I read and review books from quite a variety of different genres here. My preferred genres are: Crime Fiction, Mystery/Thrillers, Psychological Thrillers, Dramas and other General Adult Fiction that discusses issues such as identity, race, sexual orientation, mental health, physical health etc.
Hello everyone, and welcome back to The Bookworm’s Fantasy! I hope you’re doing well. Today I’m taking part in the blog tour for Helen Fields’ latest novel, ‘Perfect Crime’. This is the 5th book in the “DI Callanach” series – I’ve followed the series from the start and can safely say it is my favourite Crime series! In this post, I’ll be giving you some information about the book, plus sharing an exclusive extract with you. Thanks so much to Avon for the opportunity! So, keep reading…
Your darkest moment is your most vulnerable…
Stephen Berry is about to jump off a bridge until a suicide prevention counsellor stops him. A week later, Stephen is dead. Found at the bottom of a cliff, DI Luc Callanach and DCI Ava Turner are drafted in to investigate whether he jumped or whether he was pushed…
As they dig deeper, more would-be suicides roll in: a woman found dead in a bath; a man violently electrocuted. But these are carefully curated deaths – nothing like the impulsive suicide attempts they’ve been made out to be.
Little do Callanach and Turner know how close their perpetrator is as, across Edinburgh, a violent and psychopathic killer gains more confidence with every life he takes…
About the Author.
Helen Fields is the author of five novels, all in the “DI Callanach” series: ‘Perfect Remains’ (January 2017), ‘Perfect Prey’ (July 2017), ‘Perfect Death’ (January 2018), ‘Perfect Silence’ (August 2018) and ‘Perfect Crime’ (April 2019). Fields studied Law and then practised criminal and family law for thirteen years. She then went on to run a film production company called Wailing Banshee Ltd. with her husband, before pursuing writing.
‘It certainly isn’t,’ Ava agreed, walking to the postmortem suite door before removing her cap and gloves and depositing them in the bin. She reached out to hug Ailsa. ‘How are you keeping?’ she asked, stepping out of the sterile suit.
‘You mean for an old person?’ Ailsa grinned.
Ava tutted at her.
‘I’m fine. Less stressed than either of you, I’m guessing. I’m glad to hear Luc’s taken some time off. When did you last get a holiday, girl?’
Ava laughed. Ailsa, a friend of her parents from years back, would never cease to refer to her as a child no matter how old she got or what rank she was.
‘I’ll take a break soon, I promise. We’ve finally appointed a new detective inspector, so that should ease things a bit. We’ll head out to Tantallon now. Anything in particular we should be searching for?’
‘It’s a needle in a haystack, but I’d like to get a look at the missing fingernails. They might just be harbouring a few cells that’ll paint a fuller picture,’ Ailsa said.
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Ava warned. ‘It hasn’t been treated as an active crime scene by forensics. What do you say, Luc? Are you up for a night-time stroll along the castle walls?’
‘Perfect end to a perfect holiday,’ Callanach smiled. ‘I’ll get my coat.’
Hello everyone, and welcome back to The Bookworm’s Fantasy! I hope you’re doing well. Today I’m taking part in the blog tour for Gillian McAllister’s latest novel, ‘The Evidence Against You’. Gillian McAllister is one of my favourite authors, so I’m thrilled that I got the chance to take part! In this post, I’ll be giving you some information about the book, plus sharing an exclusive extract with you. Thanks so much to Penguin for the opportunity! So, keep reading…
It’s the day Izzy’s father will be released from jail.
She has every reason to feel conflicted – he’s the man who gave her a childhood filled with happy memories.
But he has also just served seventeen years for the murder of her mother.
Now, Izzy’s father sends her a letter. He wants to talk, to defend himself against each piece of evidence from his trial.
But should she give him the benefit of the doubt?
Or is her father guilty as charged, and luring her into a trap?
About the Author.
Gillian McAllister is the author of four Psychological Thriller novels: ‘Everything But The Truth’ (2017), ‘Anything You Do Say’ (2017), ‘No Further Questions’ (2018) and ‘The Evidence Against You’ (18th April 2019). McAllister now lives in Birmingham with her boyfriend, and is a lawyer as well as a writer.
It was a wicked and depraved act, Izzy is thinking as she closes her curtains. That’s what the judge said. She remembers his exact words from eighteen years ago. It was a wicked and depraved act. You wanted Alexandra English to die, and you made sure that she did.
Her father was standing in the dock, staring impassively at the judge, his gaze not faltering, his body completely still. He wouldn’t even look across at her. Not as the guilty ver- dict was read out. Not as he was sentenced to life in prison. And not as he was taken away, either. Her final view of him was of his swarthy face in profile, hooked nose, dark hair covering his ears, eyes staring straight ahead.
It’s the first week of May and the weather has warmed up so fast it is as though a switch has been flicked. Moths tumble around the lamp in Izzy’s bedroom. She reaches to close the window, even though it’s still stuffy.
Downstairs, she can hear Nick moving around. She draws the curtains and listens to him opening the dishwasher. He will have gathered up their plates and glasses from the living room and carried them all into the kitchen together in one towering pile. He likes to do things with – according to him – maximum efficiency.
A tree seems to shift in the darkness outside their bedroom window. Izzy is used to the palm trees, but Nick – some- body who likes to follow rules – couldn’t believe it when he first moved across to join her on the Isle of Wight where she grew up. ‘It’s not like it’s the Caribbean,’ he kept saying. ‘They’re everywhere.’
‘It’s tomorrow,’ she says now to Nick, still standing by the window, as he arrives in the bedroom. There is no point, Izzy reasons, not saying anything, though both she and Nick are good at pretending.
A strange expression crosses Nick’s face. Something between a smile and a grimace. He runs a hand through his black hair. She has always loved how much hair he has; how thick and dark it is. He has two crowns at the back; a satisfy- ing double whorl.
He’s carrying a box of crackers and a plate. He’s laid out four cheeses of exactly equal sizes. They’ve been doing this lately. Sharing a fourth, unnamed meal most nights in bed. Guilty pleasures, consumed after hours. We ought to stop, they keep saying to each other, but they don’t, laughingly spread- ing another cracker for each other. Just one more. Izzy has gained four pounds. Everybody will think she is pregnant. Thirty-six, married and so of course pregnant.
Imagine if she was.
Nick goes back down to make a cup of tea. He always makes it the same way: brewed for a timed three minutes, and then the milk.
She wonders if she will miss this phase of their relationship, the crackers and cheese phase, when it’s over. It will be replaced with another, she guesses: the long terrain of a marriage.
‘Yeah,’ Nick says quietly, walking back into the room and continuing their conversation. Izzy looks at him as he shrugs. He opens the box of crackers and passes her a knife, then she sits on the bed next to him. ‘He might come looking for you,’ he says, raising his eyes to hers. He’s a police analyst, so his bluntness never surprises her.
‘I doubt it,’ she says. This is how she deals with it. A glimpsed news story – closed down. A friend asking a prob- ing question – ignored. At least once a week, in the restaurant, in the bank, in the doctor’s surgery, somebody asks her if she is the Isabelle English . . . she can never deny it. She is the image of her mother.
She reaches for a Hovis cracker and smothers it in butter. Nick smiles as she does it. She runs a gourmet restaur- ant, yet spends her time eating what Nick calls ‘lovely crap’. Hovis biscuits spread with synthetic cheap margarine. Angel Delight. Chocolate coins. McDonald’s on the way home. Hot dogs from a tin with a ring pull and an expiry date of four years’ time. By day, she assembles artful salads with smears of balsamic vinegar across the plates. By night, she eats bite- sized chicken Kievs and wonders why on earth she owns a restaurant.
Nick avoids her gaze as he carves a slice of Wensleydale. ‘It’ll be what it’ll be,’ he says. It’s one of his phrases. He puts topics to bed with these phrases. She used to think it was helpful, but she’s less sure these days.
He sits back against the headboard. She had always said she wanted a bedroom like a hotel room and, after a week- end away for her birthday, she arrived home to a different room, as though she had walked into the wrong house. A high bed with a dark suede headboard, six duck-feather pillows piled up. Aubergine-coloured walls, a deep carpet. Everything. He’d done it all for her. He’d bought copper lamps from HomeSense and scented pillow spray and a leather ottoman that he placed at the bottom of the bed. And finally, she thought, looking at the hotel bed in her marital home, she felt safe. After everything that had hap- pened, she had a home, had made herself a new family with Nick, who showed her, in his own understated, indirect way, that he understood. He would not kiss her passionately after dates or confide in her late at night. But he would give her a beautiful bedroom.
And so for the first time in years she had felt happy, just for that moment. Happy and normal. Knowing that happi- ness was possible at all had helped her to nurture it, like a tiny germinating seed.
A spray of crumbs lands on the bed and Nick brushes them carefully into his hand and into the bin.
He pushes a triangle of Dairylea towards her and she opens it and eats it, neat, the soft cheese coating her teeth like plastic.
‘But you’ll tell me, if you hear anything,’ she says to him, lifting her eyes to meet his. They ought to be practical, at least, and Nick will hear before she does. If her father does anything. If he causes any . . . trouble.
‘Yep,’ he replies softly, reaching and interlacing his fin- gers with hers. ‘I’m not supposed to,’ he adds. He knows the rules. Izzy isn’t surprised: Nick is the sort of person who would buy a parking ticket on a Sunday just to be sure.
She gets up off the bed as she hears one of her neighbours outside. ‘I’ll just pop out,’ she says to him.
Something akin to shame bubbles up through her as she descends the stairs. When she is running the restaurant, when she is laughing at Nick, when she is booking appoint- ments and meeting suppliers, she is fully formed. Capable. Adult. But there are certain situations, like this one, where she regresses, where she tumbles back into something long forgotten. She can feel it happening. Nick doesn’t know. Nick thinks she is relaxed. That she is whole. People at work don’t know. Only she knows.
She unlocks the front door and drags the bin across the back alleyway. It’s Wednesday, bin night. They live on the end of a set of four houses, isolated in Luccombe, only three miles from where Izzy grew up. The row of seventeenth- century cottages is set back from the road, and they share a flagstone access way. Bin night went from friendly nods to protracted chats to something more sociable, for Izzy’s neighbours. A way to welcome the week, William said, when he rang her doorbell to ask her to join in their barbecue one night. Nick once told her that people don’t do these things on the mainland. It makes sense, Izzy supposes. There are so many things the Isle of Wight is cut off from: specialist hospitals, universities, Category A prisons . . . they are marooned over here, trapped with the natives, and so they engage in their own traditions.
Nick was working, so she went alone to meet the neigh- bours. God knows what they thought of her. Nothing, probably. But she thinks about them too much.
She hears them now as she reaches her bin. They’re laugh- ing about something, a burst of noise in the warm night. She nods to them as she wheels it past, trying not to look. Thea, Izzy’s direct neighbour, is in a lightweight cardigan, flip- flops, her face showing the beginnings of a tan already.
‘Busy day?’ she says to Izzy. Her grey-streaked hair is held back by a single clip just by her temple.
‘Yes. And you?’ Izzy says with a smile. She hovers next to her, holding the warm handle of the bin. Middle-aged women are Izzy’s favourite. The kind who wear sensible shoes and tunics and draped summer scarves. Who wear nice perfume and statement necklaces and arrange birthday lunches at Zizzi’s with their grown-up children. These are the people that Izzy finds herself seeking out, over and over again, trying to catch hold of a memory. Something – anything. Yes, that’s right, she will sometimes think as she talks to Thea, as she is given that most precious thing: a new, as yet unearthed, memory of her mother. A look she had once given Izzy. The way she instinctively reached down to stop her crossing the road. She is obsessed with the mothers of the world, taking perpetual care of people.
‘Did you decide on the paint?’ Thea asks.
‘No,’ Izzy says. ‘Not yet. But I’m leaning towards the grey.’ ‘Good choice.’
Izzy nods. She wants to ask Thea to come help. They’ll spend the weekend together, painting her kitchen and drink- ing pots of tea. But – for now – she continues to wheel the bin by them quietly and leaves it at the end of the path with theirs. She pauses again, listening to them.
‘May, end of May, she’ll be home, just as soon as her exams are over,’ Thea is saying now, the conversation having shifted topic. ‘She went to some Californian music festival instead of revising over Easter and is now stressed out of her mind. It’s too hot to study, she says.’
It was warm the May Izzy’s father was convicted, too. The air had the same heavy quality. ‘It’s a sweat box already,’ she heard one of the prison van drivers say outside the court- room as they led him away wearing a suit and handcuffs. She didn’t try to speak to him.
When Izzy walks back to her house, Thea has turned to William. He is holding a cup of tea and the vapour steams up his glasses as he sips.
‘But then, after, she’ll be back here, I expect, at least for a few years. She doesn’t know what she wants to do.’ Thea’s smiling, her eyes crinkling, looking upwards at the sky as she thinks of her daughter coming home. ‘I never knew what I wanted to do, either,’ she adds. ‘We can work it out. And in the meantime, she’s the best company. We’re both stupid at going to bed. We stay up together, buying rubbish on the internet.’
Izzy averts her eyes as she walks past. When she reaches her back door, her hand lingers on the doorknob.
She closes her eyes just briefly and stands, feeling the air on her skin. And then she allows the fantasy into her mind, as she always does at this time during the evening. Thea is her mother. She’s visiting her for a short break. They’ve been out for pizza, shopping, the cinema. Wherever. She finds the feeling she likes, that safe, content feeling; the feeling of a cup of hot chocolate passed to her by a mother, the feeling of a log burner on a win- ter’s day, a worn novel pressed into her hands – you’ll love this – and enjoys it for a few minutes.
And then, of course, the guilt comes, as she thinks of her own mother, with her brilliant red hair and her huge, wide smile. Irreplaceable.
Murdered by Izzy’s father, when Izzy was just seventeen. After a few seconds, she goes inside. She locks the door, then checks it, just to be sure.
Hello everyone, and welcome back to The Bookworm’s Fantasy! I hope you’re all doing well. Today I’m kicking off the blog tour for Kate Hamer’s latest novel, ‘Crushed’. I’ve read all of Kate Hamer’s books now and really enjoy her writing! In this post, I’ll be giving you some information on the book, plus sharing an exclusive extract with you. Thanks so much to Faber & Faber for the opportunity! So, keep reading…
Phoebe stands on Pulteney Bridge, tights gashed from toe to thigh. The shock of mangled metal and blood-stained walls flashes through her mind as she tries to cover her face so she won’t be recognised. It wouldn’t do to be spotted looking like this. She’s missing a shoe. She feels sick.
Phoebe thought murder and murder happened. Thoughts are just thoughts, they said. Now she knows they were wrong.
At home, Phoebe arranges the scissors and knives so they point toward her mother’s room. She is exhausted, making sure there’s no trace of herself – not a single hair, not even her scent – left anywhere in the house. She must not let her thoughts unravel, because if they do, there’s no telling who might be caught in the crossfire, and Phoebe will have to live with the consequences.
About the Author.
Kate Hamer is the author of three novels: ‘The Girl In The Red Coat’ (2015), ‘The Doll Funeral’ (2017) and ‘Crushed’ (2nd May 2019). Hamer grew up in the West Country and rural Pembrokeshire and now lives in Cardiff with her husband.
It was a book full of hate. The words must have been scratched underground at the dawn of time. They should’ve stayed there and never come to the surface. It set it all off again.
I’ve had to come to the only place that can calm me down. The corner of Pulteney Bridge. The only thing is, I’ve lost a shoe so people keep looking. My tights have an open gash from toe to thigh, flashing bright white flesh. I try to cover my face with my hair so I won’t be recognised. Things get reported back. I don’t know where my bag has gone – perhaps I dropped it on the way and didn’t notice.
I’d been calm as the sea before that book. It may as well have come crawling towards me on its elbows, dragging its black and bursting body behind. I should have heeded the inkling I had straight away that it was a bomb about to explode.
I lean against the cool stone of the bridge and look over the water to the weir. Usually it soothes me, but not today. In this water are hidden many ancient things. Sometimes one pops out – a coin, a tin mask, a figure of a bull, a crown, a pin. People are always surprised. Why should they be? The river is at the end of a vast drain sluicing straight down from the Roman bathhouse.
The sun glints off the water. The ancient buildings look more friendly in this light. It turns their darkness the colour of honey. The trees are full of early summer and shake their leaves in the breeze. Yet despite the bright surroundings I cannot be contained this time and I have to lean further over the wall, sickness cramping my stomach.
I’d tried to explain to Grace.
‘It’s just a book,’ she said. ‘It’s just a dusty old copy with half the pages falling out because they won’t pay for new ones. What are you on about?’
Her soft blue eyes travelled from side to side as she looked behind me. Her hair is cropped close to her head. The sight of it always makes me feel tender because I know she cuts it herself. It’s so short you can see the shape of her pretty little skull. I wanted to get her attention back. I cupped my hand over my mouth and whispered to her, quoting from the text.
‘I’ve been eating on the “insane root” again. Not now. Not today. A couple of weeks ago.’
Her eyes snapped back on my face and she nodded and gave a little laugh. ‘I’m partial to a few substances myself.’ Then she frowned. ‘You want to be careful, though, you know. Stuff like that can be dangerous.’
I turned away from her. I was bored of tellings-off. I felt light and free. Nothing bad was going to happen. It was just the warm day that had made me feel there could be a bomb, and Mr Jonasson being so close. All the pieces of me that had flown out came back and began fitting themselves together safely with hardly any gaps left in between.
That’s where it should’ve stopped.
But, no. I had to take it further, didn’t I? I had to go on testing myself, trying things out.
I’ve been told once, thoughts are just that by a woman with a face that looked like a little pussy-cat. The more I stared at her the more she seemed to resemble one.
Usually my tests are of the mundane kind. If I think There will be a red car when I turn this corner, perhaps there will be one. What if I wish for blackberry ice cream on the menu and there it is? If I want that plate to fall, it might and shatter on the stone floor. If, if, if, if. The results so far have been inconclusive.
Not this time.
It must’ve been the darkness of the story that made me do it. It was to show myself it couldn’t happen, that the light and airy feeling was how things were going to be from now on. One last little time, I thought. TRY IT OUT.
Was it five or ten minutes later we heard the commotion? Perhaps I was the only one that went towards it. I slipped out and ran down the road until I saw. There was mangled
metal. Blood ran down the walls.
I froze a good few moments before I ran again.
I reach for the front door key that I wear on a heavy chain around my neck. It’s more precious to me than any piece of jewellery could ever be. Hard won. I clasp it now like a rosary. There’s probably keys down there in the water too, along with the other old Roman stuff washed down from the baths. I can almost see it all, bubbling up to the top. Statues and pendants and nails surfacing at once in a thick and filthy mass, and I feel sick again and have to lean right over the wall. A car behind me beeps, once, loudly. They thought I was about to fall, or jump. Maybe I was. I need to move, but maybe I don’t have a choice.
Well, that was sickening.
I feel shaken to the pit of my stomach as I walk away. They haven’t got enough tents to cover it all up because the blood goes right along the wall on Walcot Street. They were trying to do it in the chaos and then they made everyone drive or walk away and closed the road as quick as they could. Horrific. Stuff like this just doesn’t happen in a place like Bath. I didn’t mean to look but it’s hard not to. It was mesmerising. It’s unbelievable how much blood people have in them. The red was in a stripe coming out from the back of the plastic they’ve rigged up. I could see how it had got cemented in between the blackened old stones and I wondered how they were ever going to get it out. They’ll have to scrape right into the gaps and use hoses so there’ll be a wash of pink water swirling across the road.
Behind the yellow tape there’s people trundling around in white plastic suits now. They look so out of place against all that dirty ancient stone, it’s like flickering beings have been beamed in from the future. My heart feels like it’s never going to slow down to its usual pace. I want to cry so badly. I’m only trying to hold on until I get home. I concentrate hard on looking at the normal little things I see every day to keep me going until I can wail in my bedroom. There’s a shop of mirrors full of glitter. There’s the giant carved head looming over the undertaker’s door – Bath is full of odd things like that, carvings and statues and old buildings. When I was little I always used to whisper ‘Hello’ to the head as I passed because he looked like he was asking, ‘Is it your turn yet? Will you be next?’ And I thought starting a conversation might please him so he’d decide not to choose me. He seems to be staring extra hard and pointedly today. It must be because of what just happened. ‘Hello,’ I whisper in a trembling voice. ‘Not me right now. I’m not ready.’
By the time I get to the fruit shop with bright green plastic grass in the window, my breathing has stopped hurting so much.
How many times and in different lights and times of day have I seen all these ordinary things? Hundreds. Thousands. I try to make them take the place of what I’ve just seen.
That’s when I see Phoebe’s bag dumped in the shop doorway. The sickness returns. What’s happened to her? What’s happened to her? I pick the bag up and stand, rubbing the striped canvas between my fingers, wondering what to do. It seems strangely violent, this familiar bag being here that I’ve seen a million times, swinging on Phoebe’s shoulder, the hard outline of books showing through the fabric. It’s not exactly her dumped body but something makes me think of it. I hug it close, shaking now. God, she frightens me sometimes. It terrifies me the way she carries on. My heart lurches: what if it’s her that’s been killed on Walcot Street? What if it was her blood I saw? I close my eyes and sway, the idea being so shockingly awful. No, it can’t be. I won’t allow myself to think that. I’ll never make it back.
I hurry on, the taste of home so strong now it’s almost on my tongue. I can’t wait to collapse inside and feel safe, to phone Phoebe and make sure she’s all right. But up ahead are Belinda and her crew, and they’re walking so slowly I’ll have no choice but to pass them – it’ll look too odd if I slow down to their pace behind.
As I catch up with them their tense bright faces tighten towards me.
‘Orla, did you see it?’ Samantha’s eyes are starry with the sight of the blood. The ribbon of it in the sun is still glittering her eyes.
We all nod even though I can see it’s put a spring in all their steps. They’ll go home and dissect it together, crouching on one of their beds with their arms around their knees and big, pointy-cornered smiles on their faces they can’t wipe off they’re so excited.
It’s such a beautiful day. The sky is a perfect blue. I have an intense longing to be off this dusty pavement with these girls clucking and mauling over the horror like they’re actually sticking their fingers into it and dabbling there. I think of our garden just down the road. It’s my favourite place in the world. Walled in on three sides and with an apple tree in the middle. In the summer, green vines crawl up the brickwork and the scent of the passion flowers passes over me. Mum and Dad aren’t really that into it so I can poke about in there to my heart’s content. Even when it’s cold I’ll sit out on the bench wrapped in a blanket. In the winter the plants have their own bare beauty with all their bones and pods showing like they’ve been turned inside out. I need to be there now.
‘Got to go.’ A wave of awkwardness washes over me. What’s wrong with me? I can’t even make a quick getaway without breaking into a terrible sweat.
‘Hey,’ Belinda calls after me. ‘What was it Grace was saying today?’
I shrug like I don’t know but I heard perfectly well. I was sitting right next to her. Someone had just read a piece out from the supplementary notes. It was Simon, I think.
‘The role of the witch is to demonstrate the female, intuitive, otherworldly power of the mind.’
And while we were all pondering it, supposedly thinking about discussion points, Grace came up with one of her own.
She said, ‘Did somebody actually write this shit?’
It wasn’t even under her breath. In a way it was kind of thrilling, like breaking the law must be.
Everyone heard but nothing happened about it. It never does. She gets away with anything because of her circumstances. Grace might be only sixteen, while Phoebe and me are seventeen, but Grace always seems by far the oldest – as if she’s twice our age and she’s been married and had three kids already.
Finally I see our house and the face of it seems like the sweetest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. As I’m trying to get the key into the lock, the door opens and I collapse inside into Mum’s arms.
‘Did you see?’ she asks. ‘Carol from church just called and told me what’s happened. She’s stuck in the traffic.’
I nod and I can feel my mouth turning down so sharp at the corners it actually hurts.
‘Oh Orla.’ She hugs me tight. ‘My darling, darling girl. I was hoping you hadn’t. I was hoping you’d never have to witness something like that.’
Hello everyone, and welcome back to The Bookworm’s Fantasy! I hope you’re all doing well. Today’s post is going to be A Tour Of My Bookshelves! I haven’t done one of these posts for almost 2 years, but I thought I’d show you around my bookshelves now as I’ve recently moved house. So, keep reading…
My “Favourites” Bookshelves.
My “favourites” bookshelves are located about my dressing table in my bedroom. I like to showcase these books and have these stand out more, as they were all 5-star reads and are all special to me in their own way! These shelves are organised by colour rather than alphabetically. I also keep a couple of my favourite ornaments and notebooks here, as well as my adorable Dachshund bookends!
This is the left/top shelf of my “favourites” bookshelves. Here I keep my favourite books with darker coloured spines. As you can see, it’s pretty full now! To the right are some of my nice notebooks that I like to display, and also some ornaments: a Colosseum statue that I picked up when I went to Rome, a paperweight, and my mini-grand piano ornament.
This is the right/bottom shelf of my “favourites” bookshelves. Here I keep my favourite books with lighter coloured spines. To the left are some more ornaments: my lovely Dachshund bookends, my Disney Pocahontas statue, and my Golden Retriever ornament.
My TBR Bookcase.
This is my main bookcase, located in my bedroom. On the top, I keep my framed graduation photo, to remind me of how far I’ve come and what I’ve achieved so far! This bookcase contains books that I haven’t read yet – so essentially, it’s my TBR! These books are organised by the order I would like to read them in.
This is the top shelf of the bookcase. On the left are my proof copies from publishers (up to The Holiday by T.M. Logan), and after that the TBR begins!
The bottom shelf in my bookcase is where I keep my Classics and books that I read at university. I have some really nice Penguin Clothbound Classics here, as well as some books that were passed down from my family!
My Other Bookcase.
In the spare bedroom in my house, I’ve been allowed three bookshelves to display the books that I’ve read! These books are ordered alphabetically by author’s surname. If you look closely, you’ll see that all of these books are doubled-up – so essentially I’ve managed to squeeze 6 shelves worth of books onto 3 shelves! I need a whole other bookcase really, but that’s just not possible at the moment, so this will have to do. Bookshelves don’t have to be perfect!