We are home now but tomorrow we are setting out to Ibiza, the wildest of the Balearic islands. We have been married for a year now and this is a long promised holiday.
But I have just heard that Cynthia, my aunt, has died. It was Cynthia who first told me about Ibiza. I can’t stop thinking about her, about the past …
Just quote a couple of spoiler-free sentences the book you’re reading to tempt other readers.
Here is mine:-
“My hands stumbled about incoherently like strangers who had never before touched a keyboard; terrible sounds broke loose, of the kind that tiny children call Chinese music when they strive to express themselves by sheer persistence and force, sometimes by chance bringing together a natural harmony, a beautiful mad sound that can never be repeated. I felt the blood draining away from my face and a still coldness settle around my temples: “I can’t go on,” I cried at last, “I can’t find my place, I don’t know what’s the matter with me…”
This all comes courtesy of Every Eye by Isobel English