27 Oct If ever I fall by S. D. Robertson Blog Tour + EXTRACT
Happy Valentine’s Day, sweethearts! Hope you’re having an amazing love filled day! Today I’m taking part in the blog tour for S. D. Robertson’s new book, IF EVER I FALL.
S. D. made his debut last year with the tear jerker, Time To Say Goodbye which is perfect for fans of Jojo Moyes and Nicholas Sparks. Today I’m sharing an extract from IF EVER I FALL and will leave the buy links from amazon so you can immediately grab a copy. It’s a layered & complex book and I’ll be sharing my thoughts on it very soon.
Enjoy this brilliant day & see you soon!
I received this book for free from in exchange for an honest review. This does not affect my opinion of the book or the content of my review.
If Ever I Fall by S. D. Robertson
Published on 9.2.2017
Is holding on harder than letting go?
Dan’s life has fallen apart at the seams. He’s lost his house, his job is on the line, and now he’s going to lose his family too. All he’s ever wanted is to keep them together, but is everything beyond repair?
Maria is drowning in grief. She spends her days writing letters that will never be answered. Nights are spent trying to hold terrible memories at bay, to escape the pain that threatens to engulf her.
Jack wakes up confused and alone. He doesn’t know who he is, how he got there, or why he finds himself on a deserted clifftop, but will piecing together the past leave him a broken man?
In the face of real tragedy, can these three people find a way to reconcile their past with a new future? And is love enough to carry them through?
The word hospital sets off the panic again. I feel it rising in my chest. ‘Isn’t that where I need to be? What if my brain’s swollen, or I have a blood clot or something? It’s agony every time I move. And I don’t know who I am. That’s not normal – you said so yourself.’
‘Calm down. Getting all riled up is only going to make things worse. I’m a qualified doctor. I have many years of experience and I’ve checked you over with the utmost care. If I had the slightest suspicion you were in any immediate danger, I most certainly wouldn’t be dealing with this here. Trust me, you’re far better resting in bed than being jostled around in a car or an ambulance.’
‘How can I trust you, though? I have no memory of you. You claim to be a qualified doctor, but how do I know that’s true? You also said yourself that you’re retired.’
‘That’s right. I am retired, but I’ve kept up my registration with the GMC so I can do locum work once in a while. I still have a licence to practise. Would you like to see it?’
‘Yes, please, I would actually.’
Miles leaves the room. He’s obviously annoyed that I don’t believe him, but what am I supposed to do? I don’t know him from Adam.
He returns a few moments later and hands me a framed certificate. It hurts my head to read it, but it looks official enough. I pass it back to him. ‘Thanks.’
‘I thought you might like to see this too,’ Miles adds, handing me a smaller picture frame containing a local newspaper cutting. ‘Popular GP hangs up his stethoscope,’ reads the headline. Underneath is a photo of Miles surrounded by a bunch of his former colleagues outside the medical centre where he apparently used to work.
I read the first few lines of the article, which confirm what he’s already told me, and it’s all I can manage.
‘I’m sorry for doubting you,’ I say, handing the frame back to him, ‘but put yourself in my shoes. I don’t remember anything at all and it’s pretty damn terrifying. Plus my head hurts like hell.’
‘I understand,’ he says, although his folded arms and curt reply tell another story.
‘So what now? Do I need to see some kind of specialist? What do you think?’
Miles screws up his face, emphasising the wrinkles around his sea green eyes. ‘Um, no, I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s most likely a bad concussion. Take it easy for a few days and you’ll soon be back to normal. I can keep an eye on you.’
‘Whatever you think is best,’ I say, keen to avoid riling him any further.
He nods and throws me a pursed smile, although I’m sure I spot a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. After pouring more water into my glass and leaving me some ginger nut biscuits to nibble, he tells me to try to sleep.
‘Can’t you tell me my name and something about myself?’ I ask. ‘Are we related? Is this my home?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ I snap, loud enough to provoke my headache. ‘That’s the bloody problem.’
His voice is placid. ‘I’ll tell you if you still can’t remember by tomorrow, but I’m confident you will. Please try to keep calm. I know what I’m doing. Studies have shown that it’s preferable for a patient to be given the chance to recover lost memories for themselves.’
He shuffles out of the room, pausing before closing the door behind him. ‘For the record, it’s not locked,’ he says, as if reading my mind. ‘You’re free to leave here any time you like, but I definitely wouldn’t recommend that in your condition.’
I have a better view of my surroundings now that I’m sitting up in bed. I see a single-glazed sash window with curtains to match the green walls; a high ceiling, white with Victorian-style coving and a light bulb on a bare ceiling rose; a wooden chair with jeans and a black T-shirt draped over it. There’s also a pine bedside table that matches the wardrobe and bookcase, plus a brushed steel reading light. None of it looks familiar.
I’m tempted to get up and peer out of the window. From my current position, I can only see the overcast sky and I wonder whether a full view of the outside world might jog my memory. However, a jerk forward and another dagger between the temples puts paid to that idea. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut. I wait for a few moments until the pain has subsided
My phone! I think suddenly. Where’s my mobile? There must be some answers on there. There will be numbers to call, photos, videos, all sorts. I’ll be able to work out the last person I spoke to and see who I dial regularly. Someone will be able to tell me who I am. I feel a rush of relief at the thought of this solution and look wildly around the room. My gaze falls on blank surfaces; I can’t see a mobile anywhere. There’s not even a charger in any of the plug sockets. I sit forward, slowly this time, and consider getting out of bed to look for it, but as I try the pain kicks in again and, reluctantly, I accept that it’s not going to happen.
‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Miles, are you there?’
I try a few more times, but he doesn’t reply, so I scour the room again from the bed, in the vague hope I might have missed it. All I manage to do is wear myself out.
I close my eyes.
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
I ask myself this simplest of questions over and over, scouring the darkness of my mind for an answer. But it’s not there. All I can picture is the room on the other side of my eyelids. There is nothing else. It terrifies me. I’m seized by a gut feeling that Miles is wrong and my memory won’t come back any time soon, if ever. The tears start flowing down my cheeks. I feel pathetic but can’t stop them coming. I cry myself to sleep.
About S. D. Robertson
An English graduate from the University of Manchester, he’s also worked as a holiday rep, door-to-door salesman, train cleaner, kitchen porter and mobile phone network engineer.
Over the years Stuart has spent time in France, Holland and Australia, but home these days is back in the UK. He lives in a village near Manchester with his wife and daughter. There’s also his cat, Bernard, who likes to distract him from writing – usually by breaking things.