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About The Book
Meet Sophie Stone, a thirty-something serial procrastinator. Tesco knickers, Take That and tea with two sugars is about as exciting as it gets. Sophie’s life is safe and predictable, which is just the way she likes it, thank you very much.
But when her boyfriend dumps her on Valentine’s Day and a mysterious benefactor leaves her an inheritance, Sophie has to accept that change is afoot. There is a catch: in order to inherit, Sophie must agree to meet the father she has never seen.
With interference from an evil boss, bickering flat mates, warring parents and a sexy ex-boyfriend, Sophie has plenty to contend with without an architect who puts his foot in it every time he opens his mouth.
She will have to face the past and learn some uncomfortable home truths before she can finally build a future on her own terms.
Meet The Author
Visit Her Website
Cathy Bramley is a British
author of women’s feel-good fiction. Conditional Love, a romantic comedy is her debut novel. Her new
title, Ivy Lane is being serialized as four ebooks this year
and will be released as a paperback in 2015.
Cathy has spent most of her
working career in the crazy world of marketing. After graduating from University
in Nottingham, she plunged herself into corporate world, working on high-powered
projects such as testing the firing range of SuperSoaker water guns and
perfecting the weeing action of Tiny Tears. In 1995 she set up her own
marketing agency, Apples & Pears Marketing, but now most of her marketing
activities involve promoting her books.
She lives in an idyllic
Nottinghamshire village with her husband, two daughters and a dog called
Pearl.
Guest Post
Grand Designs on Writing My First Book!
Thank you so much, Barbara for taking part in the Conditional Love
CLP Blog Tour and allowing me to write a guest post for your blog!
Conditional Love is my debut novel and as such I decided to keep things simple for
myself and write about something I know – property development.
In Conditional Love, the
main character, Sophie, inherits a run down bungalow in a small village on the
outskirts of Nottinghamshire. Well, that happened to me – or should I say, my
husband, when his father suddenly passed away.
In our case there was no mystery inheritance and no condition in the
will, however, we did decide to develop the property and in fact we demolished
the little bungalow and built a house ourselves on the site.
Does Sophie go on to build the house of her dreams? You’ll have to
read the book to find out, but I can tell you that the book isn’t the least bit
auto-biographical!
Sophie and I do share one passion though and that is the British TV
show Grand Designs.
The show is mentioned throughout the book. I know that there is an
Australian version, but I don’t think it has ever made it to the USA. Grand Designs is fabulous programme
which has been running for years. It
follows self-builders from the start of their project right through until they
move into their dream home. In fact, the show has become so popular that there
is a monthly magazine accompanying the series as well as two large national
exhibitions every year. My husband and I attended a couple of these shows when
we were planning our own house build and they were amazing.
Each TV episode is usually packed with drama: things go wrong with
the build or the home owners run out of money or fall out with the workmen! But
what I love about it is the creativity that these people have and the
determination to pursue their dreams. Of course, it nearly always turns out
right in the end.
And for an author who loves happy endings, what more could I want
from a TV show!
Extract from Chapter
four
In the centre of the desk, lay an
open file. I shuffled forward to the edge of my seat and managed to read my own
name at the top of the page. I inched closer still, squinting to read
more.
‘And you are?’
The deep voice made me jump so much that I panicked, slid off
the chair and down onto one knee, thus greeting the tall, thin man with dark
hair, glasses and a bushy beard in some sort of weird marriage proposal
stance.
I scrambled up off the floor, mortified, and sat back down.
‘Nothing! Just waiting for Mr Whelan.’
His lips twitched and he gave his beard a
scratch.
‘I’m Thomas Whelan.’ He extended a hand towards me. ‘And you
are?’
‘Oh! Sophie Stone.’ I shook his hand and pulled up the collar
of my coat to hide my glowing cheeks.
‘Ah yes,’ he said settling himself at his desk. He glanced at
the file that I’d had been trying to read. ‘You’ve come about your aunt’s
will.’
I processed this new information, hitherto unaware I had an
aunt. Alive or dead.
‘My aunt?’
Mr Whelan blinked furiously, referred back to the manila file
and adjusted his glasses.
‘My apologies, Miss Stone, your great aunt.’
Well that was that then. She had to be one of my father’s
relations. There were definitely no great aunts in Mum’s family. There was no
one at all in her family. I sighed. I had been hoping… well, I wasn’t sure
exactly what I’d been hoping. Maybe that she was an old lady I’d done a good
deed for once when I was in the Brownies or something. Although, I couldn’t
think what I’d done to warrant a mention in anybody’s will.
But any tenuous link would be better than being a relative of
Terry Stone’s. Still, I’d better be absolutely sure.
‘Would you mind just running me through the family
tree?’
‘Of course not,’ said Mr Whelan, pushing his chair back and
standing up abruptly. ‘But first, have you brought your
passport?’
I jumped to my feet too. ‘Why? Where are we going?’ I had
been told on the phone to bring my passport when I arranged the appointment and
the request had been troubling me ever since.
‘Only to the photocopier,’ he chuckled. ‘Need to verify you
are who you say you are before we continue with the reading of the
will.’
Thank heavens for small mercies! I had had visions of having
to jump on a plane at a moment’s notice to take ownership of some mystery
item.
Identity checks complete, we resumed our positions either
side of the desk. The solicitor took off his wristwatch, set it to one side and
then, elbows on the desk, clasped his hands together and made a steeple with his
forefingers, resting his long nose on the tip.
‘This office holds the last will and testament of Mrs Jane
Kennedy. She was Terence Stone’s maternal aunt. Your great aunt.’
I stared at him, mesmerised by the end of his nose which was
protruding over his fingers.
I should stop him from going any further. There was no point
in hearing what he had to say. My father had been absent for all of my thirty-
two years. Mum and I had managed perfectly well without his or his family’s
help, thank you very much and I knew instinctively that she would resent any
intervention at this stage in the game. Besides, why would the old dear leave
anything to me? It didn’t make sense, we’d never even met.
‘Long and tedious documents, wills.’
My eyes must have glazed over for a moment. I shook myself
and Mr Whelan’s eyes twinkled at me.
‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ I said, scooping up my bag
as I stood. ‘My mother is estranged from her ex-husband. I’ve never met Jane
Kennedy; in fact, I’ve never met my father.’
‘I’m aware of all that,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘However, it
falls to me to ensure that you are fully informed as to your inheritance. Please
sit.’ He flapped a hand at the empty chair. ‘Would you like me to read the whole
thing or cut to the chase?’
I blinked my green eyes at him. Was he allowed to say things
like that? I sat back down obediently.
‘The main bits, please.’
‘Righto.’ Mr Whelan extracted a document and a small sealed
envelope from the file. He pushed his glasses up his nose and cleared his
throat. I held my breath.
‘Your great aunt Jane has bequeathed the bulk of her estate
to you. You, Miss Stone are the main beneficiary of her will.’
An estate! Visions of strolling through manicured gardens
like someone out of Pride and Predjudice, against a backdrop of a
Chatsworth-style mansion, on Marc’s arm, were somewhat dimmed with Mr Whelan’s
next sentence.
‘There’s a bungalow in Woodby and several thousand pounds. We
haven’t finalised the amount yet.’
Woodby? That was a village in the sticks somewhere north of
Nottingham. A bungalow and some money. I repeated the words in my head. That was
a house and some actual money-in-the-bank type dosh.
My chest had been getting tighter and tighter with lack of
oxygen and now I was all panicky. Breathe, Sophie, in out, in out. I probably
looked like I was in labour: face all red, and puffing like Ivor the
engine.
A house. My great aunt had given me a house. Of my own. And
that meant a home. How long had I been dreaming of my own home? Only all my
life, that was how long.
Mr Whelan’s lips were moving. He was still speaking and I
hadn’t been listening. He was holding an envelope out to me and I took it
automatically.
‘As I say, there is a condition to the inheritance, but I
think it would be better if you read Mrs Kennedy’s letter yourself. I’ll leave
you in private for a moment. Can I get you some coffee?’
‘Tea please, two sugars.’
Condition? I wasn’t sure I could take any more surprises.
Life was so much gentler without them. My heart rate was already registering at
least a seven on the Richter scale.
‘Actually, make it three!’
Links
Twitter @cathybramley
