“Perfect Wife. Perfect Life. Perfect Crime.”
‘The Truth’
by Naomi Joy
The Blog Tour

My spot is almost right at the end of this mega Blog Tour, so I do hope that you are not all overdosed on The Truth. I still think that my extract is one of the best for setting a scene and it certainly has me intrigued enough that I am eager for the book to get to the top of my TBR pile!

My thanks, as is so often the case, goes to Vicky from Aria Fiction, for pulling such a cast of bloggers together and the NetGalley team, without whom the lovely downloads just wouldn’t happen!

…

THE TRUTH

Perfect wife. Perfect life. Perfect crime.

Anthony is not the man everyone believes him to be. And Emelia is not the woman he wants her to be.

Theirs was a whirlwind romance, Anthony was the doting boyfriend, the charismatic and successful career man who swept her off her feet. But now Emelia is trapped in a marriage of dark secrets and obsession. She is no more than something Anthony wants to ‘fix’, one of his pet projects.

Emelia has no escape from the life that Anthony insists on controlling, so she shares her story through the only means she can – her blog. Yet Anthony can never find out. Forced to hide behind a false name, Emelia knows the only way that Anthony will allow her to leave him, is death.

Trapped with a man she knows is trying to kill her, Emelia is determined that someone will hear her story and Anthony will meet his ends. That everyone will discover the truth.

…

NAOMI JOY

Born in Jersey, Channel Islands, Naomi Joy is the pen name of a young PR professional, who moved to London after studying English and Music at Durham University and who was formerly an account director at the prestigious Storm Communications.

Writing from experience, she draws the reader into the darker side of the uptown and glamorous, presenting realism that is life or death, unreliable and thrilling.

Follow Naomi on Twitter

Connect with Naomi on Facebook

…

BLOG TOUR EXTRACT

He knocks.

‘Come in,’ I reply.

My dressing gown fans as the door opens, the gust catching the silk sleeve and part of the body, transforming it, for a second, from inanimate object to ghostly spectre.

‘Morning, darling. How are you feeling?’

He peers at me through full-moon black-rimmed spectacles, the paper thin skin beneath his eyes tinged purple – not enough sleep – his long fingers curled round the door handle. His carefully groomed moustache quivers above his top lip, flicked up at the ends. He’s excited about something.

‘Any better?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I croak from my resting place. ‘I still feel like death.’

He walks towards me, eyebrows crooked, wedding ring flashing as he passes through the bursts of sunlight. He dabs the sweat slathering my brow and folds back the duvet gently, eager to help, but the movement releases the smell of my own stench into the otherwise beautiful room. His lips pucker in response. He tries not to gag.

‘I want to take you somewhere today,’ he says, bitter coffee on his breath.

I turn my head fully towards him and we lock eyes.

‘Where?’ I ask too quickly, too eagerly, droplets pooling anew in the curve of my lower back.

‘The excavation. I thought it might make you feel better.’

I smile, elated for a moment, then look away, my eyes on the opposite wall. There are a couple of problems with this suggestion. The first: he’s promised this before. I must not get my hopes up. The second: I am sick, deathly unwell, and, though I have the will to leave, I’m not sure there’s any possible way that I can. My stomach twists and jealousy rumbles in its pit. He is well. He can go wherever he likes. He can work and, better still, he loves his job. Anthony’s a famous archaeologist and, although that might sound oxymoronic, to those in the industry he’s a rock star. Literally.

‘I’d love to,’ I answer.

Despite my reservations, I am hopeful that I will go outside today. In fact, it is imperative that I do; Anthony is nothing but kind and patient with me and yet my brain is turning me against him, doubting his intentions. If I could just find the strength to ignore the searing pain in my abdomen, the tightness in my chest, the raging sweats, the all-consuming itch of my skin, the fire beneath, things would start to improve, we’d get back to who we were before. I know we would. My heart thumps, already exhausted, as I heave my reluctant body up to a seated position and swing my feet to the floor. I balance on the edge of the mattress, letting the black spots from my headrush pass, and, just as I’m about to stand, my toes hit the edge of my laptop hidden beneath the bed, making me jump. I glance behind me, hoping he won’t have noticed.

‘Now then,’ he says softly, taking my hand. ‘Time for your medicine.’

Two pills land in my palm – Antriptophene – and for once I stutter at what he’s given me: I don’t recognize this brand and I’m immediately suspicious of it. I look at the long drink of lukewarm water left on the bedside table overnight, coated now with a thin film of dust. Something doesn’t feel right.

‘What are these?’

‘Your doctor’s recommended them, they’re supposed to be excellent.’

I look at the pills again, at the blocky red writing atop bright orange casing and make a decision.

‘I’m not taking these.’

Anthony’s face breaks with lines, lips curling at my refusal, shocked that I would even question what he’s giving me. Taken aback, he stalls, then relents, folding them into his hand and leaving the room without another word, his tall frame pausing momentarily in the light of the doorway.

Taking back control gives me pause for thought. Why do I accept these medicines from the doctor without question? These pills with incomprehensible names, odd packets with essays of side effects, just as likely to do me harm as do me good. I’d read something online about the body ‘knowing how to fix itself’ and, you know, I think I’m going to give it a try. Besides, things can’t be any worse than they already are.

Revelation over, I tell myself that today will be different, pill free, that today I will finally be well enough to go outside.

…

…