by Debbie Flint


Now, something slightly different from Debbie Flint to round off our series of birthday short stories – birthday pork pie rather than birthday cake anyone? :)  

‘I’m sorry ma’am but I’m going to have to confiscate these.’

‘But they’re not meat. They’re pork pies,’ I whined.

The customs official held one side of my little package, my precious little package, and I held vainly onto the other. It didn’t work. He was shaking his head at me, and with a jerk, took my booty away. My heart always pounded as I strolled nonchalantly through the airport arrivals. But this time it was pounding for a different reason. He was handsome too. Annoyingly so. It would have been easier if he was overweight and ugly, and he should have been sweating in the warm Florida customs department interview room with its dodgy air conditioning and wilting yucca, but he wasn’t. I was, though – or was it my first hot flush? Or rather, a ‘glowing moment’ as my 75 year old mother called them when she was having hers.

‘They’re for my mum’s birthday. Can’t I keep just one, to take her? She loves them and can’t get them here – not the crunchy crust, Marks and Spencer’s kind anyway. It’d be a lovely surprise for her.’ He didn’t respond, just examined my passport and made some notes, poised and calm.

‘Sorry Ma’am,’ he said. Then he handed it back to me, one eyebrow raised. I took it from him, or tried to, but he held the other side of it till I looked him in the face. What? said my expression, as I tried to act affronted. He wasn’t moved.

‘You know, sometimes I wonder if you people have a heart,’ I said. He narrowed his eyes at me, but I couldn’t help it. ‘Just one little gesture of goodwill – you can see they are packaged up, you surely know I will be eating them, not using them to infect your precious crops.’ Still no sign of compassion. ‘She’ll be heartbroken. Can’t you make them magically vanish into my case again?’

He chewed his lip and took a breath, then spoke. Still the level, calmness, totally at odds to the turmoil I was feeling – for more reasons than one.

‘No. Ma’am.’ And he glanced up into the corner of the room. ‘Now I hope the next time I see you,’ he said, leaning towards me and lowering his voice, ‘Draco here won’t be alerting me that your suitcase holds contraband.’ He had a stern expression, but one eyebrow was quivering slightly. The yellow Labrador on the floor wagged its tail upon hearing its name.

Now it was my turn to look quizzical. ‘Draco?’

‘It was either that or Weasley,’ he explained. ‘J.K. Rowling fan.’

‘So it seems,’ I said with a sniff. ‘I prefer Robert Galbraith myself.’ I waited, and the corner of his mouth quirked right on cue. Then he snapped my passport together.

‘Now I ought to file a report, but you say it’s your first offence so …’ he said. I batted my eyelashes very slightly at him, waiting expectantly. And hopefully. He paused a moment, then handed me back my passport. ‘I’ll “magically” let it go. Don’t do it again.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you,’ I said, and smiled at him. ‘I won’t.’

He beamed back at me. ‘Now, you may go on your way. Have a safe journey home and I hope your mother has a wonderful birthday. Are you celebrating somewhere special?’

So he was being conversational now? I tucked the passport into my bag and took one last lingering look at the package on the table, being investigated by that damned efficient black nose. I bet I knew exactly what he’d be doing with my mother’s ‘gift’ as soon as I walked out the door. ‘A party at her house – with jelly and ice cream … and no pork pies,’ I said.

He smiled. ‘Well jelly and pork pies never went well together,’ he replied. ‘Goodbye ma’am.’

‘Goodbye, Mister …’ I looked at the name badge on his jacket, ‘… Christoff.’ And with that he led Draco out the door to pick on the next poor victim of over-zealous sniffing, leaving me to repack my suitcase in front of his disinterested colleagues excavating someone else’s suitcase on the other side of the room. Then I made the walk of shame back out of the exit door.


‘What a lovely thought,’ my mum said the next night as she caught her breath. ‘When you said you were bringing a surprise I thought it would have been pork pies again, not a big cake like this! It’s far too much for just us. I’ll have to go cut it up to share it with the neighbours,’ she said, removing the candles she’d just blown out. I felt a pang of regret that her so called creative daughter hadn’t come up with the customary cunning gift.  She hadn’t said anything, but I knew she was disappointed. Oh well, maybe next year. Mum headed off to the kitchen with the cake just as the door bell rang and mum’s little spaniel started yapping loudly. ‘Get that would you? If it’s Albie next door, tell him he’s twenty minutes early,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Hermione, shut up,’ she shouted at the dog, who paid no notice and as soon as I opened the door to the hall, the bundle of black fluff sped past me towards the dark figure just visible through the opaque glass in the front door.

‘Hang on!’ I called, picking Hermione up. Suddenly in a break in her yapping I heard an answering deep ‘woof’ outside the door and my heart skipped a beat. I released the catch on the door and the little dog practically jumped out of my arms trying to get to whoever was on the other side. I struggled to get the spaniel back under my arm. ‘Quiet Hermione!’ I hissed. Only then did I see the owner, and the yellow Labrador wagging its tail energetically on the doorstep.

‘Quiet, Draco,’ the dog’s owner said, and the Labrador shut up. Suddenly all the stress in my body was replaced with a different kind of tension. I opened my mouth but no sound came out so I shut it again. ‘Hi,’ he said, somewhat sheepishly. The authoritarian tone was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Mister Harry Christoff stood there in a leather jacket looking every inch the biker type. With the dog. Oh my god, had he discovered I’d lied about it being my first time? I could see the headlines now – ‘Serial Pork Pie Smuggler gets Deported to the UK.’ My mother would be mortified. Then I saw something familiar in his hand. ‘This is for your next of kin. Well, your mother.’ He presented the pork pies towards me, still cold – he’d even put them in a fridge or something. Then he produced a bunch of flowers from behind his back. ‘These are for the birthday girl,’ he added.

‘How?’ I asked. It seemed I was only capable of uttering one word replies – it was like he’d bewitched me or something.

‘Turns out a sniffer dog will sometimes rescue a package from the trash can at the end of a shift. Completely unbeknown to me,’ he said and the tell-tale eyebrow-flickering flashed across his tanned face, and his blue eyes glinting at me. ‘And I thought I’d help rescue a birthday party. Bit like a magic trick,’ he said. ‘See, turns out we do have a heart.’ Then hesitating, he added. ‘I hear this is the place to get jelly and ice cream?’

‘And pork pies, as it happens. Thank you.’ I said, a big beam spreading across my face. ‘Magic.’

Thank you to everyone who has helped share our birthday news and who has entered our competitions. You’ve all been incredible and we feel lucky to have such lovely readers and bloggers supporting us :D Remember, you can continue entering all the competitions on the blog until Friday 17th June for the chance to win some book goodies  :) 


If you enjoyed Debbie’s story and would like to read more of her writing, then you’ll love this competition. For a chance to win a copy of Take a Chance on Me and some goodies, simply tell us what you think of the story, either in the comments below or on the relevant Twitter/Facebook post. We’re looking forward to hearing your thoughts :)

You have until Friday 17th June to enter.


Happy Birthday Choc Lit: Marcy’s Dilemma by Angela Britnell


A sweet little story by Angela Britnell about ‘a party princess’ and somebody who has never had a proper birthday celebration. Aww! 

This shouldn’t be so hard for a woman known as The Party Princess. Marcy would come up with the perfect idea for Jacca’s thirty-seventh birthday if it killed her.

She arranged spectacular birthday celebrations for a living and her outlandish themes, unique locations, spectacular food and signature cocktails were legendary. But worrying about this particular party had kept her awake for the last week.

He told you not to make a fuss.

Marcy came from a large, noisy family and although they weren’t rolling in money her parents always created the most fantastic parties. One of Marcy’s most treasured possessions was her birthday scrapbook capturing the yearly memories – something her parents did for each of their six children culminating with their eighteenth birthday bash. She still couldn’t get her head around Jacca’s recent sad admission.

What do you mean you’ve never had a birthday?

I never said that. Everyone has a birthday – as in the day they were bornI simply mean I’ve never had a birthday party.

His indifferent shrug hadn’t fooled her because she knew him too well. She’d fallen in love with Jacca at fifteen when her oldest brother brought him home from university for the Christmas holidays. When her mother asked the usual questions about his family Jacca gave them a bare bones story about his dysfunctional mother, absent father and the years he’d spent drifting through the foster care system. Afterwards he never spoke of it again. The tall, soft-spoken young man with the stormy grey eyes and tousled black hair turned her inside out then and still did today.

They’d been friends for nearly two decades when she had one too many margaritas after her own birthday party in February and admitted she loved him.

I love you too, Marcy, but I don’t know how to “do” a loving, lasting relationship. I’d break your heart.

Too late. You did that a long time ago. It’s been in two pieces all these years and I need you to put it back together. Give us a chance.

Last Wednesday they’d been lying in his bed, wrapped around each other under the warm fluffy covers in that wonderful half-drowsy state when something suddenly occurred to Marcy.

When is your birthday anyway? You’ve never told me.

The fifteenth.

The fifteenth of June! As in next week?

It’s one day out of three hundred and sixty-five. So what?

That’s when he’d dropped the no-birthday-party bombshell.

I’m going to make up for the thirty-six birthdays you’ve missed.

Don’t make a fuss, Marcy, please. It’s not a big deal.

She’d distracted him with a kiss and he’d foolishly assumed the discussion was over.


Marcy’s heart raced as she spotted Jacca heading her way across the restaurant.


‘Pleasantly.’ His wry comment made Marcy’s cheeks burn. ‘No horde of people jumping out of the woodwork to wish me Happy Birthday or busty blonde stripper popping out of an enormous cake? You’re slipping.’

‘Cheesy isn’t my style,’ she scoffed.

He smiled and leaned in to kiss her before sitting down. ‘I know. Actually I’m relieved. I thought you’d ignore my warning.’

‘Who me?’ She picked up the menu. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m starving.’ Jacca’s suspicious glance increased her nervousness.

Somehow she got through the meal and then caught the waiter’s eye. He immediately brought over Jacca’s favourite chocolate cake and set it on the table.


‘Not too over the top?’

He cocked his head to one side. ‘No.’ Jacca’s dark eyes bored into her. ‘But you do “over the top” for a living.’

Marcy pulled out a black leather photo album from the bag stashed under her chair and laid it down. Next she retrieved a small gift-wrapped box and placed it in front of him. ‘In a minute we’ll have our picture taken to go in here.’ Marcy touched the album. ‘Hopefully the first of many—’ she caught her breath ‘but if you say no—’

‘Say no to what, Marcy?’

‘I know you haven’t celebrated your last thirty-six birthdays but I’m making sure you’ll never forget this one. Open the box.’

Jacca slowly removed the paper.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ she urged.

He tossed the lid to one side and discarded the crumpled tissue paper. Jacca read her handwritten note and a smile slid across his face.

‘You aren’t going to turn all macho and say you should be the one asking?’

Jacca shook his head. ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Will you marry me?’

‘Of course I will.’ She flung her arms around his neck and a camera flashed.

‘Surprise!’ A swarm of people poured out from behind the bar and all of Marcy’s family plus a large group of their friends surrounded the table. Indoor fireworks shot off around the room,  streamers cascaded down from the ceiling, a Mexican mariachi band launched into a raucous version of the traditional birthday song and a mass of golden balloons floated around them.

‘My mum vetoed the stripper,’ she whispered.

‘Thank goodness. How are you going to top this next year?’

Marcy smirked. ‘With a wedding. That’ll guarantee you never forget our anniversary. Happy Birthday!’

Jacca tightened his arms around her waist. ‘For some reason I’ve just become a big fan.’

Oh we love it! Brilliant happy ending by Angela. Guaranteed to put a smile on your face :)


If you enjoyed Angela’s story and would like to read more of her writing, then you’ll love this competition. For a chance to win a copy of Sugar and Spice and some goodies, simply tell us what you think of the story, either in the comments below or on the relevant Twitter/Facebook post. We’re looking forward to hearing your thoughts :)

You have until Friday 17th June to enter.

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Happy Birthday Choc Lit: The Birthday Cake Mix-up by Morton S. Gray


Another newbie author has written a birthday short story for us. Welcome Morton S. Gray with a sweet little tale about a birthday cake mix-up and a chance encounter …

There’s a competition at the end too! 

‘That’s my birthday cake!’

The blond-haired man stopped mid-bite and a dab of cream lodged on his lip. ‘Excuse me?’

‘That is MY birthday cake.’

Emily couldn’t believe that this stranger was tucking into the Victoria sponge that she’d made with a slightly heavy heart the day before. It wasn’t the same having to make your own birthday cake.

She tried not to get distracted by the fact the culprit looked cute with his longish hair, serious grey eyes and the cream on the edge of his full lips.

Of course, she’d heard the rousing sound of happy birthday from the far corner of the restaurant and the lights had flashed to signify a celebration, but Emily had never dreamed that they had served up her cake.

She had only realised when a rather masculine Star Wars cake had been presented to their table, when it was her turn for the lights and singing routine, a little while later. Not that the singing of the familiar birthday song was very loud, there was only her elderly mother, and the staff to sing.

By the time she’d realised the mistake, her Victoria sponge had been served up to the guests at the other table, the guests who now all sat goggle-eyed and open-mouthed to see what would happen next after her confrontation.

The unfortunate man put another mouthful of cake into his mouth, realised what he had done, then chewed quickly and swallowed. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t order the cake, so I’d no idea it wasn’t mine.’

Emily realised she was making a scene and that nothing could now be done to rectify the mix-up. She’d been looking forward to the fresh cream cake and the shop-bought, grey thick-icing affair she’d ended up with was not what she’d had in mind for a birthday that had already turned into a rather low key, almost sad event.

‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

His voice tugged somehow at her memory banks. Emily looked more closely at him. She’d felt an instant attraction despite her outrage, but only now did it occur to her why. Martin…Martin Freeland. He’d aged well. She hadn’t seen him since the Tuesday before that fateful day when all of her dreams had been squashed.

‘Martin?’ She was annoyed to feel herself blushing and alarmed that, after so many years, tears weren’t far beneath the surface, evoked by the memory of that day.

A look of anguish passed across his features. ‘Em? Is it really you?’

Her anger over the cake was superseded by old wounds surfacing. ‘You didn’t come for me.’

‘I did, please believe me, I did, but you weren’t there. I stood and waited for hours.’

‘So, did I. I’d cried an ocean of tears, by the time I gave up and went back to my parents’ house. We left for Australia the next day.’

‘I waited until midnight. Lake Road by the post box.’ He pulled a hand through his hair.

Emily groaned. ‘Lake Street by the post box. It’s the other side of Sowden.’

‘No! Oh, Emily, so sad to think that these days we’d have just spoken on our mobile phones and sorted out the mix-up. How did we manage without mobiles?’

They stood, oblivious to anyone else in the restaurant, their eyes exchanging years of regret. They’d always been called the twins at infant school, because their birthdays were on the same day and they’d been inseparable like real twins. Friendship had morphed into romance as puberty hit and when Emily’s parents planned to emigrate to Australia when she was sixteen, Martin and Emily had agreed to elope the day before she travelled. He hadn’t turned up at the rendezvous hastily agreed in whispers at the family’s farewell party and now the reason, which had haunted her ever since, was clear.

Martin broke the silence first. ‘Please say you’ve been happy. It’s always worried me that you might be alone, even if you didn’t want me.’

‘That’s not true, of course I wanted you. I thought that you’d changed your mind about me.’

‘No way!’

‘I married after university, but it didn’t work out. Mum and I came back to England recently after my dad died.’

‘I’m divorced too. I’ve never forgotten you, Em.’

He smiled that heart-stopping smile she remembered so well.

Emily felt a surge of hope and reached out to wipe the dab of cream off his lip.

Aww, let’s hope Emily and Martin make up for lost time :) Lovely!


As Morton is a new author, we don’t yet have a book to offer for this competition (although Morton’s debut novel with us will be out soon – keep an eye out!) However, Morton has kindly sent us some goodies for a lucky winner and we’ll throw in another Choc Lit book too :)As before, just let us know what you think of this story, either in the comments section below or on Twitter/Facebook.

Competition closes Friday 17th June 2016.

Happy Birthday Choc Lit: Never Lose to a Banana by Christine Stovell

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Well, we bet you’re all as intrigued as us to know what this one is about ;) Christine Stovell’s birthday story up now: Never Lose to a Banana.

Make sure you read right all the way until the end for a competition! 

As she left Mrs Brown for dust, Milly almost punched the air – except that would have been a frivolous waste of energy when she needed every breath in her lungs just to finish the race.  Eyebrows had certainly been raised when she’d volunteered for Spleenham Borough Council’s running team, hoping to help raise a big sum for the Mayor’s charity in the Spleenham Half Marathon.  The perfectly plucked eyebrows belonging to Emma Parfitt, the council’s press officer, had probably risen highest.

‘You? But Milly, I’ve never seen you rush for anything,’ Emma remarked with a catty smile.  ‘Unless it’s a free drink at a leaving party.’

Milly thought of several cutting replies then swallowed them.  The truth was that for too long life had been one humongous party; dancing and drinking from festival to festival.  Recently, she’d looked up to find that while she was recovering from her latest hangover, all her friends were coupled up, getting married or becoming parents.

‘Emma, the half marathon course is suitable for everyone, novices included.’

They’d turned to see the delicious Dr Gareth Davies, Head of Leisure Development – six foot three of pure hunk – towering over them.  ‘Don’t worry Milly, I’m putting on training classes for the team after work.  I’ll get you through the race, I promise.’

‘Ooh, count me in too,’ Emma purred.  ‘I’ll play chase with you any day, Gareth.’

Team training with Dr Delicious certainly had its attractions, thought Milly, ignoring Emma, but it was the date of the half marathon that had clinched it.  Her birthday.  The Big Three Zero.  Time to quit, not hit, the bottle.  It had been a beautiful relationship, but now they were through.

Five miles into the race and she was feeling euphoric.  She glanced at her new sports watch; sheesh, that time was un-be-liev-able!  Okay, Dr Delicious had specifically warned them not to set out too quickly, but surely the faster she went, the better?  Secretly, she was as keen to impress the lovely Gareth as Emma, who was certainly somewhere in front of her.  Without Gareth’s gentle encouragement, Milly wouldn’t have been half so determined to follow her training schedule.

‘You’ve made the biggest improvement of anyone,’ he’d told her with a huge smile at the end of the final training session.

‘Yes, well, it’s a great charity isn’t it?’ she’d shrugged, not mentioning that cancer had cheated her of her mum.  She hoped, in a small way, to help spare someone else that pain.  Amateur psychologists might have suggested that’s when the partying had started, her escape route from grief, but taking up running had made her feel truly alive again.

Milly concentrated on her footing as the course narrowed through a public park.  Two lads in front of her were engaged in a private battle, elbows out, each determined not let the other past.  Milly took a deep breath, dug deep and picked them both off.  Yes!  But now she was gasping, her mouth parched and her legs, well, they seemed to belong to someone else.  Desperately, she groped for a Jelly Baby which promptly trebled in size in her mouth, leaching it of every drop of moisture.  At the next water station, she chugged half the bottle down and poured the rest over her head. Then, when she couldn’t feel any worse, she spotted Emma, bouncing along just ahead of her, her glossy pony-tail swishing from side to side.

‘Nice try,’  Milly dimly heard the other woman say above her pounding heart when she finally caught up, ‘but you’ll never get past me.’  Emma surged forward and Milly’s legs just refused to respond.  Then suddenly Emma was sprawled across the path, blood pouring from her knee.  Milly searched her soul, stopped and knelt down beside the injured woman.

‘What are you doing?’ Emma yelled at her.  ‘Don’t spoil your chances for me; you’re a fab runner and you’re doing great.  Get going!’

‘It’s all right, Milly, I’ll take over.’

It was one of the council’s refuse collectors, Jake someone, who, Milly couldn’t help but notice, was pretty ripped from lifting all those bins.

‘Go!’ they both shouted.

Was it too late?  Milly considered giving up, but her mum hadn’t given up, had she?  She’d battled with her illness until the very end.  Milly took a deep breath and picked up her pace, overtaking Mrs Brown for the second time and taking out the Pope for good measure.

‘Just two miles left to go,’ a friendly race marshall told her, ‘you’re nearly there!’

Milly could have torn his head off.  Two miles was like for-bloody-ever.  And to cap it all there was a runner in banana costume coming up fast behind her.  What had Dr Delicious said?  Never, ever lose to a banana.  Milly’s lungs were bursting, but the banana was right on her shoulder, letting her set the pace, shadowing her step for step.  Milly didn’t know if she had anything left in the tank, but she would not let that damn banana past.  With a supreme effort she threw herself at the finish line beating the banana by what must have been a split second.

‘Oh you little beauty,’ said the banana, in a muffled but familiar voice.


He took off his hat and grinned at her.  ‘Just look at that time!  And running on your birthday too – you’re an absolute star!  A little bird told me,’ he explained, taking a medal from one of the volunteers, dropping it over Milly’s head and kissing her.  ‘Happy birthday!’

Milly could barely see him for tears.  Birthdays hadn’t been the same since she’d lost her mum, but today she’d won more than a medal, she’d got her sparkle back and rejoined the human race. The happy was back in birthday.

Anyone else want to meet a banana now? Fab story from Christine :D


If you enjoyed Christine’s story and would like to read more of her writing, then you’ll love this competition. For a chance to win a copy of Follow a Star and some goodies, simply tell us what you think of the story, either in the comments below or on the relevant Twitter/Facebook post. We’re looking forward to hearing your thoughts :)

You have until Friday 17th June to enter.

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