I’m tickled to welcome Stevie Turner to my blog, along with her new release. Her new women’s fiction novel ‘The Donor’ was published
yesterday, and has a sibling rivalry / rockstar theme. Stevie usually
writes about peculiar subjects that aren’t often covered by
mainstream authors, and adds in a touch of humour here and there. To
find out more about Stevie, please visit her website and check out
her ‘About Me’ page by clicking on the link below:
Synopsis
of The Donor:
When
you know you have met the love of your life, the last thing you
expect is for your sister to lure him away. Clare Ronson is faced
with this scenario when her sister Isabel marries singer and
guitarist Ross Tyler. To compound Clare’s jealousy and bitterness,
Ross hits the big time and becomes a wealthy tax exile, relocating to
France with his family. Clare cannot bring herself to speak to
Isabel or Ross for the next 30 years. However, when tragedy occurs in
2002 causing Ross to arrive back in England at Clare’s doorstep,
Clare must try to put the past behind her for her sister’s sake.
Goodreads
review by LaDonna
The
author provided me an ARC of this book for a honest review and to see
if I felt it fit the criteria for “rockstar romance” for a
blog I run dedicated to that genre. I felt it did, though it isn’t
your typical rockstar romance. This book will take you on an
emotional rollercoaster, and admittedly most of those emotions will
be of the darker kind.
Once upon a time, Clare is very
close to her older sister Izzy, and adores/idolized her in that way
that only little sisters can. As a very naïve you
The
author provided me an ARC of this book for a honest review and to see
if I felt it fit the criteria for “rockstar romance” for a
blog I run dedicated to that genre. I felt it did, though it isn’t
your typical rockstar romance. This book will take you on an
emotional rollercoaster, and admittedly most of those emotions will
be of the darker kind.
Once upon a time, Clare is very
close to her older sister Izzy, and adores/idolized her in that way
that only little sisters can. As a very naïve young woman in 1970,
Clare goes to a big rock festival. This American reader could really
only tie it to the endless stories of Woodstock I have heard, being
just slightly younger than that generation, but I realize festivals
of the like were going on across the pond as well. Anyway, that is
the picture I have in my mind of the festival she attended, and at
the end of several days, Clare has lost her friends and is dirty,
exhausted, hungry and broke. An Adonis of a man steps in and offers
her an apple, and companionship back home. He is quite fond of the
waif, and calls upon her to date whilst he is determined to make it
in his band. He puts up with the obvious dislike of her father, and
her virginal antics. She has quickly fallen in love with him, and he
is quite smitten with her as well, until one night her sister decides
to join them for one of his gigs.
To Ross’ credit, he
never had any intention of hurting Clare, but when he met Izzy, the
stars aligned and he knew he had met his soulmate. Likewise, Izzy had
never meant to upset her sister, but who can deny true love. No one
expected Clare to be as hurt as she was, or to hold a grudge for so
long.
Life goes on as it is apt to do; tragedies, joys,
and all the other little moments that make up a life pass by. Ross’
band hits the big time very quickly, as well as Izzy’s first
pregnancy and their marriage. Clare refuses to have anything to do
with any of it, hanging on to hatred for her sister for having the
life she was sure was destined to be hers. Clare does go on to marry
a perfectly suitable man, has 2 children with him, and by all
accounts a pretty nice life with him. She tells him early on that she
has an irreparable rift with her sister, but never tells him the
reason why.
Izzy has always tried to keep tabs on her
sister but Clare simply has not allowed it, even turning away when
they once ran into one another and Izzy tried to introduce her to her
niece. 30 years go by, and tragedy forces Izzy to contact Clare.
Clare’s husband reads the note and encourages Clare to acknowledge
Izzy’s plea, but Clare tears up the letter and ignores it. Not until
Ross arrives at her door does she consider listening and doing what
her sister needs. Here is where the story really came together for
me. The senselessness of hate and holding on to a grudge, not to
mention basically a teenage dream, for all those years, to finally
realized how quickly life passes us by and how many precious moments
simply cannot ever be replaced. There are so many unexpected twists
and turns after Ross arrives, and so much depth to the amount of
lives touched by this rift that seems so silly in retrospect. This
story touched me on so many levels, and I hope that you will give it
a chance to soak into your heart and mind as well.
Very
highly recommended for anyone that realizes life doesn’t always hand
us a happily ever after, at least not in the way we think it should.
EXCERPT
FROM ‘THE DONOR’ BY STEVIE TURNER
COPYRIGHT
STEVIE TURNER 2015
CHAPTER
1 – 1970
CLARE
Life
as I know it is definitely starting to be a bit of a drag, due to the
fact that I’ve been awake now for 3 days and nights on Desolation
Hill. I am finished, kaput.
Thank
God it’s the last day, that’s all I can say.
I
yawn for the umpteenth time and watch in a kind of stupor as the
fences are torn down. Ruth jumps up excitedly and decides that she
wants to try and get nearer the stage. I watch her treading
unconcerned over zombie-like bodies lying comatose and frying in the
heat of the late August afternoon, and try to summon up enough
strength to follow her. But by then, hungrier and more tired than I
have ever been, I am faced with the certainty that all I really want
to do is to go home. Bands have started to merge one into the other,
but I know I’ll have to face a ribbing from Ruth if I set off
without first having tried to get nearer the stage if only to feast
one
weary eye on the hunk of masculinity that is Paul Rogers while there
is still some good daylight left.
I
force my body to move, performing a quick recce around what has
transformed in three days from arable farmland into a nuclear fallout
zone contained in some kind of human landfill site. I cannot see
Ruth, but I stumble on regardless. Somewhere out there my friend has
become lost in a sea of 500,000 faces; just another flower-bedecked
hippie indistinguishable from the masses.
Far
away on the horizon I can see a speck holding a microphone stand up
above his head; Paul Rogers is holding the crowd in the palm of his
hand, and I am missing it. Behind him on the low stage, long hair
flying in the sultry air, Paul Kossoff, six string shredder
extraordinaire, is ripping into the solo for ‘All Right Now.’
I
cannot make my legs walk another step. I yawn. Infuriatingly I
still seem to be on Desolation Hill as far as I can make out. Sighing
with fatigue, I slump down on the grass where I stand, close my eyes,
and listen to the hubbub around me. My long hair feels like a heavy
blanket on my back; I desperately want something to eat, I need a
bath, and I ache for my mum to be fussing around me like she does
when I am sick.
“Hey
babe, have some of this.”
I
am startled by a voice very close to my ear. I open my eyes again and
look to my left to see what only can be described as a bronzed, blond
Adonis, with long fair curls stretching down over his shoulders. He
is stripped to the waist apart from a small rucksack on his back, and
wears frayed pale-blue Levi shorts and a pair of well-worn ‘Jesus
creeper’ sandals. He squats down beside me and holds out a lighted
spliff.
“It’ll
take away the pain.”
I
consider myself to be in
extremis,
soon to be engulfed in the Grim Reaper’s arms. There is no way out
except death. I take a huge drag and retch as the sweet fumes of
cannabis grab the back of my throat.
“Thanks.”
I cough. “I think.”
“Woh!”
Adonis laughs into the sun. “Easy! You’re not used to it, I can
tell.”
“Is
it that obvious?” I want my head to stop spinning. “I’ve come
to the end of my rope. A spliff won’t do any harm now.” I take
another drag.
“I
think I’ll take it back actually.” Adonis prises the joint from
my fingers. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
I nod, with eyes trying to close. “All I’ve got left is my
hovercraft ticket back to Southsea.”
“And
you can’t eat that.” Adonis attacks the spliff with expertise,
puffing out a cloud of aromatic smoke. “I’ll see what I’ve got
left in my rucksack.”
Keeping
the spliff between the index and middle finger of his left hand, with
one poetic swoop of his right shoulder he dislodges the rucksack’s
straps, opens it up and looks inside, bringing out a slightly dented
but still crisp-looking Golden Delicious apple and handing it to me.
“My
mum’s always on at me to eat more roughage.”
Laughing,
I feast my eyes on the apple, which in my famished state seems to
have taken on the proportions of a gargantuan banquet.
“If
you’re sure.” I cannot help but take it. “I’ve eaten nothing
since yesterday. Somebody stole what was left of my food. It’s too
far to walk to try and buy some, and anyway, I’ve no money left.”
“It’s
every man for himself, here.” Adonis nods. “What’s your name?”
“Clare.”
I bite into pure nectar. “Clare Ronson. How about you?”
“Hi
Clare, I’m Ross Tyler.” Adonis holds out his hand. “I
hitchhiked from Ryde on Friday with a mate from college, who was last
seen yesterday trying to find somewhere private to take a crap.”
Juice
from the apple runs down my chin and I wipe it away with my left
hand, shake Ross’s hand with the other, and smile up at him.
“You’re
a lifesaver, Ross. I came here with a friend as well, but maybe she
met up with your mate. I haven’t seen her for a few hours now.”
“Looks
like it’s us two against the world then.” Ross slings the
rucksack back over his shoulder. “I’m on my way up the hill;
going to hitchhike back to Ryde and get a chance on the hovercraft
before this lot set off. Coming?”
I’ve
had enough. My knight in Jesus creepers has materialised and is
standing right in front of me. Not one for wanting to look a gift
horse in the mouth, and fortified by the sweet fruit, I nod and get
to my feet.
“Yes;
I want to go home.”
Paul
Rogers is giving it all he’s got. Taking one last look at the
stage and wondering if we would ever see the like of it again, I grab
my saviour’s outstretched hand and we begin to thread our way
between the bodies and mounds of detritus, back up Desolation Hill
and over Afton Down, eventually descending onto the Military Road.
Crowds of young people have the same idea, and we all saunter along
amiably in the late afternoon heat, in no rush to get off the Island,
and unaware that we are part of history in the making. In front of
us are two girls holding hands; one is naked except for a pair of
pink knickers, and the other is bare from the waist down.
“Looks
like those two have fared worse than you.” Ross smirks.
I
am stoned on cannabis fumes, lack of sleep, hunger, and a definite
animal attraction for my new-found friend. It matters to me not one
jot that female flesh usually kept under wraps is now exposed to the
stares of all and sundry. Presently the girls slope off and join
many other festival-goers, washing off the dirt from Desolation Hill
in the choppy waters of Freshwater Bay. I smile at Ross as we trudge
along Military Road, copying him and raising my thumb some time later
as crowds begin to thin out and the odd car can be seen driving past
us on the way to maybe Brook Green or further on into Niton or
Newport.
“Who
in their right mind is going to give us
a lift?” I panic while wondering just how much further I can walk.
“Look at the state of us. How many miles is it to Ryde from here?
Can’t we wait for a bus?”
“About
twenty.” Comes the cheerful reply. “I’m skint, the same as
you. It’s hitching or Shanks’s pony.”
My
affable, blond Adonis is prepared to traipse into the night to reach
his destination. It’s all I can do to keep up with his long,
loping strides. The buzz from the apple wears off around Compton Bay,
and I want to cry.
“Cheer
up, babe.”
Ross
winks and puts his arm around me. The effect is galvanising and
instantly spurs me on. I gaze up into his pale blue eyes, and his
nearness causes a pleasant throbbing sensation in my groin. I have
never seen such beauty in a man before. I am certain I haven’t
seen him at Uni.
“Which
University are you at?” I find myself looking down in the
direction of his groin as we walk.
“Not
Uni; Portsmouth Art College.” Ross holds his fist up and jerks his
thumb at passing cars. “How about you?”
“The
Uni; not far from there though. Reading English; I want to be a
teacher. Do you think you’ll be a famous painter then?”
“Don’t
know.” Ross shrugs and fondles the hair at the back of my neck.
“But I’m having a ball finding out.”
***
It’s
not until we walk past Compton Bay and head towards Brook Green that
a van stops next to us. Ross is still pointing his thumb in the
vague direction of Newport, but I have long ago given up, and am just
concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. I hear Ross
speak to the driver who is on his way to Bembridge, and to my great
delight he beckons us into the cab and agrees to drop us off along
the seafront at Ryde. The van has three seats at the front. I let
Ross go in first, who chats amiably to the driver most of the way I
think. Me, I put my head on Ross’s shoulder and am asleep before
the van has even pulled away.
