The Age of Misadventure - blog tour

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The Age of Misadventure

The gloriously funny new novel about living life to the full, whatever your age, from the author of A Grand Old Time.

55-year-old Georgie Turner doesn’t need a new man. Her daughter, aunt and sister are the most important people in her life (and the most infuriating). But it seems the older they get, the further apart they drift.

Georgie’s never been a fan of her sister Bonnie’s husband, so when she learns her brother-in-law has been up to no good, Georgie sees an opportunity to bring the women of her family back together. Along with her 21-year-old daughter and 80-year-old aunt, she packs Bonnie into the back of her car and they leave Liverpool to hide out on the coast of Sussex. With the help of some sun, sea and bottle or two of prosecco, this will be an adventure they’ll never forget.

But could the right man find Georgie while she’s stopping the wrong man finding her sister?

A gorgeously fun and uplifting novel, perfect for fans of The 100 Year Old Man and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

EXTRACT

I haven’t touched the black coffee I poured half an hour ago, or the scrambled eggs. I really don’t have a hangover after Demi’s wedding, although it was certainly a day to remember. The string quartet playing Vivaldi was hilarious, Adie raising a champagne glass, acting the distinguished father of the bride, while my sister Bonnie sobbed in the corner and drank too many cocktails. She left him two days before Demi’s wedding after finding lipstick smudges on his shirt collar again. I told her it would be a bad idea to go back to him, and she gave me the usual reply: ‘But he needs me, Georgie.’ So I dragged her on the dance floor to bop to Aerosmith and watched helpless while she threw up outside in the lush grounds of the spectacular Cheshire mansion. Of course, Adie, the brother-in-law from hell, sidled over and led her away, promising to look after her forever, and I was left by myself in the bar.

Then I was accosted by a man with a neatly clipped beard who tried to smooch with me to ‘Lay Lady Lay’, breathing down my ear like an asthmatic bloodhound. Not flattering, not even for a fifty-five-year-old woman who’s been single for almost six years and has hardly had a second look from a decent man in all that time. Not that I’m interested. I ditched the snorting bloodhound on the dance floor, strutted past Demi and Kyle, who were swaying together, their eyes locked, oblivious to the mayhem caused by her philandering father, and took a taxi all the way back home to Liverpool. It was a costly evening all round.

This morning, my head aches so badly because I’m worried about my daughter and my sister. It’s ten o’clock and Jade didn’t come home last night. She left the wedding straight after the church service, wrinkling her nose and telling me she was going to a proper party where there’d be young people, not ageing has-beens making fools of themselves. Jade’s often out until two in the morning but seldom all night, and she’s not answering my texts, which is unusual. Bonnie’s keeping quiet, too – no reply to my six messages over the last hour. I assume my sister has a hangover and is still asleep. I expect she’s gone home with Adie. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was stifled in their airless bedroom, lying pale in the four-poster with the curtains drawn while Adie hovers overhead, fangs at the ready, rubbing his hands together with glee.

Jade’s twenty-four: she knows she can do as she pleases but I’m becoming concerned. She often comes in late on a Saturday night after hours of non-stop clubbing, but not much gets in the way of her Sunday morning muesli and a 10-k run. Apart from the half-marathon she’s preparing for, she works as a personal trainer, so she knows the value of sleep and a good breakfast. I pour more coffee and breathe in roasted beans.

I’m in a soft dressing gown to my ankles and furry boot slippers. I look a mess. My hair’s sticking out, dried with hairspray and sweat from last night’s dancing. My skin feels slack, like it doesn’t fit the bones in my face. I do a reasonable impression of Marge Simpson, but it’s nothing I can’t fix with an hour in the gym, a shower and a bit of TLC. I check my phone again, and then push the half-eaten breakfast away from me. I wonder why I thought I wanted scrambled eggs. I smile to myself. It’s the same thing with men: appetising and desirable at first glance, then too hot, then too tepid and finally unpalatable. I pour more coffee and check my phone again. The screen is blank and I feel the same way.