The Woman Who Met Her Match by Fiona Gibson #Blogtour #Extract - This Chick Reads
post-template-default,single,single-post,postid-1177,single-format-standard,bridge-core-1.0.6,ajax_fade,page_not_loaded,,qode-title-hidden,qode_grid_1300,footer_responsive_adv,qode-content-sidebar-responsive,qode-child-theme-ver-1.0.0,qode-theme-ver-18.2,qode-theme-bridge,qode_header_in_grid,wpb-js-composer js-comp-ver-6.0.5,vc_responsive

The Woman Who Met Her Match by Fiona Gibson #Blogtour #Extract

Hello sweethearts, today I have the pleasure to kick off Fiona Gibson’s blog tour for her latest laugh out loud comedy, The Woman Who Met Her Match. I’m a HUGE fan of Fiona (as many of you are, I know) and I’m so excited about her latest book. I’ll be reviewing it soon, but for now, I’m leaving you with an extract from the book. Make sure you follow the other tour hosts for more, awesome content. Oh and take a good look at the gorgeous banner…made by Fiona herself! God, she’s so talented! Prettiest banner I’ve ever seen.

Keep on reading and smiling, guys and see you soon!

The Woman Who Met Her Match by Fiona Gibson
Published by Avon
Published on 20.4.2017
Genres: chick lit, rom com
Pages: 400
Format: paperback

What if your first love came back on the scene . . . 30 years later?

After yet another disaster, Lorrie is calling time on online dating. She might be single in her forties, but she’s got a good job, wonderful children and she’s happy. This, Lorrie decides, is going to have to be enough.

That is, until she receives a very unexpected request from France. Antoine Rousseau, who had once turned a lonely French exchange trip into a summer of romance, wants to see her – after thirty years.

But Lorrie is a responsible woman. She can’t exactly run off to Nice with the man who broke her teenage heart . . . can she?

A wonderfully funny novel, perfect for fans of Jill Mansell, Joanna Bolouri and Milly Johnson.

EXTRACT from The Woman Who Met Her Match

The Summer of 1986

‘It’ll be good for you,’ Mum announced. ‘You’ll improve your French; see a whole different side of life. You don’t want to be stuck in boring old Yorkshire all summer, do you?’

She was applying her make-up at her dressing table mirror: two coats of spidery black mascara, frosted peach lips and a flash of apricot blusher across each cheek. She closed her small, tight mouth and swivelled round on the stool to face me. ‘You might even meet a nice French boy. Oh, I hope so, Lorrie! Just think – your first boyfriend. That’s what’s meant to happen on a French exchange!’ She turned back to her mirror, brushing on bronzer until her face took on a shimmery metallic hue.

At sixteen years old, I knew that people only said it’ll be good for you when it was something you didn’t want to do. And this was a prime example.

I didn’t want a French boyfriend. I had never been out with anyone in Yorkshire – no one had even shown any interest in kissing me – and I doubted that my arrival in a foreign country would suddenly heighten my allure. I didn’t even want to go to France, especially not to a stranger’s house. My French was pretty limited. I was fairly confident I could buy a cauliflower or report the presence of cockroaches in my hotel room but as for living in a French family’s flat for an entire month? I was fully prepared for no one to understand a single word I said. Although I had tried to convince Mum that I’d learn just as much by studying my textbooks at home, she wouldn’t listen. Once she had made up her mind, that was that; firm arrangements were made, my terrible passport picture taken in a photo booth with my hair scraped back so I looked like a potato, and travel tickets booked. Clearly, there was no point in arguing.

There were many other reasons why the thought of going to France scared me:

• I was to fly there, despite having never been on an aeroplane before. In fact, I had never been on any mode of transport where a talk on safety procedures was required.

• French girls were thin and sexy – and I was neither of those things.

• French people kissed on both cheeks just to say hello, i.e. much potential for humiliation. It was all about sex. Everything was. Even their nouns were either masculine or feminine.

In fact, I knew from occasional glimpses of French films that everyone was always snogging the face off each other. So what would I do while all that was going on?

About Fiona Gibson

Fiona is an author and journalist who has written for many UK publications including The Observer, The Guardian, Marie Claire, Red, New Woman, Top Sante and Elle. She writes a monthly column for Sainsbury’s magazine and is a Contributing Editor at Red magazine.

Fiona lives in Scotland with her husband, their twin sons and daughter. She likes to draw, run 10k races, play her saxophone and lie in the bath with a big glass of wine, although not all at once.

No Comments

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.