Author Archives: newromantics4

AUTHOR OF THE DAY

newromantics4:

An early Christmas present from Paddy Cummings.

Originally posted on Paddy Cummins:


LIZZIE LAMB

LIZZIE LAMB

If you have a dream – go for it.
Life is not a rehearsal

About the Author
After teaching her 1000th pupil and working as a deputy headteacher in a large primary school, Lizzie decided it was time to leave the chalk face and pursue her first love: writing. She joined the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers Scheme, honed her craft and wrote Tall, Dark and Kilted. She’s had enormous fun researching men in kilts, falling in love with brooding hero Ruairi Urquhart, and rooting for heroine Fliss Bagshawe – and hopes you will, too. Born in Scotland, Lizzie has always wanted to write a romantic novel set in the Highlands and Islands and with Tall, Dark and Kilted she has done just that. She has a well developed sense of humour and hopes this comes across in her novel. Although much of her time is taken up…

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It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot like Christmas . . .

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This extract is from my novel Boot Camp Bride and the action takes place in a skip/dumpster on Christmas Eve. Charlee Montague is on her first stake out with temperamental, brooding photographer, Rafa Ffinch. If she gets it right, he takes her on as his partner for a trial period. Get it wrong, and she’s back to filing, fetching lattes and walking the editor’s dog.

Here’s the blurb . . .

Take an up-for-anything rookie reporter.  Add a world-weary photo-journalist.  Put them together . . . light the blue touch paper and stand well back! Posing as a bride-to-be, Charlee Montague goes undercover at a boot camp for brides in Norfolk to photograph supermodel Anastasia Markova looking less than perfect. At Charlee’s side and posing as her fiancé, is Rafael Ffinch award winning photographer and survivor of a kidnap attempt in Colombia. He’s in no mood to cut inexperienced Charlee any slack and has made it plain that once the investigation is over, their partnership – and fake engagement – will be terminated, too.  Soon Charlee has more questions than answers. What’s the real reason behind Ffinch’s interest in the boot camp? How is it connected to his kidnap in Colombia? In setting out to uncover the truth, Charlee puts herself in danger … As the investigation draws to a close, she wonders if she’ll be able to hand back the engagement ring and walk away from Rafa without a backward glance.

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Here’s the extract – enjoy – and Merry Christmas to all my readers . . .

The action takes place on Christmas Eve in an empty skip/dumpster outside an exclusive London watering hole frequented by the rich and famous.

‘You’re like Cinderella, aren’t you? Only, instead of ugly stepsisters, you have the Brothers Grimm.’ Ffinch shared his less than flattering appraisal of her family with Charlee.

‘I’m nothing like Cinderella. And, I’ll have you know, my brothers are clever, talented, uber handsome and … and think the world of me.’ She crossed her fingers as she said the last bit, not entirely sure if it was true. It was one thing for her to bemoan her lot regarding her brothers and the way they’d teased her almost unmercifully while she’d been growing up: nearly drowning her in the lake at the bottom of the farm and hanging her dolls and teddies from the apple trees in the garden. Then, as she grew older, scaring off potential boyfriends with glowering looks, folded arms and a hundred and one questions about their intentions. The way they kept harping on about ‘men are only after one thing, Charlee, and we should know.’ It was all too embarrassing; too mortifying. She flushed in the shadowy darkness of the camper van.

But she wasn’t going to allow Fonseca-Ffinch to cast aspersions on her family. It was none of his business.

‘So where does that leave you, Little Miss Intern?’ He managed to give her another swift, assessing glance as the traffic built up and the camper van crawled along.

She made as if to answer but then clammed up; she’d trade information with him on a quid pro quo basis. She wasn’t going to answer his questions when she wasn’t allowed to ask any of her own. Why, for example, had she been chosen for this assignment – apart from her assertion that she wouldn’t go all mushy on him and her declaration that she was prepared to die an old maid clutching the Pulitzer Prize for Journalism to her scrawny bosom? If that’s what it took to make her mark.

‘It leaves me in a camper van with you on Christmas Eve, wearing thermal underwear and cooking on gas,’ she answered. ‘Could you turn down the heat before I expire?’ She fanned herself with a magazine she’d found in the glove compartment. There were all sorts of notebooks in there and a top of the range camera.

‘I’ll remind you of that when you’re freezing cold in half an hour’s time,’ he said, reaching across and rearranging the parcel shelf to his liking. Something else out of bounds? No surprise there, Charlee thought, unfastening her coat and unwrapping the pashmina from her neck.

Patronised and demoralised – this was turning out to be a very unequal partnership – she slunk lower in her seat and folded her arms across her breasts. God, he’d had more mood swings in fifteen minutes than was entirely attractive in a grown man. She’d be more than happy to walk away from tonight’s assignment without exchanging Christmas cards, let alone email addresses and mobile phone numbers.

Something was eating him. But what?

On their previous encounters, she’d sensed an undercurrent, noticed the way his eyes looked dead, even when he smiled. Like he was grieving over something – or, someone. Yet, on both occasions, he’d pulled himself out of his dolour and appeared to enjoy sparring with her. As if she drew him away from dark thoughts that haunted him. But tonight was different, he seemed driven, almost unaware of her presence until she annoyed him – then he looked surprised to find her sitting next to him in the passenger seat.

Nothing like being made to feel invisible to build up one’s confidence on a first assignment, Charlee thought.

‘Anyhoo, Ffinch,’ she began.

‘What now?’ he asked in exasperated tones. Charlee could tell that he wasn’t in the mood for conversation or company and that made her all the more determined to needle him.

‘I thought you might have had our names stuck on the windscreen. Fonseca and Montague; Rafa and Charlee. Frankly, I’m disappointed – we are partners, after all.’

‘Temporary partners,’ he said crushingly. ‘With an emphasis on temporary.’

‘Were you this grumpy with your last partners?’ Then she remembered that his partners had drowned in the Amazon and he’d only just escaped with his life. She could have bitten her tongue off but laid a hand on his arm instead. ‘I – I’m sorry Ffinch, that was unforgivable of me. I forgot.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he shrugged off her hand. ‘Nothing matters except getting through tonight without being spotted. Okay?’ He let out a shaky breath and when Charlee glanced at him in the orange city lights, his brow was furrowed and he looked unbearably sad. Deciding she’d said more than enough, she folded her arms across her chest and said nothing more until they drew into a side street in Mayfair. Ffinch parked the camper van on the darker side of the street and killed the engine.

‘We’re here.’

‘Here?’ Charlee looked around at the discreet hotels with their doormen, the armed policemen from the diplomatic protection group walking together in pairs, machine guns slung across their chests. The upmarket designer shops with their subdued lighting and wares visible through the grilles.

‘Not here, exactly. Close by. Come on.’

He seemed to have regained some of his good humour because he came round to her side of the camper van, opened the door and held out his hand with a gracious bow. Charlee ignored his hand and slithered out instead, glancing over at Berkeley Square and wondering if nightingales had ever sung there. Ffinch looked down at his open hand and shrugged as if Charlee’s show of independence was of little consequence to him.

He locked the camper and strode out towards Piccadilly with his camera bag slung over his shoulder. Charlee had to break into a trot at his heels in order to match his long strides. She rather suspected that he was giving no quarter after she’d so ungraciously refused to be helped down from the camper van.

The evening was wet but mild. Well dressed, affluent partygoers drifted in and out of doorways which were flanked by Christmas trees or hung with lights and garlands. Most of Charlee’s friends had returned home for Christmas and it hadn’t gone down well with her parents, her mother in particular, that she wouldn’t be travelling down to Berkshire until early tomorrow morning.

‘Don’t disturb any of your father’s patients when you arrive late, Charlotte,’ her mother’s aggrieved tone echoed in her head. And, as she followed Ffinch down a side street, she thought it quite ridiculous that her mother referred to the animals requiring overnight care at her father’s veterinary practice as patients. And she wondered, not for the first time, why her mother couldn’t be more relaxed and accepting of who she was. She sighed, and pressed her hand to her side where a painful stitch was developing. She was getting quite out of breath and Ffinch showed no sign of slowing down. In fact, it looked as if he’d forgotten she was at his heels.

Then he ducked down an alleyway between tall, elegant buildings, stopped in his tracks and held his hand up for silence, like an Indian scout. Turning, he put his finger to his lips and indicated, by nodding his head, that she should follow him – quietly. Charlee stayed true to the promise that she’d made in the camper van, that when push came to shove she could be quiet as a mouse. But excitement bubbled up inside her as she wondered what was in store.

Ffinch led the way to the back of one of the houses where dustbins were discreetly hidden behind wrought iron screens and a tarpaulin-shrouded skip stood in one corner of the yard. Outside the back entrance of what was clearly a private club, there was a canopied smoking area with sturdy wicker chairs and a table. Crouching low, he went over to the skip, deftly raised up one corner of the tarpaulin and nodded towards it.

‘Your coach, Cinders. Get in.’

‘What?’ Charlee mouthed, sensing the need to be quiet, circumspect. Ffinch came over, removed the two Waitrose bags from her slack fingers and repeated his instructions.

‘I said, get in. Do it now, without arguing and I’ll explain …’

It was the thought of the explanation rather than his hissed command that made Charlee comply. She gave a shudder of distaste, envisaging sitting among rotting fish tails and the remains of last night’s dinner. At his earlier insistence, she was wearing her little black number and she did not intend ruining it, not even in the line of duty. But needs must; the experienced journo had to be prepared to put personal comfort aside and get on with the job. But the skip sides were quite high and she was rather on the short side so she raised an enquiring eyebrow at Ffinch.

Giving an irritated tut, he put the bags containing the food and his camera equipment on the floor and swung her easily into the skip, as if she weighed no more than a fly. He held her in his arms briefly and his warm breath fanned her temple. For a moment, Charlee felt like a bride being carried across the threshold, but then pulled herself together and put a stop to her wild imaginings. He might be the hottest ticket in town, but this was a skip for God’s sake – and hadn’t she promised not to go all mushy on him?

He deposited her gently into the skip, followed close behind and pulled the green tarp over their heads. Using a pocket torch, he illuminated the interior which was loaded with offcuts of wood and indicated that she should sit. Then he took up position next to her on a sturdy plank and started to examine his photographic equipment.

Feeling dismissed, Charlee said nothing for a few moments. When she did finally manage to say: ‘Okay, level with me, what are we doing here?’ her voice was hoarse from being route marched through Piccadilly. Although she’d spoken no louder than a whisper, he made a throat cutting gesture with his forefinger, raised a corner of the tarp and poked his camera lens through it. He fired off a few rapid frames and then withdrew the camera and sank back on the makeshift seat.

‘We’re here,’ he offered, rifling through the bag of food until he found some doorstep sandwiches oozing brown sauce, ‘to photograph a prince who, it turns out, is less than charming, Cinders. He’s playing away from home while his girlfriend is -’

‘Over in Africa in a drought zone with Save the Children. Yeah, I’ve seen the photos,’ she drawled cynically, ‘of her holding starving babies, all perfectly made-up and in crease proof fatigues.’

‘The babies are wearing make-up and fatigues?’ he asked innocently, biting into a cold bacon and tomato sandwich.

‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ she replied haughtily. ‘And it’s not funny to make fun of starving children in the Horn of Africa.’

‘About as PC as referring to one of the Cat People as having had an extreme makeover?’ he came back with, HP sauce dribbling down his chin as he ate his sandwich.

‘Touché,’ she remarked as she handed him a piece of kitchen roll to use as a napkin. ‘That was a stupid of me and I’m sorry – but you were goading me -’

‘I don’t think I was. I rather get the impression that you pretty much act on impulse and do and say what you want.’

His assessment of her was so unnervingly accurate that Charlee changed the subject.

‘I smell a rat; one wearing a crown and ermine, but a rat nonetheless. Not much of a story, though, is it: PRINCE PLAYS THE FIELD WHILE FIANCEE IS IN AFRICA DOING GOOD WORKS? I mean, it’s hardly breaking news that HRH is poor husband material, but if she wants the big wedding and the title then she’ll have to get used to him playing away from home. It runs in the blood. So, cut the bullshit and give me the truth, Ffinch.’ She took the bag of food away from him. ‘Food seems to be the only bargaining chip I have and I’m prepared to use it. No cranberry muffins, or coffee, until you come clean.’

‘Montague, you’re beginning to make me wonder if I did the right thing in choosing you. Sam assured me that you were ambitious but biddable.’ He had reverted to the same light, bantering tone he’d used the night of his book launch and in Sam’s office. Whatever demons had been haunting him when he’d picked her up at her bedsit seemed to have vanished into the darkness the moment they had climbed into the skip. Maybe, like her, the stake-out and the story had pushed everything else to the edge of his consciousness.

‘One out of two ain’t bad,’ Charlee laughed and fetched her own sandwich out of the bag. ‘Don’t change the subject. Give.’

‘Okay, this isn’t about the prince and the showgirl. That was just a smoke-screen for the team back at What’cha! There’s a story unfolding here tonight, one which I’m on the trail of.’

‘I knew it. And?’

‘That’s as much as I’m prepared to divulge at the moment.’

‘Even to a partner?’ she asked pertly, knowing that their partnership only existed in her imagination. ‘Montague and Ffinch – sounds good to me.’

‘Ffinch and Montague you mean. Not that we are partners,’ he corrected, ‘you are my assistant – nothing more.’ He reached for the bag of food but Charlee held it away from him.

‘Then this assistant needs to know what’s expected of her or she’s leaving and taking her sandwiches with her. Then you’ll have the whole skip to yourself. Capice?’

Ffinch shone the torch on her face. ‘You are trouble, lady. Not only that, you’ve been watching too many episodes of The Sopranos. Capice, indeed,’ he pulled a face but she could see that he was figuring out that she was no pushover. And, quite possibly, trying not to laugh. ‘Okay, Montague, here’s the thing. You’ve heard of Anastasia Markova, the model who’s marrying the Russian plutocrat?’

Just in time, Charlee stopped herself from saying, Duh! She knew she had to play this one poker-faced and hide her excitement. ‘Sure.’ She shrugged and put the bag of sandwiches between them on the plank.

‘I’ve had a tip-off that she’s holding her hen night, here.’ He pulled a face and left Charlee wondering if it was the whole concept of marriage, weddings and the attendant brouhaha that cheesed him off. Or the expression ‘hen night’ with its connotations of soon-to-be brides tied to lamp posts and wearing L plates while their attendants were sick in the gutter. Dancing on tables and staggering out of nightclubs wearing pink Stetsons was so not what she would do when/if her moment arrived. ‘Montague! Are you listening to a word I’m saying?’

‘I don’t have to look adoringly into your eyes to prove I’m concentrating. Okay? Not that I can see them in this light,’ she added in a more conciliatory tone just in case she was seriously pissing him off and blowing her chances of being taken on another assignment. ‘Okay, so where do I fit into your plan, apart from being in charge of catering?’ She pushed the bag of sandwiches closer to him.

‘I need you to go over to the smoking area and stand there until they come out.’

‘Who comes out?’

‘Anastasia and her laydees,’ he explained patiently. Charlee bit her lip; the flaw in the plan was blindingly obvious – wasn’t it?

‘But I could be standing there all night, freezing my assets off waiting for her to put in an appearance. Or, when we spot her I can hardly clamber out of the skip, walk over and start passing round the Silk Cut, can I? And, besides, I don’t smoke and don’t carry ciggies round with me on the off-chance that – ’

Ffinch leaned forward in the semi-darkness and put two fingers on her lips.

‘Montague. It’s all been taken care of … Now, are you going to shut up and listen?’

Charlee knocked his hand away and nodded her head, fuming that he had acted so patronisingly towards her. She wasn’t a doll to be manhandled as and when he thought fit, and the sooner he realised that, the better.

‘I’m listening,’ she said.

‘Here’s how it works. I get a text from my contact inside the club to say she’s coming out. That gives us time to get you out of the skip and station you at the back door looking like you’ve been there all night.’

‘What am I supposed to do when she comes out? Secretly film her, or what?’

‘No,’ he sighed heavily as though she just didn’t get it. ‘You are to do nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Although,’ she felt rather than saw his moody grey eyes directed towards her like laser beams in the darkness, ‘I suspect that doing nothing might not sit easily with you.’

‘I told you back in the van. I can be anything you want me to be – if it results in getting the story.’ As she uttered, I can be anything you want me to be, she wanted to call back the words. She rather suspected that too many women had been just a little too keen to please Rafa Fonseca-Ffinch. Apparently finding the idea of her pleasing him in a non-work related capacity repellent, he shifted uneasily on the uncomfortable plank. As he did so, his knee grazed against the inside of her thigh where her dress had ridden up, the hardness of bone meeting soft, yielding flesh.

Anything you want me to be? Now he’d think she was coming onto him and … as if of one mind they sprang apart, scalded and embarrassed by the unexpected, intimate touch.

Then Ffinch’s iPhone buzzed twice, the screen lit up and he grabbed it as if it were a lifeline. The light illuminated the planes and angles of his face, emphasising the dark circles of fatigue beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones. He seemed far away, as if he was remembering Christmas Eve in a different place and time, and the remembrance saddened him. Then he shrugged off whatever was haunting him, and became suddenly focused and businesslike.

‘Okay. We’re on.’ He looped a velvet evening bag over her head. ‘Cigarettes, lighter and a mobile phone. Switch the phone to voice recorder, leave it on the table and record everything they say. Everything. Got it?’

‘But, what if -’

‘There’s no time for ifs. You were chosen by Sam specifically because you can speak Russian, you’re full of bravado and – correct me if I’m wrong – can blag your way out of most situations.’ If there’d been time, Charlee would have felt almost flattered by the description; but, as it was …

‘Okay. Here, help me off with my coat. I can’t …’

In the confined space of the skip, Ffinch managed to winkle her out of her coat and scarf. Keyed up by the thought of what lay ahead, Charlee almost didn’t notice the way his fingers grazed her collarbone. Or that his hand had brushed against her breasts in the darkness. She’d remember all of that much, much later when she was alone in bed. Now she concentrated on divesting her outdoor things and smoothing the wrinkles out of her black hold-up stockings. Then she shuffled past him, losing her footing and almost sitting in his lap as she tried to avoid laddering her stockings on the side of the skip.

‘Oof, Montague, have a care. You almost flattened me,’ was his gallant response as she rested the flat of her hand on his thighs and pushed herself off. Strangely, without her coat, instead of freezing to death, she felt uncomfortably warm. Her cheeks and forehead burned while goose pimples travelled the length of her arms. Excitement, she guessed, hurriedly dismissing the conflicting sensations of hot and cold. That’s all it was. What else could it be?

‘Ready?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper, like he was in dire need of the drink she’d packed, possibly with an added shot of rum.

In one swift movement, he threw back the corner of the tarp, lifted her up and over the high sides of the skip and deposited her on the ground. The back door of the nightclub opened and light streamed out over the smoking area. Charlee froze – then a member of staff poked her head cautiously round the door and placed a glass of red wine on the table. She glanced, once, towards the skip and then withdrew.

‘That’s your drink. Go and get it – and remember … voice recorder. Go!’

As Charlee staggered across the space between the skip and the calico framed gazebo strung with fairy lights, she wondered how he’d organised all this. If he could survive capture by a guerrilla group in Colombia, she supposed that paying a member of staff to do his bidding was small fry by comparison.

Three tables, comfortable sofas and chairs were positioned inside the decorative corral trimmed with winter foliage and berries. Huge scented candles spiked on sconces at the corners of the enclosure sent out a perfume of oranges, cloves and winter spices towards Charlee. The smoking area was warmed by overhead heaters, and onyx ashtrays filled with sand were positioned strategically on the tables. All quite different to the pub yards where her friends did their smoking. Usually there was a bucket of sand for stubbing out cigarettes, if you were lucky. Mostly, the stubs were crushed underfoot on the pavement.

There was little time for reflection or one of her usual flights of fancy. She had to be in position, glass in hand and puffing away at a cigarette before the bridal party came out. She allowed herself one backward glance at the skip and then stationed herself under the nearest heater. She was anxious to prove that she was the woman for the job and ready for whatever fate sent her. A chill wind blew into the yard and cut through the fabric of her little black shift dress. She searched in the quilted velvet bag and did a double take when she saw the label – it was vintage Chanel. Whose was it? An ex-girlfriend’s? His mother’s? Did he have a wardrobe of props for occasions such as this? It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that he did.

Hands shaking, she extracted a solid silver cigarette case and lighter; the case was just the right size to hold six long cigarettes. Inside the lid it was engraved with signatures in different handwriting and Charlee suspected it was a family heirloom. She turned it over and saw the intertwined C’s – Cartier, what else? Why couldn’t he have given her an ordinary pack of cigarettes? It’d be just her luck to drop the heavy case down a drain or damage it, and then spend the next six months working to pay it off.

Voices.

Stiffening, she concentrated on carrying out the task to the best of her ability.

With her ear for languages, she detected the cadence of upper-class vowels overlaid with Estuary English. Posh kids, trying to disguise the Received Pronunciation considered so uncool nowadays. Not her intended mark, clearly. Pulling the mobile phone out of the bag, she turned away and pretended to talk to someone on the other end, but not before registering the young prince surrounded by his circle of trusted friends. Then she practically singed her eyebrows as she inexpertly put the cigarette in her mouth, tried to light it one-handed and take a long draw without choking. Evidently, she was beneath their notice and looked just like another young woman out enjoying the Christmas Eve buzz. They carried on talking about driving down the M4 to Wiltshire to stay on their parents’ ‘estates’, and how they would need to meet up if they were to survive the ordeal.

Then the door opened again and a troupe of long-legged beauties wearing minimal clothing but some serious jewellery walked out of the back entrance. Well, not so much walked as covered the ground in long, languorous strides with legs that looked like they belonged on thoroughbred racehorses – all bone, sinew and slender ankles. Charlee looked at her definitely average legs and wondered how it would feel to have those added inches. Or to be able to walk on five-inch Jimmy Choos without falling over. But there was no time to give full rein to her neuroses, she could feel Ffinch’s eyes boring a hole in the back of her skull and hear him saying: What are you playing at, Montague – get closer. Move in for the kill.

The models joined the prince and his friends and they air-kissed and schmoozed each other big time. The blue bloods happy to rub shoulders with the supermodels, and the models glad of the validation they gained from mixing with the prince and his entourage. Then Anastasia Markova spotted Charlee’s mobile.

‘No photos. No photos,’ she shrieked, holding her hands over her face. Charlee gave a shrug and put the phone on the table, after making sure the voice recorder was activated.

‘Whatever, darling,’ Charlee drawled, picking up her drink and moving away from them. She drank the red wine in several thirsty gulps and then as the bouquet hit her taste buds suppressed a wow of delight. Whatever bottle it had come out of had spent long years in the darkness of a temperature regulated wine cellar.

Vin de Pays it was not.

Some desultory conversation passed between the disparate group, mostly about how this was Markova’s hen night and how close her wedding was. Then the prince and his friends stubbed out their cigarettes and went back into the nightclub. Charlee, sitting on the large sofa, made a great play of letting her cigarette burn down and flicking the ash onto the ground. The models slipped into Russian and she looked away from them while the recorder did its business and captured every word. She was trying so hard not to look in their direction that, when Anastasia Markova touched her on the shoulder, she almost jumped out of her skin.

‘Is vintage Chanel, no?’ Markova said pointing at Charlee’s bag and reaching out to stroke it. ‘You permit?’ She didn’t wait for an answer but un-looped the bag and without more ado looked inside. Flaming cheek, Charlee thought, but smiled sweetly – had she left her manners on the Russian Steppes along with her impoverished background? Markova was checking out the stitching with all the thoroughness of a customs officer looking for drugs. ‘Is real deal,’ she declared and gave Charlee a beatific smile, admitting her into their circle. ‘Cartier,’ she pulled out the cigarette case and lighter and showed the other models who cooed over it. They spoke in rapid Russian and Charlee gleaned that they loved vintage but it cost too much, even on their wages. ‘Lucky girr-ll.’ She passed the bag and the cigarette case round her girlfriends. ‘Your man buy this?’ she asked directly, slanting Charlee an envious look.

‘Oh nawr,’ Charlee affected an upper-class drawl, ‘It belongs to Mummy.’ She thought about her man sitting not so many metres away, watching, taking photos and no doubt getting ready to mark her performance out of ten. Low marks, like Craig Revel Horwood in Strictly – a big, fat five probably. They returned the bag and cigarette case back to her and the phone on the table rang. Smiling apologetically, she reached for it.

‘Darling, we were just talking about yow,’ she said, in an accent no one had used for at least fifty years. Not even the Queen.

‘Okay, you’ve got what we need …’

‘But darling, I don’t want to come home just yet,’ she protested, and laughed one of those tinkling laughs she’d read about in novels. ‘Don’t send the chauffeur round for me, sweetie, I’m going back in for a nightcap.’

‘Montague, you’ve done well, don’t overplay your hand.’ Charlee pulled a petulant expression and gave a large sigh.

‘Honestly, sweetie, you can be such a party pooper.’ She turned towards the models who were openly listening to her conversation, no doubt hoping to improve their English. ‘He’s such a pain in the a-r-s-e,’ she spelled out, pointing at her own derriere. ‘But he loves me to bits! Can’t wait to marry me. But I’m in no hurry to get tied down, or have babies,’ she informed them, pulling a face. Nodding sagely, they stubbed out their cigarettes and made their way back towards the nightclub.

Anastasia Markova turned. ‘Get married soon. Looks fade. Men change, grow cold. You join us for drink? It is my hen’s nights.’ She smiled uncertainly at Charlee, looking like a child in the playground, anxious to make a new friend.

‘Of course. Go ahead, I’ll just finish talking to my fiancé and join you.’

Her fiancé in the skip was less than impressed. ‘Don’t even think it Montague. Wait until they’ve left and then make your way down the alley and towards the camper van. Don’t glance at the skip – wait in the street for me, and don’t forget the bloody phone …’

‘Relax, darling, remember your blood pressure,’ she said sweetly before cutting him off. The models walked back into the nightclub as graceful as borzois. She waited until the door closed and then made her way down the alley and into the side street towards Ffinch’s camper van – the theme from Mission Impossible playing in her head.

Move over Ethan Hawke – there’s a new kid on the block.

If you’ve enjoyed this extract, Boot Camp Bride is available as a kindle download and as a paperback to give away as a present. I hope you will choose to follow my blog, too. Digital book - Boot Camp Bride (2)

Lizzie’s LInks

Boot Camp Bride - Romance and Intrigue on the Norfolk marshes http://t.co/0WkwlH8bgg

Tall, Dark and Kilted - A contemporary romance set in the Highlands of Scotland http://t.co/xj2T54mE6j

Hocus Pocus 14 short story anthology – http://tinyurl.com/Hocus-Pocus14

Author Event at Waterstones, Kensington, London brings another successful year to a close!

Lizzie Lamb on teamwork, the glass ceiling, and that Waterstones event!

newromantics4:

Many thanks to the wonderful writers who make up The Write Romantics for featuring me on their blog today.

Originally posted on thewriteromantics:

Today on the blog we’re talking to the fabulous Lizzie Lamb. Lizzie is a truly inspirational character – a fantastic writer and a whizz at social networking and marketing, as well as being a genuinely lovely lady. As part of the New Romantics Press (formerly the New Romantics 4), Lizzie has recently flown the flag for indie writers everywhere by hosting an author event at Waterstones, Kensington, no less! We were thrilled when she agreed to appear on our blog and had a lot of questions we wanted to put to her. So without further ado, over to Lizzie.blog3

1. Tell us more about the New Romantics Press. How did you meet? What made you form an “indie powerhouse” together?

Originally, three of us: Mags Cullingford, June Kearns and I were members of Leicester Writers’ Club and the Romantic Novelists’ Association New Writers’ Scheme. Adrienne Vaughan joined the RNA, came along to…

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…forget the Spice Girls… here’s the Indie Girls… coming to a Waterstones near you…

newromantics4:

Many thanks to Seumus for blogging about our Waterstones gig.

Originally posted on Seumas Gallacher:

…great timing! … in consonance with my previous post about ‘Living the Dream,’ into my Guest Blog slot comes the fabulous news that four of our Indie Girls are all appearing together at Waterstones, Kensington… my pals, Lizzie Lamb, Adrienne Vaughan, June Kearns and Mags Cullingford, collectively known as the New Romantics, have secured their date with the bookstore on November 13th… some have conjectured they got it by threatening to go there and sing if they weren’t allowed in… well, I don’t know about that, but their masterpieces (mistresspieces?) speak volumes (pun intended, Mabel… we’re NUTHIN if we’re not inventive on this blog)… rumour has it there will be free cases of champagne to take away in the back of yer car, and sumptuous delicacies to nibble on while yeez marvel at the Fab Four’s autographing skills…don’t just take my WURD for it, here’s what they’re…

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…re-run by popular request… Foreword for SELF-PUBLISHING STEPS TO SUCCESSFUL SALES…

Originally posted on Seumas Gallacher:

…yeez are very nice people out there, Lads and Lassies of Blog Land… many of yeez have suggested I run the Foreword for SELF-PUBLISHING STEPS TO SUCCESSFUL SALES so that my fellow quill-scrapers may get a clear notion of what it’s about… if it can help any of yeez, that’s a bonus… here it is:

Foreword to SELF-PUBLISHING STEPS TO SUCCESSFUL SALES

I started writing my first crime thriller novel in early 2009. I finished the first draft in a matter of a few months. Then, I thought, all I have to do is to send it off to a few Literary Agents in London. One of them would be sure to throw lots of money at me for the right to carry my masterpiece into the public readership market.

In fact I sent off forty Query Letters, submitting the novel for consideration. In the beautiful balance that is the writing…

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New Romantics Press Author Showcase

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The height of our aspirations has been achieved.

Originally posted on New Romantics 4:

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An ‘Author Showcase? So what, you ask?

Friends, let us tell you that four indie authors hosting an Author Showcase in a one of Waterstones flagship London bookstores is no mean feat. It has required determination on our part and the belief and open mindedness of store manager Michael Korel to ‘take us on’. On top of that, we’ve produced eight quality novels with proven sales records and have demonstrated our ability to deliver a night no one will forget.

This Author Showcase is the culmination of a dream. One which began two summers ago over lunch with Amanda Grange in Lizzie’s garden. Our path to publication is well documented in our blog but on November the thirteenth we will have exceeded what we hoped to accomplish on that bright summer’s day.

  • poster with live links removed (cropped)Written nine books between us
  • Created joint and individual blogs
  • Established a social media presence on Facebook, Twitter…

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Hocus Pocus ’14 and Hallowe’en Fun

HOCUS POCUS ’14 OFFICAL LAUNCH DATE AND FREE DOWNLOAD

Hocus Pocus cover for press releases etc.Today is the official launch date of the Hallowe’en short story anthology – HOCUS POCUS ’14.

To celebrate the event, the short story anthology will be FREE to download from 31st October to 2nd November. So grab yours now. The contributors have organised a Facebook Event which will run through the whole day in hourly slots. There will be lots of giveaways to celebrate the launch of Hocus Pocus, so please come along, leave a comment/enter a competition and, hopefully, win a prize.

I will be ‘live’ from 7pm – 8pm. During that time I will be organising a fun competition to choose your ‘witchy name’ – with some copies of Hocus Pocus (paperback) up for grabs and/or a download of either Tall, Dark and Kilted or Boot Camp Bride. I was also be ‘manning’ the Facebook page and would love you to come and chat with me. Fellow writer and member of New Romantics Press, Adrienne Vaughan will be on earlier in the day. That’s us together in witches’ hats brandishing a copy of Hocus Pocus.  Pretty scary, huh?2014-10-18 12.24.23-1

The anthology is the brain child of Debbie Flint and the other authors/contributors are: Adrienne Vaughan  Lynda Renham  Alison May  Jane O’Reilly Jules Wake Mary Jane Hallowell Carolyn Mahony  Tina K. Burton

As part of the celebration, Debbie Flint asked us to write about a true life spooky event. I’ve called mine – Knock, Knock, Who’s There? I’ve included it in this blog post and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Have a great Hallowe’en and don’t get up to any Hocus Pocus!! 

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KNOCK, KNOCK, WHO’S THERE?

My Real Life Spooky Event – Leicester circa 1964

In 1962, my family –including Granny and the dog all moved from Scotland to live in Leicester in a rambling palisaded villa. Apart from my Granny, all the adults went out to work – Mother in one of the many shoe factories dotted around Leicester and Dad on a building site as a scaffolder. I was thirteen years old and my siblings ranged below me at eight, six and four years of age respectively. We were rarely alone in the house as Granny was there to welcome us home from school and to give us our evening meal before the adults arrived in from work.

There was something spooky about that house in College Avenue, it had a long dark corridor which led from the front door to the breakfast room, scullery and kitchen at the rear. Other doors opened off the corridor giving onto a sitting room and a gloomy dining room in turn. Once, the house must have been splendid, in a Gothic sort of way; high ceilings, marble fireplaces, deep cornices and even bells to ring for the servants in each room. But to us kids it was a scary place and we didn’t like to be left on our own. In fact, there were certain rooms which the dog wouldn’t enter – without its hackles rising.

One day Granny decided to visit her brother in London which meant leaving us alone for several hours until Mother returned from the factory. Granny was very unhappy with this arrangement, but eventually agreed to visit her brother – albeit with the proviso that all four children, plus dog locked ourselves in our parents’ bedroom and stayed there until Mother came home.

Granny left, and I locked us in our temporary prison with food, drink, comics, toys, radio, the dog and a chamber pot in case of emergencies! We watched Granny walk to the end of the street and then settled down for a boring couple of hours until Mother arrived home. Time passed slowly and we tried to guess where Granny was on her journey – Luton, Bedford, St Pancras, the underground . . .

Then, the strangest thing happened.

We heard Granny’s footsteps climbing the stairs and coming along the landing towards the bedroom. The door knob turned once and then sprang back to its original position. Being kids we thought nothing of it. Ours was an old house and things were always sticking and jamming. Then, stranger still, we heard Granny calling out my name: ‘Betty. Betty,’ in her unmistakable Scottish accent. I looked at my sister Ellen for confirmation of what I’d heard and then walked over to the bedroom door and tried the handle. The door was still locked and the key was on our side, just as I’d left it. I went to unlock the door, but remembering the promise I’d made to Granny to stay put until Mother came home, I changed my mind.

My sister and I sat down on the bed and looked at each other, more puzzled than frightened.  When Mother came home, we were simply glad to be allowed to run outside and play and didn’t tell her about Granny’s voice, the footsteps or the door knob turning.

Years later I brought up the subject with my sister.

‘We did hear Granny’s footsteps and her voice, didn’t we?’ I asked.

‘We did,’ my sister Ellen replied, emphatically. ‘She called out your name, twice and the door handle turned.’

1cfa569cda370dff36afed84de207545We exchanged a look and shuddered, knowing that, as adults, we were only just beginning to comprehend we’d seen and heard that day. Had Granny been so worried about us being in the house alone, that she’d projecting her anxiety across the miles from London to Leicester? Or was it something ‘else’; something which wanted us to leave the safety of the bedroom and venture out on to the landing where it was waiting?

The same nameless terror which made us run down the long dark corridor to the safety of the kitchen every time – and the dog refuse to enter the large cupboard under the stairs where we played? Or, was it the old lady my father (the least fanciful of men) purported to have seen on several occasions standing at the foot of his bed looking distracted and mournful?

You decide.

My sister considers herself a ‘wee bit psychic’, while I consider myself a complete pragmatist. I know there must be a logical explanation for what happened and I’d feel a whole lot better if someone experienced in this field could explain it to me.

Then I could finally lay this story to rest – where it belongs.

Remember: Tall, Dark and Kilted and Boot Camp Bride are both just 99p for one more day and then they revert back to £1.99 a download. Working hard on number three which will be published early 2015.

If You Don’t Have a Dream

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Adrienne’s turn on Joanne’s fabulous blog

Originally posted on Joanne Guidoccio:

Welcome to my Second Acts Series!

Today, we have author and public relations dynamo Adrienne Vaughan chatting about the importance of dreams.

Here’s Adrienne!

Adrienne and Winston

Adrienne and Winston

I’ve always loved that song, you know, the one from South Pacific, Happy Talk. It’s so true, if you don’t have a dream, how on earth are you going to make a dream come true?

There again, have you ever met anyone who doesn’t dream they were someone or something else? Most people wish for something different, but it’s the dreamers, and I mean the real dreamers who make a difference. Sighing and wishing achieves very little, as far as I can tell, it’s the proper, ‘let’s take this seriously’ dreamer who gets things done, changes themselves, their environment, the whole world if they mean too.

But it wasn’t until Joanne kindly invited me onto her blog, and I was giving this notion…

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Jan Brigden – My First Novel, and My Love of Proofreading …

newromantics4:

Jan has proof read both my novels and has a gimlet eye for mistakes. I would heartily recommend her to other indie authors or anyone who wants a professional looking manuscript.

Originally posted on The Romaniacs:

It’s no secret that my first novel took me a while to write. Okay, YONKS, mainly due to my endless tweaking and re-tweaking of it until it waved the white flag at me. I’m thrilled, therefore, to report that, having received a cracking report from my RNA New Writers’ Scheme reader, I’ve finally started submitting my book to agents.

To date, I’ve had four rejections.

Ouch!

They stung.

A lot.

I have, however, received some very encouraging feedback.

I’m under no illusions, and I’m certainly not averse to self-publishing, I simply want to try the traditional route first.

I must trust that someone will love my book and believe in it as much as I do …

My novel is a multi POV tale – three interwoven stories in one, if you like – entitled ‘As Weekends Go …’

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Here’s a little taster:

When Rebecca Stafford is gifted the chance…

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