Guest Post: Exclusive Extract from The Waiting Game by Jessica Thompson

Posted August 30, 2015 by Charlotte in Blog Tour, Guest Post / 1 Comment

Exculsive Extract from The Waiting Game by Jessica Thompson

Today I am delighted to be part of the Blog Tour for The Waiting Game by Jessica Thompson with an extract of The Waiting Game.

I loved reading The Waiting Game (see my review) despite feeling sad most of the time… But in a good, everything is going to turn out fine kind of way. Below I have an exclusive extract from The Waiting Game, which was such an important moment in the book because this scene offers so much solace to Nessa and Kat (but I’m going to shut up now before spoilers occur!). Enjoy!

Remember to check out the other stops on the tour for some great content!

The Waiting Game



January 14th 2015 . . .

‘Oh my god, I’m so, so nervous,’ Kat said, standing opposite her sister in the frozen car park. Her scarf came unravelled from her coat and blew in a rippling curl, jostled by the freezing cold wind.

‘Me too. Are we sure that this is the right thing to do?’ Nessa had asked, looking back at her car. The air was so cold it was making her eyes water. Poppy sat in the back wrapped in a blanket, reading a book. She looked up and waved at her mother and aunt, smiling at them reassuringly.

Nessa walked back to the car and knocked on the window. The window rolled down.

‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK in there, honey? I bet there’s probably a cafe nearby, where you can go and be warmer? It seems a little daft for you to be sitting in the car like that,’ Nessa pleaded, looking at her 17-year-old daughter, who was growing more sophisticated and breathtakingly beautiful every single day. But, naturally, her 17-year-old daughter still wouldn’t do what she was told . . . Some things would never change.

‘No, Mum. I’m here to support you and Aunty Kat, OK? I’ll be fine. You’re leaving me with the keys anyway, so I can put the heating on. I’ve got my book and this blanket. So just go! Just do what you need to do . . .’

Nessa stared at her daughter, slightly speechless. Her rounded childish features had been replaced with a slender, angular face that seemed to hold more wisdom than Nessa felt she possessed even now. She still had her long, Rapunzel-like tumbling hair, but she’d had a sharp, straight fringe cut in, that made her look more grown-up. Somehow she was now a young woman. Somehow, they had got through it all. How had her tiny baby girl grown up to be such a beauty? How did she have such knowing in her eyes, that self-assuredness Nessa had never had herself . . .

‘Mum. Piss off, will you? You’re staring!’ Poppy said, pushing a button and laughing to herself as the window rolled back up to the top, sealing her in the vehicle.

‘Come on, Ness. She’s fine. Let’s go,’ Kat pleaded, shuf­fling around on the spot in a desperate attempt to keep warm. She rubbed her gloved hands together and breathed onto them.

‘OK, fine. Let’s do this . . .’ Nessa said, turning away and walking towards her sister.

‘Good Lord, look at you girls,’ the man said, starting to cry. He was old now, Nessa thought, her eyes flickering over the wrinkled folds of his skin and his short, grey hair, that had been shaved close to his head. His blue eyes were a watery grey now. The whites of his eyes were a soft shade of pink, the occasional thread-vein tracing a broken  line. He still had the scar on his eyebrow that Nessa had completely forgotten about, a diagonal line that cut through the thick, wiry hairs of his brows.

She didn’t know what to feel, looking at him. Here was the man who had killed her beloved foster mother, Sue. Had he not done it, Nessa was sure she’d still adore her foster mum now. They would have had a proper, normal, mother and daughter relationship that would have lasted until Sue turned old and grey and she had grandchildren who loved her. Then she would have been ready to leave this world as she slept, one quiet afternoon. That was how Nessa had wished it had gone. That’s what Sue had deserved.

Kat didn’t say anything. Nessa glanced at her sister and squeezed her hand to reassure her. She could tell how hard she was trying to process all this: she could tell from tiny things, like the movements of the muscles in her face and the way her eyes scanned the man before her. She was trying to work out if she recognised anything about him – perhaps his expressions, or the tone of his voice – but there was probably nothing.

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