In my latest book, Golden Days at the Vintage Volumes Bookshop, I’ve embraced the theme of older people looking back at their lives; how the past can’t be changed, and how the present is absolutely the moment to live in.

Francie Molloy, the central protagonist, is a 65-year-old divorcee who runs Vintage Volumes book shop. She lives with her mum, Gloria, who’s in her eighties and embraced the hippy lifestyle. She expects Francie to be like she was, glamorous, spontaneous, a butterfly adored by everyone.

But she’s simply Francie. And she has no idea what she wants.

Her friend Debs is marrying the man of her dreams. But in her sixties, Debs finds that being an older bride is not as straightforward as she’d hoped.

Francie’s ex, Joe, is going through a rocky time in his new marriage. And her daughter, Vicky, is unpredictable and full of surprises.

Daphne, eccentric and new to the village, wants to start an Am Dram group and enlists Francie’s help. And a handsome mysterious man keeps coming into the bookshop, hovering, asking for sheet music and poetry. Francie can’t help noticing that there’s something fascinating about him.

So, to introduce my new book to you, I’ve attached the opening few lines.

I often like to start a book with a bit of a bang. But this one begins with nostalgic and gentle words.

The bang comes next.

And I have an exciting idea for following this book up with another, featuring some of the same characters…

Let me know what you think. xxx

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Chapter One

Francie thought of the past as a book of faded photos that brings back swirling emotions. Sometimes it was hard to believe the strange, lonely child in the photograph was really her.

1968. A lifetime ago.

Francie Molloy hadn’t even opened the old album yet, she was still gazing at the cover, thinking. Remembering the old days was like staring through muslin cloth. Figures were hazy, events jumbled, facts distorted. But the powerful feelings were always there, feelings of being an outsider, looking in.

Being there but not being there.

She was an only child. A solitary observer, watching adults who moved with elegance and grace, who seemed so sure of themselves, of each other. Her parents, their friends, with their clever conversations and easy laughter.

Francie had been inquisitive, always listening, always learning. And she’d never felt neglected. It suited her to be on the outside, though she’d desperately wanted to be tall and pretty like her mother, in her flowing dresses, bare footed on the grass, her hair in waves to her waist. She wanted to be like her father too, with his warm Irish lilt, his intelligent humour and gentle ways. Her handsome father who loved her mother so deeply.

But that was in the nineteen-sixties. So many years had passed and so much had changed. Francie was in her sixties now and in fairness, her life hadn’t gone as she’d expected.

Far from it.

Looking back now, it was true to say that she hadn’t arrived where she’d thought she would.