When I first began writing The Edge of Summer, I didn't set out to tell a grand love story. I wanted to explore something quieter, more fragile — the kind of love that grows in the cracks of everyday life, in small gestures, at kitchen tables, in simple picnics and shared secrets. I wanted to write about two young people who carry their own wounds, their own doubts, yet somehow find in each other a gentler way to move through the world.
Emma and Tommy came to me not as perfect characters, but as imperfect humans, trying, in their own ways, to feel safe, to be seen and to belong.
Emma offered her quiet strength; Tommy offered his caring devotion. And together they built something real — the kind of love that doesn't sweep you off your feet, but steadies you when the world is unkind.
Their story is also shaped by the era they grew up in: a version of late-1980s in Britain where class boundaries were sharp, options were limited, and choosing love sometimes meant choosing a future that looked nothing like the one expected of you.
Writing this novel gave me the chance to revisit those things — the music, the friendships, the long bus rides, the old cinemas, and the simple joy of notes slipped into pockets in an era before mobile phones and the internet.
But above all, this book is about the small, ordinary acts of care that accumulate into something profound. The ways people heal each other without knowing it. The way trust is rebuilt one moment at a time. The way love — when tended — can survive distance, doubt, fear, and the long quiet stretches of adulthood.
If you've reached the end of The Edge of Summer my greatest hope is that something in this story stays with you: a memory, a feeling, a reminder that even the most understated beginnings can grow into a life's anchor.
Thank you for spending time with Emma and Tommy.
Thank you for holding their story with such care.
Mara Mansour