27 January 2026
‘Witty and innovative’ – GUARDIAN
‘Riveting and refreshingly original’ – SOPHIE HANNAH
‘The smart, sassy crime caper of the year’ – JANICE HALLETT
Time heals all wounds. Except blunt force trauma.
Vivian Slade is a cautionary tale. The wrong side of thirty, she’s no longer the life and soul of the party – she’s a party of one. But she’s determined to turn over a new leaf, even if that means going to a family gathering where everyone hates her.
Turns out, someone really hates her – enough to push her off a balcony to a very messy end. But then Vivian wakes up! Only to be murdered again. And again. Stuck in a baffling time loop, Vivian’s only ally is a sleep-deprived waiter who just wants to finish his shift. Will Vivian be able to solve her own murder? Only time will tell…
‘The perfect blend of bathos and pathos’ – HARRIET TYCE
‘A time-loop whodunnit that truly kills’ – LESLEY KARA
‘Sharp, funny and well observed’ – LAURA MARSHALL
Viv and the waiter stay either side of the cubicle door, the only sound the catching in-and-out of Viv’s breaths.
‘In your handbag you have four keys on a shark keyring.’ The waiter’s voice is soft. ‘You have your phone and your EpiPen for your peanut allergy. You have a tissue twist of two dodgy diazepam you got off the internet. You have your wallet with seven cards and a receipt for £2.05 for three packets of instant noodles, bought at 9.54 last night when you were, quote, jonesing for dirty salt.’
Viv stares at the toilet brush.
‘Check your bag, Viv. We don’t have long before your mum comes.’
Viv looks up desperately, for anything to make this make sense.
‘You know I’m telling the truth. You felt the glitch, Viv.’
In all her moments before this one, Viv got time, sensed the seconds of her life beating with the regularity of a metronome. Even when it felt like time speeded or slowed, she knew it didn’t, Viv’s lost weekends never quite so lost as her stories suggested: and, next thing, I woke up in Glasgow making a better anecdote than I have hazy memories of drunk-cry-dialling, getting a cab to the station, waiting on the cold platform.
She inhales. The room smells acrid: of floral air freshener, with an undertone of bleach.
‘You’ve told me all your secrets, Viv. I know you can’t pour liquid from a carton without spilling, that you consider it an under-researched medical condition. I know about the time you nicked a doorknob from that house party.’
Viv pushes the swing-lid of the sanitary bin. Scent wafts up, earthy and animal. ‘Why did I take the doorknob?’
‘You were tripping and you thought it was a muffin.’
Viv lets the lid go; it swings back into place with a shush.
‘I know you turn your mobile phone screen to black and white when you want to look impressive, that you made a salad from three types of crisps.’ He pauses. ‘There were Monster Munch, Chip Sticks and those other ones, I’ve forgot the name …’
Cheese savouries.
‘… biscuity ones, they’re shaped like the suits from a pack of cards …’
Cheese savouries.
‘You know the ones. You said they made a good base for salad, that they were the lettuce.’
She pulls up her underwear and unlocks the door. ‘Who are you?’
The waiter is leaning against a sink, one foot crossed over the other. He gives a tight smile. ‘Jamie.’ His sharp features twist. In contrast with Viv’s panic, he is stifling a yawn. Unsuccessfully.
‘What is happening?’
‘You keep getting murdered.’
