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It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas
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.
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.
Tall, Dark and Kilted and Boot Camp Bride will be on Kindle Countdown from 25th December for 5 days. Price 99p/99c
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
SUMMER READING – take me with you to the beach . . .
It doesn’t seem possible that two years have passed since I, and the other members of the New Romantics 4, decided to stop tweaking and editing our novels and publish them on amazon. Its been a whirlwind but worth it. So, here we are, published authors and working hard on our third novels and with a poster to prove it. We have a social media presence on Facebook, Twitter and WordPress. launched our books in Waterstones and produced a video which will appear on YouTube and our blog in September. Added to that we have the satisfaction of knowing that we’ve done it ourselves – with a little help from our many, talented writer friends and supportive readers.
Thank you for buying our novels and for writing us a review on amazon or Goodreads
Other fledgling (and not so fledgling!) authors have asked me what my path to publication has been and how I became a published indie author from a standing start. I’ve covered that subject on the New Romantics 4’s blog and other sites and won’t go over it again on this page. To put it simply, once I’d broken free of the treadmill of honing a synopsis to perfection, endlessly polishing the first three chapters of my novel and sweating over the dreaded submission letter to agents, I freed myself to write the novel which had been clamouring in my head for a number of years. The one which I, as a reader, would like to read and which I – as an author – felt compelled to write.
That’s how (after a few incarnations) Tall, Dark and Kilted was born.
When writing Tall, Dark and Kilted I was able to transport myself to Scotland, meet a gorgeous, sexy laird Ruairi Urquhart and fall in love all over again. Luckily, it seems that the many readers who’ve made the journey with me feel the same. My hero is the starting place for my novels and if I don’t get him exactly right then the novel doesn’t take off. So, although I fell in love with Ruairi (seriously!) and adored my heroine brave, feisty Fliss, I had to move on and create a new set of characters for BOOT CAMP BRIDE. Believe me, it wasn’t easy to leave Tall Dark and Kilted and the gorgeous laird of Kinlochmara behind. But I managed it!
Thornham Beach at low tide
From the highlands of Scotland to the marshes of Norfolk – quite a contrast, you say? But the hero I created, Rafael Fonseca-Ffinch, is anything but flat or dull. He’s survived a kidnap attempt in the rain forests of Columbia and thinks life has thrown him every curve ball possible. But he’s WRONG. He meets boisterous, opinionated Charlee Montague, they go on an undercover mission together and their lives change – for the better. Do they find true love and have a happy ending in this novel? You betcha.
An added advantage in writing this novel is that I get to travel with Rafa and Charlee in their vintage VW Camper van. I’d quite like one myself if I had £25,000 to spare!
Better get writing that third novel, then, Lizzie.
I am currently 60,000 words into my next romantic comedy, but I’m going to tease you and not reveal the title – just yet. Suffice to say that in #3 you’ll be travelling with me to the west coast of Scotland where you’ll meet my new hero – BRODIE – an American who’s travelled to Cormorant Island to seek out his Celtic roots. But he is not all that he seems. Intrigued? So is my new heroine Ishabel Stuart who finds herself attracted to him but can’t quite bring herself to trust him. Honestly, the hoops we make our poor characters jump through!
So, keep an eye out for the new title in 2015 and find out what Brodie is up to!
For now, have a great summer holiday and thank you for all your support, emails and continued interest in what I’m up to. And – if you do go to the beach, take one of my novels with you on a kindle or as a paperback and don’t spill the suntan lotion all over it. And, if you haven’t got a holiday planned, download one of my novels and travel to the highlands of Scotland or the Norfolk marshes with my characters. As for myself, I’m off to spend two weeks in splendid isolation on the Isle of Wight in order to get the first draft of #3 finished. See you in September.
Welcome to Alex Gutteridge
Firstly, a big thank-you to Lizzie for having me on her lovely blog.I think she would agree with me when I say that, for many people, writing is a vocation. It is chosen for you and not by you. Many months or years can pass without you following that dream and it can be interrupted mid flow by unforeseen circumstances but, in your heart, the desire to write will not let go of you, despite whatever life path you may be led down. Some stories are like that too. They hover at your shoulder, waiting for their moment. They provide valuable lessons in patience and perseverance, amongst many other things.
Last Chance Angel was like that. The beginnings of this story go back to when I was living in Oxford and taking my A’levels. I was on my bicycle and involved in a collision with a car. I had a lucky escape and my good fortune was constantly at the back of my mind over the following years. I had no idea that this would be the catalyst for a story which has now been short-listed for five awards including the Romantic Novelists’ Association Award in the young adult category. In some ways I consider it a miracle that this story was completed at all, just as it was a miracle that day that I was not seriously hurt.
Once I actually put pen to paper, (and I do always begin my first drafts in this way) it took many more years before the book was ready for submission. This book was witness to many ups and downs in my life, both personally and professionally. In the middle of it I stopped writing altogether and wondered at times if I would ever find the strength and resilience to once again take up the reins of my writing life. But, little by little I did and it is thanks to this book. This was a story which would not let go of me and for my own self-respect I knew that I could not let go of it.
I had no idea whether anyone would want to publish it but I promised myself that if no-one did, I would publish it myself. I had formed a bond with Jess, my main character; I wanted her voice to be heard and I wanted my hours of work to see the light. I hoped that a few people at least might enjoy reading it. I was incredibly lucky to find a mainstream publisher and not just any publisher, but the right one for this book. Templar have supported me every step of the way. It has been an amazing experience and I cannot thank them enough.
This book will always hold a special place in my heart because it’s the one that got me back into writing. To any writers out there who are sitting at the page and thinking ‘is this really worth it?’ or those of you who say to themselves and others ‘I’d love to write a book but don’t think I could’ I would say this; it is worth it and yes you can. Do not look back in years to come with regrets; follow your dream; dig deep when times get tough and even if you have to step aside for a while, make yourself a promise not to give up.
You can find out more about my writing life at alex-gutteridge.blogspot.co.uk and follow me on Twitter at alexgutteridge1
What Every Reader Wants
What do readers really want – a reader’s point of view
I am delighted to welcome Sarah Houldcroft to my Blog today. Sarah, a Goodreads Librarian and Virtual Assistant for authors, tells us what she thinks our readers want from us.
‘You are so lucky – I would love to write a book’
How many times you, as authors, have heard that phrase, I wonder. Perhaps you smile and think to yourself: ‘God, if she only knew the hours and hours of stress, torment and sheer hard work I have had to go through…’ But we, as readers, don’t know. We simply cannot comprehend, it is not important to us. All we see is the end result and the author becomes a special gifted individual who can reach down into her soul and haul out people and feelings, emotions, happenings, and create a whole new world for us.
For the booklover, the reading experience begins way before the first word in the book. These days with so many more opportunities to read, the first question may be ‘How am I going to read my next novel?’ Paperback, Kindle, tablet, phone, PC? For me, there is nothing better than holding a printed book in my hand, the feel of it, the smell of it, even. And that wonderful action of turning the page to discover what happens next. However, there are an awful lot of booklovers who now just read books on their Kindle or other e-reader. Makes sense, you don’t have to lug an extra suitcase with you on holiday just to transport the books you want to read over the coming two or three weeks. Easy, a click of a button online and you can start reading, no need to wait for the post to deliver your next read. Personally, I am torn between the two methods. I do have a Kindle which is particularly useful when I am reviewing books for authors abroad as they can just send me a digital file and away I go. But, as I said before, my true love is the printed book, of which I have hundreds and hundreds. I am not alone either, although millions of ebooks are downloaded every year, the printed book is still managing to hold its own. But as readers, we like to be given the choice of how we read our next novel. So the more formats in which you make your book available, the better.
Regardless of the format of our next read, if we don’t know what to read next, or a friend has not recommended an author or book then odds are we will end up on Amazon. And that is when the next phase of the pre-reading experience begins. What to choose? Ok, we may have a particular genre in mind which could narrow it down, but with so many books to choose from these days we will be scrolling down the list at some speed until a book cover catches our eye. Yes, the old saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ doesn’t quite hold true these days. If we don’t like your book cover we will pass over you and keep scrolling and that applies to print books too.
Scott Pack, a former Waterstones buyer sums it up quite nicely here http://completelynovel.com/self-publishing/writers-toolbox-cover-design and offers some useful tips for authors to consider.
Of course, the one really wonderful thing about having a printed book is that we booklovers may be lucky enough to have the book signed by the author. This is so exciting for a reader, particularly if we have actually met the author in person which is an incredible experience in itself. This is something that ebook producers have considered and it is now possible to have an ebook ‘signed’ by the author too using https://www.authorgraph.com/
These days the reading experience doesn’t necessarily have to stop once the book has been read. Traditional publishing tended to keep the author at arm’s length from the reader, unless they were lucky enough to attend a book signing. These days with social media, websites like Goodreads.com and the explosion in self-publishing, authors can be far more accessible and that is what readers like.
What Readers Want to Know
- what inspired you to write your novel?
- how, why and where do you write?
- have experienced first-hand any of the aspects in your books?
- did you base your character on a real person
- if so, was it you?
I think booklovers have always thought these questions, but have not had the opportunity to ask until recently. And now we can, we want more. Yes, we will respect your privacy, but we want you to reveal more than just the contents of your latest novel. The author who embraces this new way of doing things, particularly the self-published author, will always win out over those who prefer to keep their distance. They will turn their readers into raving fans who in turn will review their books and talk about their books and encourage others to read their books.
READERS – do you agree?
**Sarah Houldcroft is proud to be an Author’s Envoy and particularly likes to promote self-published authors. She offers services to authors to help boost their online presence through www.vaforauthors.com and her new website www.authors-uncovered.com which will be a place where authors and readers can connect, read, write and share. She lives in Leicestershire with her teenage son, two bunnies, an aging gerbil and hundreds and hundreds of books!
WELCOME TO . . . CHICK LIT GODDESS AND DEBUT NOVELIST ISABELLA ANDERSON
Isabella, could you tell us a little about yourself and why you created your wonderful blog, Chick Lit Goddess
In 2009, I created Chick Lit Goddess. While I planned to use it as a personal blog, it quickly turned it into more than that. With inspiration of my favorite website, Chick Lit Plus, I started featuring reviews, authors, and their books of the following genres: Chick Lit, Contemporary Romance, Romance, Romantic Comedies, and Women’s Fiction! To this day, I’m overwhelmed by the love and support of my of my Chick Lit Goddess site. When I created the name CLG, I didn’t know at the time that I’d created a brand for my books and myself. My other website www.IsabellaLouiseAnderson.com is under construction and I’m planning to launch it soon!
What is a typical writing day for you:
I really wish I could say that I have a “typical writing day”, but I don’t. Since I’ve been editing for what seems like forever, the last time I really wrote anything was in November, during NaNoWriMo. I missed it so much, so I took full advantage of it. While I wrote my next book in seventeen days, which for now is titled “Cards from Khloe’s Flower Shop”, sitting down and actually doing the work was what I needed for me to see how my “typical day” could be if I really focus.
How the writing process works for you. Plotster or panster?
Before I wrote “Cards from Khloe’s Flower Shop”, I was a panster who really had no process. I’d simply just sit in my chair and wait for something to come to my mind. Often, it was stressful, but I managed to do it. However, that changed in November when participated in NaNoWriMo. I never outlined anything, nor had I really had an idea of where my story lines were going, but on November 1st, I started outlining and it changed my life as a writer. I bought a lot of lined paper, colourful pens and tabs, and started jotting characters and ideas down. It was an amazing experience, and who knew I could love office products to much?!
Social Networking – a help or a hindrance?
Both! While it can be helpful to gain fans and help promote, social networking is also a huge distraction for a writer.
Some advice for fledgling authors, please:
I used to think that when someone would say to “just write”, they were crazy. It turns out that they weren’t. It’s true…all you have to do is write your first draft.
What are your top five writing tips?
- Use a timer! To cut back on distractions from my phone and computer, I bought a cheap timer at the grocery store and set it in 35-minute increments, dedicating myself to my WIP. I use it so that there’s no Facebook, Twiter, or any type of distraction. I love it!
- Talk about your books! I’m a shy person, so this is hard for me to do, but the more and more you discuss it with someone, the more you feel like a writer/author. Most of the time, you’ll end up getting more ideas, too.
- Take it one day at a time! Accept that there are going to be bad days. Your writing might not be good, but being a writer isn’t easy. Just knowing that tomorrow is another day can help lighten the weight of stress.
- Read! For me, reading a good book by your favorite author can help inspire you. Before you know it, you’ll be saying, “Hey, I can write, too!”
- Do not let your writing consume you! Everyone needs to go out with friends and make new memories. You might tell yourself that you can’t go out and play because you have a book to write, but don’t. Instead, pretend you’re going out to do research for a character or storyline. Oh, and have fun, too! ☺
Who has inspired you the most?
I have so many people who have inspired me, but I’d have to say my parents.
If not a writer – then what?
Geez, this is a tough one. I guess that if I had to pick to be anything other than a writer, I’d be an editor of a magazine.
Blurb and link(s) to your current book
Blurb: Interior designer Carrie Newman’s day starts out perfectly. For their sixth anniversary, her boyfriend, Roger, gives her diamond earrings, but the sparkle is lost later that same day when she catches him in the act with another woman. Heartbroken and in disarray, Carrie chooses to leave the past behind, possibly forever. She lands in ritzy Palm Beach, Florida where a new job and new client leave her wondering if THE RIGHT DESIGN for her life has finally been found.
Some reviews of your work (if you don’t have any, as yet, please tell us what YOU look for in a great book)
I don’t have any reviews yet but the one thing I look for in a great book is the happy ending. While I do care about how the story line gets to the ending, after it’s over, I (the reader) want to know that the characters are happy. Years later, I want to be able to look back and know that the Hero and Heroine are still together, living a wonderful life together.
Links to your blog etc
Website: http://chicklitgoddess.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ila121209
Facebook – Fan Page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Isabella-Louise-Anderson-Author/253277964716883
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7382151.Isabella_Louise_Anderson
Twitter: https://twitter.com/ILA121209
Twitter – Chick Lit Goddess: https://twitter.com/ChickLitGoddess
Finally – what are you working on ATM?
I’m about to start working on the next draft of “Cards from Khloe’s Flower Shop”. I’m very eager to get back to it.
Author bio:
Isabella grew up with a book in her hand, and to this day nothing has changed. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America and has been featured on several blogs. While Isabella doesn’t blog a lot, she focuses her time on featuring other writers, along with writing and editing.
She lives in Dallas with her husband and cat. She enjoys spicy Mexican food and drinking margaritas, and can be found spending time with family and friends, cheering on the Texas Rangers, and reading.
Isabella’s short story, Meet Me Under the Mistletoe, was featured in Simon & Fig’s Christmas anthology, Merry & Bright, in November 2013.
The Right Design will be her first novel.
Lizzie Lamb - author 