Blurb; The Oyster Catcher by Jo Thomas
According to a champion shell shucker, in order
to open an oyster, you first have to understand what’s keeping it closed.
When runaway bride Fiona Clutterbuck
crashes the honeymoon camper van, she doesn’t know what to do or where to go.
Embarrassed and humiliated, Fiona knows one
thing for sure, she can’t go home. Being thrown a life line, a job on an oyster
farm seems to be the answer to her prayers.
But nothing could prepare her for the choppy ride ahead or her new boss
the wild and unpredictable, Sean Thornton.
Will Fiona ever be able to come out of her
shell?
As the oyster season approaches, will there
be love amongst the oyster beds of Galway bay? Or will the circling sharks
finally close in?
Buying links:
Bio for Jo Thomas – The Oyster Catcher.
Jo Thomas started her broadcasting career
as a reporter and co-presenter with Rob Brydon on BBC Radio 5, reported for BBC
Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour and went on to produce at BBC Radio 2 working on The
Steve Wright Show. She now lives in the
Vale of Glamorgan with her writer and producer husband, three children, three
cats and a black lab Murray. She writes
light hearted romances about food, family, friendships and love; and believes
every story should have a happy ending.
Twitter: @jo_thomas01
Chapter One
The sea air hits me
like mouthwash for the head. It’s clean, fresh, and smells of salt. I’m
standing on the steps of the Garda station; or Portakabin really. The wind
blows my hair and I hold my face up to it, letting any tears that may have
escaped mingle with the damp air. With my eyes shut and my face held up to the
wind I realise two things. One, I’m in a place called Dooleybridge and two; I
am absolutely stranded wearing the only dress I have – the one I’d got married
in.
I open my eyes, shiver and walk back towards the harbour wall where the
camper van had been. There are some scuff marks on the wall and a headlight
that had fallen off, but other than that there’s no real trace that it was ever
there at all. I bend down and pick up the light. Oh, that’s the other thing I
realised while being cautioned. There’s absolutely no way I can go home, no way
at all.
I turn round and walk back towards the road; when I say walk, it’s more
a hobble. My shoes are killing me and are splashing water up the back of my
feet and calves. But then it isn’t really gold mule weather. It’s cold and wet
and I couldn’t feel any more miserable than I already do. I head back up the
hill and cross the road just below the Garda station and step down into a tiled
doorway. I take a deep breath that hurts my chest and makes me cough. I have no
other choice. I put my head down. I touch the cold brass panel on the door and
with all the determination I can muster, push it open.
The door crashes against the wall as I fall in, making
me and everyone else jump. As I land I realise it’s not so much the throng I
was expecting but a handful of people. All eyes are on me. A hot rash travels
up my chest and into my cheeks making them burn and inside I cringe. I feel
like I’ve walked on to the set of a spaghetti western and the piano player has
stopped playing. ‘Sorry,’ I mouth and shut the door very gently behind
me. My stomach’s churning like a washing machine on spin cycle. I look round
the open-plan pub. At one end is a small fireplace and despite it supposedly
being summer there’s a fire in the grate giving out a brave, cheery, orange
glow against the chilly atmosphere. There’s an unfamiliar smell in the air,
earthy yet sweet. In the grate there are lumps of what look like earth burning
on the fire. Back home I’d just flick on the central heating but home is a very
long way away right now. There’s wood panelling all across the front of the
bar, above it, below it and round the walls. When I say wood panelling, it’s
tongue and groove pine that’s been stained dark. It’s the sort of place you’d
expect to be full of cigarette smoke but isn’t. In the corner by the fire
there’s a small group of people, all of them as old as Betty from Betty’s Buns.
Or as it’s now known The Coffee House. Betty’s my employer, or should that be
ex-employer?
Betty refuses to take retirement and sits on a stall at the end of the
counter, looking like Buddha. She’s never been able to give up the reins on the
till. She did once ask me to take over as manager but I turned it down. I’m not
one for the limelight. I’m happy back in the kitchen. Kimberly, who works the
counter, tried for the job but Sandra from TGI Friday’s got it and Kimberly
took up jogging and eating fruit. The group by the fire is still staring at me,
just like Betty keeping her beady eye on her till.
There are two drinkers at the bar, one in an old tweed cap and jacket with holes
in the elbows, the other in a thin zip-up shell suit and a baseball cap.
They’ve turned to stare at me too. With burning cheeks and the rash still
creeping up my chest, I take a step forward and then another. It feels like a
game of grandmother’s footsteps as their eyes follow me too. The barmaid’s
wiping glasses and smiles at me. I feel ridiculously grateful to see a friendly
face. It’s not her short dyed white hair that makes her stand out or the large
white daisy tucked behind one ear. It’s the fact she’s probably in her early
twenties I’d say, not like any of her customers.
A couple of dogs come barking at me from behind the
bar. I step back. One is black with stubby legs, a long body and a white stripe
down its front. The other is fat and looks a bit like a husky crossed with a
pot-bellied pig.
I’m not what you’d call brave really. I’ve always
thought it was better to try and skirt conflict rather than face it head on. I
look for someone or something to hide behind but the barmaid steps in.
‘Hey, settle down,’ she snaps. She might be small but
she’s got a mighty bark. Unsurprisingly the dogs return behind the bar, tails
between their legs. I think I’d’ve done the same if she told me to.
‘Now then, what can I get you?’ she wipes her hands on
a tea towel and smiles again.
‘Um …’ I go to speak but nothing comes out. I clear my
dry throat and try again.
‘I’m looking for …’ I look down at the piece of paper
in my hand, the back of a parking ticket. ‘Sean Thornton?’ I look back at the
barmaid.
The Oyster Catcher giveaway
We’ve got five free iTunes download
copies of Jo Thomas’ new novel The Oyster Catcher to give away. To be in with a
chance of winning email (Mrsbrinius@comcast.net) by (friday 1/10/14)
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