Lies Love Tells is book one in the Eastcove Lies series. Each book in the series is a standalone story but set in the fictional town of Eastcove, with some characters crossing over from book to book. There is a second book in the series which is currently already released, Unveiling Lies, and I have another novel to join the series some time late this year but as of yet, it is untitled!
I first wrote Lies Love Tells at a very difficult time in my life when my much loved mum, Sharon, was terminally ill with cancer. I escaped into Saze's story as the book actually began life as a real fictional blog which I updated every couple of days. As the real blog attracted readers, and comments, I decided to take the blog down and make it into a novel - my very first one. The result was Lies Love Tells. This edition is brand new, with a different beginning and ending, and some slightly different twists. Plus, of course, it has a new cover as (I hope) I have improved drastically in my book cover designing skills since I first unleashed this book way back in 2012!
Below is an excerpt from the novel, which is written in the form of a blog (complete with comments from nice people as well as internet trolls!) and also occasional posts written in a handwritten diary...
'... Funny, dark, and so many things...' 'Kept you guessing until the end...' 'A unique book.'
Saze, that’s me!
If I impaled spark plugs into Mr Him’s brain would it jump-start our limp sex-life or turbo-boost him out of here? I may as well be the only one in the damn relationship. When was the last time Mr Him lifted a single nicotine-stained digit to hoover up? I can’t even remember and I’ve been with him for what seems like a life sentence. I’ve had his child, cleaned his stinky-walk-on-their-own-crusty-socks, endured his proclamations of insincere love, and tolerated his over-the-top affection to his “co-workers” (female of course) but where had I disappeared to?
Was I searching for something that didn’t exist? Yearning for appreciation where none was due?
I’ve moved up from a handwritten diary to this blog. It will be my diary, my venting platform, my own little secret—hell, even as I typed, Mr Him shouted up saying he wanted his blue shirt ironed. Had to stop typing as would’ve been a shame to tear Mr Him from whatever he was doing, like plucking his eyebrows or wearing himself out channel-hopping.
Posted: 19:02 0 Sazements
Dressed to Impress?
‘Do you like my dress?’ I completed what I hoped was a sexy twirl in front of the television.
Mr Him waved his pint glass at me. ‘Move out of the way, I want to make sure there isn’t a recording clash when we go out.’
‘You don’t think I look fat?’ I nervously ran a hand over my midriff. It certainly wasn’t what it had been before arrival of Daughter.
‘No,’ Mr Him answered automatically, without removing his brown-eyed stare from the screen. ‘The shoes don’t make you look as short as normal. Are you going to straighten your hair or leave it natural?’ His thin top lip curled at the word natural.
‘I like it like this.’ I shook my golden brown hair, enjoying the weight of my curls on my back.
I resisted kicking off a shoe and lobbing it in Mr Him’s direction, fearing it would bounce straight off his head without inflicting the slightest dent and instead end up stuck heel first in the wall. ‘Is my make-up okay? I’ve tried a new eye shadow and liquid liner.’
White sock clad, Mr Him padded over to me. ‘It makes your eyes look funny.’ He screwed up his round nose. ‘Are you wearing contacts?’
I huffed. ‘It’s the make-up. It’s supposed to bring out the green of my eyes. Do you think it looks awful?’ I started to panic. There wasn’t time to re-do the make-up and there was no way I’d go out without any on at all.
‘I don’t like it and I’ve changed my mind about the shoes. They’re way too high. You’re nearly as tall as me in them.’
‘So, you’d prefer me to wear flats?’
Mr Him shrugged. ‘No, some which won’t make me look such a short arse. How high are the heels, five inches?’
‘Six, actually. They’re platforms. You’re still a few inches taller than me and I’m not changing them. I bought them for this evening. I like them so you’ll have to put up with it. I can’t help it if you have a complex about your lack of height.’
‘Well, don’t ask me questions if you don’t want the answer.’ Mr Him scratched his shaven head and sloped off to the bathroom. Why couldn’t I ask my significant other for his advice? He always asked me things: where was his blue shirt; where had his socks disappeared to; if I’d been shopping; if I minded him going out. Of course the last question was completely rhetorical, no matter my response the outcome would always be the same. It’d be me tucked up on the sofa with a cup of green tea, waiting for his lordly return and once he did he always smelt of stale cigarettes tinged with perfume. Maybe I imagined the perfume tinge, wanting it to be there as an excuse for a cross-examination. Hell, a juicy argument could spawn from a perceived whiff of betrayal. Had I spent so long wondering that my wonderings had manifested?
Mr Him spent the following hour and a half preening. Eventually he emerged, dressed in the aforementioned blue shirt, rolled up to the elbows to showcase his recent half-sleeve tattoo, and slathered in enough fake tan he resembled a life sized mahogany statue.
Mr Him tapped his watch. ‘They’ll be waiting for us. I can’t believe you take so long to get ready. It’s not like you have to impress anyone.’
‘I take ages?’ I echoed. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. I don’t know why we couldn’t spend the evening together.’ I looked at him pointedly. ‘Alone. It is Valentine’s after all.’
Mr Him merely raised a borderline over-plucked eyebrow that must’ve contributed to his primping time and marched in the direction of the flat door.
‘Aren’t we taking a taxi? I don’t want to walk!’ I wailed, looking at my gorgeous new shoes as Mr Him hurried me from the flat to outside. Although the shoes were really very lovely they were bound to sprout blisters.
‘Stop your moaning. You don’t have to bloody well walk. A mate’s giving us a lift.’ I frowned. ‘I thought the lads had been out drinking since seven?’
‘Yeah, they have.’ Mr Him nodded and pointed across the road. ‘There she is!’ He waved frantically.
‘She’s picking us up?’ I asked suspiciously. I’d always thought of her as Ms Cat, on the prowl and ready to pounce. Her golden hair shone under the reflected light of the street lamp as she lifted a thin hand in response to Mr Him’s waving. ‘You told me she was spending the evening with her fiancé.’ I didn’t know why I was so irked, yet I was.
Mr Him shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘He’s being a prat. She phoned earlier and said she’ll pick me up.’
‘Wonderful,’ I snarled. ‘This is looking to be an amazing evening. Did you even tell her I was coming with you?’
He didn’t answer but sauntered over the road with his hands in his pockets and a grin on his tangerine face.
When we arrived the club was bustling and loud. Mr Him slapped a drink into my hand and promptly wandered off. For the next hour I idly chatted with his colleagues, until, tired, I slipped away. The staircase to the next floor was narrow and jammed with entwined bodies. Shoving my way upwards my elbow accidentally hit the back of a man.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.
The man, preoccupied with the woman in his arms, ignored me.
I ascended a few more steps before my brain clicked into action. What the hell, it was Mr Him I’d elbowed! I stomped back down and jabbed him hard, this time on purpose. ‘I’m leaving!’ I shouted.
‘What?’ Mr Him turned around and swayed drunkenly forward. ‘Why?’
I pointed at the slinky-eyed feline felon. I swear if she’d had cream on her top lip she’d have licked it appreciatively. Was Mr Him thick? Was I making a fur-ball out of a single hair? Had my lazy eyes deceived me? Had I really seen my Mr Him with his arms wrapped around Ms Cat? I merely pointed at Ms Cat again, well it was either that or resort to language she would know and scratch her eyes out. Of course I couldn’t do that. I walked away and stumbled into the night air with the sea breeze gusting chillingly across the road, and waited. I waited for Mr Him to follow, to apologise and to tell me I was wrong. I waited until even my goose pimples had goose pimples upon goose pimples. I read and reread a poster appealing for information about a missing girl until I felt her name would be forever scorched into my memory. The lone walk back to the flat had never felt so long. Especially in the patent leather torture traps which had earlier masqueraded as shoes.
With blisters as large as balloons on the heels of both feet, I poured a huge glass of sparkling wine and gulped it straight down before pouring another. Taking the bottle to the bedroom I sliced the crotch of Mr Him’s favourite pair of jeans with a kitchen knife.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Posted: 23:56 2 Sazements Anonymous: U sound really bitter, U need sum professenal help. Why would anyone wanna read ‘bout your yawn of a life? SxyGrrl: Go on cut up some more clothes, the prick deserves it!
Today I am hosting a tour stop for Brake Failure by Alison Brodie, which is on tour with Neverland Blog Tours. Alison has written a fun guest post about lips, and is also giving away a $25.00 (or equivalent) Amazon gift card!
About the book:
“Is it too late to tell him you love him when you are looking down the barrel of his gun?”
An English debutante transforms from Miss-Perfectly-Correct to criminally insane as she breaks the bonds of her rigid upbringing. Sheriff Hank Gephart tries to reel her in - but she’s out of control and she’s not hitting the brakes.
What happened to the genteel lady in twin-set and pearls? And why did she shoot Mr Right?
Brake Failure is set in 1999 in the months leading up to Y2K “meltdown” when the US government was spending $150 billion preparing for Armageddon As Lionel Shriver says in her novel, We Have To Talk About Kevin: "1999, a year widely mooted beforehand as the end of the world."
Where would romance be without lips? Lips are where the first spark flies, when the first thrill enters the nervous system.
I’m pretty sure all my books have got lips in them; if not mentioned overtly then certainly they assume pole position on the faces of my characters. I was just thinking it was about time somebody took a closer look at lips, their role not just on a face but in the heart of romance.
BTW: I’m not talking about just the TOP lip as my title may imply; I’m talking about both of them: top and bottom.
“She licked her lips.” In Romance this doesn’t mean she’s salivating over a chocolate éclair. It means she’s giving the “come-on” to the guy. And he’d be pretty dense to miss it.
“She pouted her lips.” Your heroine could be having a tantrum, or more likely, urging the hero to do naughty things to her.
“Giving lip”. This is not as rude as it might sound. In English-English it means talking back in an offensive manner, like my heroine in BRAKE FAILURE when she refuses to be arrested.
If your heroine is from the English upper-crust and is about to do something she doesn’t want to do – like, say, get into a police cruiser just after she’s had an argument with the handsome-hunk of a Sheriff - she will have a “stiff upper lip.”
It’s not just the heroine who has lips. So does the hero. “He brushed his lips down over her neck.” Animal-esque, but, boy! does it send a tingle down your reader’s spine.
“Their lips touched.” Sometimes this is all you need to tell your reader. You don’t need to put in the whole sex scenario. Leave it to your reader’s imagination. Trust me: it’s dirtier than yours.
“As his lips pressed down on hers, she felt a flame shoot up from between her legs.” Of course, this is not a real flame. Hopefully not, anyway. Of course your character could be a fire-eater. Here is an observation from Harry Houdini which few can refute and which I suspect is the origin of the phrase “hot lips”:
“Flames from the lips may be produced by holding in the mouth a sponge saturated with the purest gasoline.”
Generally, though, lips in romance should avoid flammable liquids.
Let’s crit. some lit. Charles Dickens was an intense writer. Listen to what he had to say:
“To conceal anything from those to whom I am attached, is not in my nature. I can never close my lips where I have opened my heart.”
(To be honest he must have been doing it wrong; it’s actually pretty easy).
Lips can say a lot about us. Take a look at this picture. Look at the lips. They tell you immediately that this is Penelope Cruz, the famous Spanish person. If she didn’t have those lips she would not be Penelope Cruz. So lips say who you are. They also often say a whole lot more about you that the hugely over-rated heart.
Lips in Romance are best used:
1. as a complete pair
3. to show inner turmoil on the face of your heroine
4. used in a non-flammable environment
5. to kiss the hero
…and as hot, red, and moist as they need to be for the task in hand.