Ros Clarke's Blog, page 13

Lying for the Camera chapter 11

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8(i)

Chapter 8(ii)

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Her invitation said plus one. She’d wondered about that. Did he really mean her to turn up with some other guy? Or was it just a thing that the gallery put on all the invitations? In the end, she asked her mother to come.

“There will be pictures of me.”

“Yes, darling.”

“In some of them, I will be naked.”

“Well, it is art, I suppose.”

Hattie laughed. “I suppose so. But also, there will be famous people and free food.”

“I hope you’re going to wear a pretty dress. Something that covers your tummy, dear.”

“I’m pregnant. I’m allowed to show off my stomach.”

“Yes, well. Kate Middleton dressed very nicely when she was pregnant.”

“Kate Middleton is a size nothing.”

“I’m just saying you don’t have to flaunt yourself.”

“Mum, I’m a model!” She was, too. She’d done half a dozen jobs through the agency. Clients liked her and were beginning to re-book her. Andy was extremely pleased with her and Hattie was extremely pleased that she’d only done six days of temping in the past month. Soon she’d be able to give it up altogether.

She still fitted into the dress she’d bought for the exhibition opening before she knew she was pregnant. Her cleavage was slightly more spectacular than usual and the silk jersey draped around her stomach a little tighter than she’d planned. But the vivid purple still clashed marvellously with her hair, and it still showed off her curves to dramatic effect. She knew she’d got it right when her mother pursed her lips and had to visibly restrain herself from suggesting that Hattie might like to wear a pashmina over her dress.

The gallery was almost full when they arrived. Hattie’s mother went to freshen up in the ladies’ room, leaving Hattie free to make her entrance the way she wanted. She stood at the top of the steps down into the main gallery. She set one hand on her hip and struck a pose. Then waited.

Tom spotted her first.

He stopped dead in the middle of a conversation and simply stared at her. The man he’d been talking too turned to look, and gave an appreciative smile. He turned back to ask Tom something and got a distracted nod in reply. Around them, the crowds began to turn in her direction until finally the whole room was looking at her.

She let a slow smile creep across her face. “Well, good evening everyone.”

Taking one step at a time, she descended and let the crowds part in front of her. They seemed to know where she was headed.

Tom held out his hands to her and, when she laid hers in them, bent to kiss her on both cheeks.

“How long have you been planning that?” he murmured.

“Weeks.”

“It was worth it.”

“How’s it going?”

He smiled, glanced round anxiously, smiled again. “No idea at all.”

Hattie laughed. “Have you sold anything?”

“I think so. Yes, a few.”

“Well, that’s great. Have you sold any of me?”

He looked sheepish. “I didn’t put them on sale.”

“Why not? Aren’t they good enough?”

“You’ll see. I have to talk to people now, Hattie.”

“Oh. Okay. Just, first, this is my mother.” She’d joined them in the centre of the room.

“Pleasure to meet you Mrs Bell.”

“And you, Tom. I hope we’ll be seeing a lot of you in the future.”

Hattie saw his eyes twitch. They hadn’t made any decisions or any promises. She still didn’t know how much Tom wanted to be involved in the baby’s life, let alone her life. Though judging from his reaction to her in the purple dress, he still wanted something.

“Mum, he’s got important people to talk to.”

“More important than the mother of his child?”

“Mum!”

“It’s okay,” Tom reassured them. “I would like to meet you again another time, Mrs Bell, But I’m afraid I do have obligations this evening. I hope you enjoy the show.”

They wandered past the landscapes first. Urban architecture made to appear fragile against the onslaught of nature. There were amazing collages of images juxtaposing texture and colour and form to create something magical from the everyday. It was fascinating to Hattie to see the world from Tom’s perspective. There was something in his photographs that reflected his fears. Man was ultimately powerless in these images. The strongest, toughest man-made structures could still be invaded and brought down by the creeping growth of natural structures. He was hopeless in his surrender, only able to observe the defeat, powerless to stop it.

They made Hattie want to weep for him. Pregnancy hormones, obviously. She fumbled in her bag for a tissue and hoped that her mascara was waterproof.

“Oh. Hattie.”

She looked to see where her mother was pointing and then wondered how she hadn’t noticed it before. The whole wall at the back of the gallery was taken up with just one image. Unframed, it had been made to appear as though it was painted directly onto the plaster of the wall. Hattie walked towards it as if in a trance.

She didn’t remember him taking this. It wasn’t from the shots he’d set up. She was sitting on the floor, near the fireplace of the huge drawing room. Her old cardigan had been pulled over the white nightgown he’d made her wear. Someone must have just said something funny because she was looking up and her eyes were alight with laughter. Her hair was bright with sunlight and her skin luminescent. Larger than life, literally, but it didn’t attempt to disguise the fact that in life, she was large.

“You’re beautiful,” she heard her mother whisper, as though she’d just discovered an extraordinary truth.

It was true. In that moment, captured and enlarged by Tom, she was beautiful. Other people were mesmerized by it too. She saw them, trying to walk away, have conversations, look at other pictures, but compelled to keep turning back, shoot glances over their shoulder, step closer again.

She felt the same. She never wanted to stop looking at it. She’d always believed that she was beautiful. Had no shame in her body. Others had seen it too – the woman who’d done the pastel drawing of her at the life drawing class had known it. But Tom had done something more. He’d shown her beauty to the whole world. She’d never have to defend it to anyone, never have to explain to them, never have to overcome their prejudice. She could just show them this picture.

“There are others.” Hattie glanced at her mother, surprised to remember she was still there. She gestured to another part of the gallery. “I think you should look, Hattie.”

So she did, with a last lingering look at herself on the wall. In the next section, she found the images she’d been expecting. The cobweb photo she’d seen on Tom’s laptop. A couple of nude shots. Then she was surprised to find some of the pictures he’d taken for her portfolio. They were good, but they weren’t the sort of thing she’d expected in an art gallery.

“He loves you.”

Hattie shook her head.

Her mother smiled. “Look at them again, Hattie, and ask yourself what Tom sees in you.”

Her vulnerability. He’d told her that. But there was more. He’d captured her sense of fun and her confidence. He’d shown her strengths and her weaknesses. She was there in this pictures. Alive, as three-dimensional as in her own body. And loved.

She could see it now. There was a tenderness in the portraits that she hadn’t noticed at first. A care for the person at the heart of them. They wanted to show that she was special, cared for, protected, loved.

Which made the shock of the last picture all the greater.

Hattie shuddered, flooded with memories of that day on the shoot. Her fear of the horse, trying to relax, then losing control, terror rising, flying through the air…

“It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Tom had his arm around her waist and his head bent close to hers.

“I don’t know why it scares me so much. It’s just a picture.”

His lips twitched. “They’re all just pictures, Hattie. But it’s my job to make them mean more than that.”

“They do. You’re good.”

“This one brings back bad memories too, probably.”

“It wasn’t the best day.”

“No.” He seemed to be struggling to find words to speak next. “I wanted to leave it out of the show.”

“Why?” It was a good photo. It worked with the theme of the exhibition.

“I was ashamed of it. You were in danger and I just took photos of it.”

“Tom.” She turned to him.

“No, let me finish. I felt guilty. You know that. You know why.”

“Lianne.”

He took deep breath. “Yes, Lianne. But I’ve realised something these last few weeks, Hattie. You’re not Lianne.”

She nodded. That was pretty obvious.

“You… when you were in trouble, when you were scared, you phoned me.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing. You asked for help.” His face screwed up with tension. “Lianne never asked for help.”

“Oh, Tom.” She put a hand on his cheek. “You couldn’t have saved her.”

“I know. I know that now.”

“I’m glad.”

He smiled. “Did you see the picture of you?”

“Which one?” she teased.

“Hattie.”

“Yes. Thank you. It’s the most amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, Hattie.”

God, where was that tissue? That mascara wasn’t waterproof and she could already feel her eyes misting over again. Tom wiped away her tears with his thumbs.

“I love you, Hattie Bell. Miss Community Service, 2005.”

He gazed down at her until she shivered with the intensity of it.

“Well?” he prompted gently.

“I love you too, Tom Metcalfe. So very much.” She slid her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. It was a sloppy kiss, wet with tears and chaotic with laughs and failed attempts to speak, but it didn’t matter. It was Tom and he loved her and she wouldn’t have swapped it for any other kiss in her life.

“Marry me?”

She couldn’t have heard him right. She pulled back slightly, enough to see his face. “What?”

He smiled but she could see the tension in his jaw. “I want it all, Hattie. The house, the children, the family car, the wedding ring. The commitment.”

She closed her eyes and took a breath. “You don’t have to promise anything. Love is enough.”

“No.” He was shaking his head. “Love is enough, but love means making the promise. Taking the responsibility. Saying the words.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Hattie, I put together an entire exhibition to show you I mean that.”

She grinned. “Not the entire exhibition.”

“Well, okay. Not the lichen-covered rubble.”

“But the rest?”

“The rest is all about you, Hattie. To show you I love you. To show you I’m serious.” He leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. “Please.”

She took his face in her hands and kissed him again, softly. “Yes.”

Lying for the Camera: chapter 10

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8(i)

Chapter 8(ii)

Chapter 9

He couldn’t stop worrying about her. He rang twice before he’d even got home and texted twice more. She wasn’t answering, but he couldn’t stop trying. He’d go and knock on her door all night if he thought it would work, but Hattie had always been more stubborn than he was. If she didn’t want to talk to him, she wouldn’t.

Tom climbed the three flights of stairs up to his loft apartment. He’d loved it at first sight because of the light. Huge industrial-sized windows on three of the four walls flooded the space during the day. He’d left it mostly bare brick and hardwood floor. A few, carefully selected pieces of furniture made it liveable, but no hint of domesticity or cosiness had been allowed in. Tom tried to imagine Hattie in it. She’d fill the space with her laughter and her warmth, but she’d bring piles of stuff with her, too. Magazines and fruit bowls and community service prizes. Dirty mugs and unironed laundry.

A baby.

It would be a terrible home for a child. No garden, for one thing. And no lift up to the third floor. No carpet and plenty of hard edges. No privacy, either. He slept on an open mezzanine above the kitchen area. The whole flat was open plan, apart from the bathroom. Babies probably didn’t appreciate rainfall showers and wet rooms, either.

It would be a disaster.

But Hattie was going to take care of it. That meant she’d go through with the abortion, he assumed. He hoped. He needed to speak to her again, when they weren’t tearing strips off each other, and make sure.

He put the kettle on and spooned ground coffee into his cafetiere. His favourite handpainted mug was on the draining board. He wiped it dry and got the milk from the fridge. The noise of the boiling kettle echoed around the apartment. He’d never felt so alone in his own home. Every part of him was yearning for Hattie. Here, where he could touch her hand and kiss her lips. He’d tease her and watch her eyes light up as she came back, faster, sharper, funnier. Then he’d kiss her again, waiting for the moment when she sank into it with him. He’d slide one arm around her waist and the other hand into her glorious hair. He’d hold onto her for a long time like that.

He couldn’t, though. On impulse, he switched the kettle off and poured himself a glass of brandy instead. He needed the comfort.

Tom took the brandy over to his desk, opened up his laptop and found the folder he wanted. He plugged in the oversized monitor that he used for detail work. There she was, curves spilling over the screen, almost life-sized. He could reach out and touch her. Feel the smoothness of her skin and the warmth of her breath.

He scrolled through the images, mentally making a list of the ones he might use for the gallery. There were four or five that had what he was looking for, that undefinable magic where light and colour and composition combined to make something more than the sum of their parts. He paused over a nude shot. It had a glow to it which warmed Hattie’s skin, giving her the look of a goddess. It was a beautiful image though it wasn’t right for the exhibition. He’d send it to her for her portfolio.

He clicked through to the next and his finger froze on the mouse button. Hattie on the stallion, frigid with fear. He clutched at his brandy glass and gulped. He knew what was coming next. Shot after shot of her with fear mounting. The stallion stepping on to the first tread of the staircase. Hattie gripping the reins with white knuckles.

Then falling.

Falling.

Too many shots. Too long watching, observing. Too slow to act.

It was spectacular. It might just be the cover shot for the catalogue: the violet gown billowing out, the gleaming black stallion rearing upright, Hattie’s red hair tumbling down. Her blue eyes stared out at the viewer, vivid and alert, with the whites of her eyes bright in the corners. It was everything. Civilisation in the faded grandeur of the background, the untrammelled power of nature, the downfall of the elite.

It made his stomach turn. She’d been hurt. She could have been killed. That shot – that was what he did to the people he cared about. If it hadn’t been for that shot, he might never have slept with Hattie. He certainly wouldn’t have made her pregnant.

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look at her any more. The hard stone of guilt that had been pushed back into the far corners of his heart since Lianne was threatening to burst through. Hattie said he wallowed in it. He’d thought he’d beening dealing with it pretty well. For the first few months, he’d struggled to sleep, but since then he’d more or less just got on with life. His career had taken up most of his time, but there had been a handful of casual relationships that he’d enjoyed. No one like Hattie.

There was no one like Hattie. That was the point. She was unique.

She deserved better than him.

She didn’t deserve to be pregnant and alone.

Damn.

He picked up his phone again and dialled her landline number. He let it ring. Even if it went to voicemail, he’d leave a message. Tell her… something.

“Hello?”

Her voice was deeper than usual. Husky. “Were you asleep?” He hadn’t even thought to check the time.

“It’s two o’clock in the morning. What do you think?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll ring again tomorrow.”

He could hear her sigh, and then some rustling. He pictured her shoving things off the sofa to make room to sit down.

“I’m awake now. So talk.”

“I’ll do whatever you need. Be there. Help. Whatever. I just… I just wanted to say you’re not on your own.”

There was silence. But he held on. As long as she didn’t hang up, he had a chance.

“Even if I go ahead and have the baby?” she said eventually. It didn’t sound like a test. There was uncertainty in her voice, a vulnerability he wasn’t used to from her.

“I’ll be there. Terrified and incompetent. I’ll probably need you to hold my hand. But I’ll be doing my best.”

“And if I don’t have it?”

He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I’ll be there, too. If you want.”

“You don’t deserve another chance, you know.”

“I know. I really am sorry, Hattie. I realise I’m the worst person to be stuck in this situation with.”

Another pause. “Not the worst.”

He could hear the smile in her voice and felt himself relax just slightly. “Who would be worse?”

“Well, you’re not an axe murderer.”

“You’re setting the bar quite low.”

“You should be grateful there’s a bar at all. I haven’t forgiven you, you know.”

He grinned and relaxed even more. “I know. Hattie, I should have asked earlier. Are you okay? Not sick, or anything.”

“I’m not the one with the stomach bug.”

“No, you’re the one who’s pregnant.”

“So far, so good. Not even any cravings. Apart from the ones I always have. Chocolate. Pizza. Wine.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“I’m going to see the doctor on Wednesday.”

He took a deep breath. “Would you like me to come?”

She gave a short laugh. “No. Not this time.”

“Okay. Hattie… what are you going to do?”

There was a long silence. He held his breath.

“I was planning to end it. But now… I don’t think I know.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Eventually, Hattie said, in a shaky voice, “I’m scared.”

“So am I.”

Hattie went to the GP on Wednesday. He confirmed the pregnancy and she asked him to sign off her abortion. But she didn’t make an appointment with the clinic. There was still plenty of time to decide. She visited her parents, not to ask their advice but because she wanted to remember what it had been like to grow up there. Her old bedroom had been redecorated, but at the back of the wardrobe, she found a box full of her things. Barbies with their hair chopped into mohicans and biro tattoes up their arms. A pile of Smash Hits magazines with all the quizzes filled in to find out which Spice Girl she was most like and who her ideal celebrity boyfriend would be.

“Are you okay, Hattie, darling?”

Her mother was standing at the door looking worried.

“Fine.”

“Then why are you crying?”

She hadn’t even registered the tears running over her cheeks. She brushed them away. “I’m fine.”

Her mum came to sit beside her on the bed. “I know we haven’t always been the best of friends, Hattie, but if there’s a problem, you can always talk to me about it.”

Hattie found a tissue in her pocket and blew her nose.

“It’s not a problem. It’s just that I’m pregnant.”

She braced herself for her mother’s disappointment. Of all the mistakes she’d made in her life, this would surely rate the highest.

“Oh, Hattie,” was all she said. Then her mum’s arms were round her and they were both hugging and crying, and it might not be what they normally did, but it was good.

When she’d stopped crying, she smiled. “It’s okay, really it is.”

“Who’s the father, dear?”

“Tom Metcalfe.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

Hattie couldn’t help but smile as she shook her head. It was so like her mother to say entirely the wrong thing for the situation. “We’re not exactly together.”

“But you will be. For the baby.”

“I don’t know if I’m keeping the baby, Mum.”

Her mother looked at the Barbies on the bed and back at Hattie. “Don’t you?”

“I want to.”

“Then why are you considering the other?” Of course her mother couldn’t actually say the words.

Hattie shrugged. “Because I’m too young. Too single. Too stupid.”

“You’re older than I was, when I had you.”

“You had Dad with you.”

“You’ll have Tom. And Hattie, you aren’t stupid.”

“I don’t know how to bring up a child.”

Her mum laughed. “No one does. You’ll work it out, like everyone else. We’ll help you.”

“Really?”

“Of course, darling.”

“I thought you’d tell me it was another thing I couldn’t do,” Hattie said.

“I never said that. Did I?”

Hattie raised her eyebrow. “All the time. Anything I said I thought I could be, you suggested something easier.”

“I didn’t want you to be disappointed. I didn’t mean you to think you couldn’t try.”

“I’ve signed up with a modelling agency to do adverts and promotional work. They’ve got me three auditions next week.”

“That’s wonderful, Hattie.”

“They said they’ll definitely be able to find me jobs while I’m pregnant, too. And afterwards, I can work as much or as little as I want to.”

“You’ll need someone to look after the baby while you’re working.”

“Yes.” She turned to stare at her mother. “Are you offering?”

Hattie sat on her sofa, hands on her stomach and decided. She could make this work. She’d already mentally rearranged her flat to create space for a cot and a changing table. She had a job that was flexible and parents eager and willing to babysit. She had Tom, who’d promised to support her.

She was going to have a baby.

She grinned. It was ludicrous and wonderful and she wanted to fling open the windows and yell the news out to the whole city. Later, she’d have to tell Tom, but not just yet. She wanted to glory in the moment first, before dealing with his issues and doubts. She felt like opening a bottle of champagne but she didn’t have any and it probably wasn’t a good idea for the baby.

There was a baby now. She hadn’t liked to think of it that way before, not when she’d been thinking of ending the pregnancy. But now it wasn’t just a pregnancy, it was a child. She wondered what it would be like. Her or Tom? That would be fun to find out. She’d get Tom to take pictures of it constantly. First steps, first words, first smile. Oh, God, she was already unbearably soppy and it was barely the size of peanut. Her peanut.

She’d said she was going to the doctor today. Should he ring? He should wait for her to call, right? Only she’d been angry that he hadn’t called from Morocco. He should ring. But what if she hadn’t rung because she was still deciding. He didn’t want to put any pressure on her. He wouldn’t ring. He’d wait until tomorrow and then phone to check everything was okay.

That would be better.

He opened up his laptop and tried to focus on his work. He was supposed to be making final edits to the photos for the exhibition but all he could think about was Hattie and the baby.

He’d ring her.

Just as he reached for his phone it began to ring.

“Hattie? I was just about to phone you. How did it go? Is everything okay?”

“Tom.” Her voice was faint. “Oh, Tom, I’m bleeding.”

“Bleeding? Hattie, what do you mean? Are you okay?”

She made a noise like a sob. “I need you to come.”

He’d come as fast as he could, running down the stairs of his apartment block two at a time and telling the taxi driver to put his foot down. Hattie was ill. Bleeding.

Oh, God, he suddenly realised what that meant.

She was losing the baby.

He leaned against the door jamb, scared to ring the bell, scared of what was happening, scared of doing the wrong thing.

But Hattie said she needed him.

He pressed the buzzer. She must have been waiting for him in the corridor because she opened the door so fast.

“Oh, Tom.” Her knees buckled and instinctively he stepped forward to catch her.

“It’s okay. I’m here.” He helped her into her bedroom and lay down beside her.

“There was blood.” She was crying and her hands wouldn’t let go of his coat.

“Ssh, I know.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “Has it stopped?”

“I think so.”

“Good. That’s good.” He rubbed a hand against her back, hoping it would reassure her. He hated seeing Hattie so afraid, so uncertain.

“I thought I was losing it,” she whispered.

“I know, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry I rang you.”

That hit him. She shouldn’t have to think twice about calling him. “It was the right thing to do.”

“I want to keep it, Tom. I want the baby.”

He nodded. “I know. It’s going to be okay.”

“But you…”

“I told you, I’ll do my best. And right now, I think that means being here with you. Holding you.” He drew her into his arms. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Lying for the Camera chapter 9

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8(i)

Chapter 8(ii)

Bloody man hadn’t even texted her. That told her everything she needed to know, as if she couldn’t have guessed. She’d thought of cancelling their date half a dozen times. What was there even to say? He clearly wasn’t going to be supportive of anything. She was on her own. Just like last time.

Which was fine. She’d done it before and she could do it again. She didn’t need a man to stand beside her and hold her hand. Especially not a man who couldn’t be trusted not to bolt. Hattie had enough strength for herself, and she’d find enough strength to go through with a termination. But she’d be damned if she was going to pull together enough strength for Tom Metcalfe as well.

She didn’t cancel. She called the doctors’ surgery instead and made an appointment with her GP. She’d tell Tom tonight. Maybe at the end of dinner, rather than the beginning. He deserved an hour or two of squirming before she let him off her hook. And she deserved to enjoy the meal, seeing how hard she’d worked for it. But it was the last time she’d let Tom take her out and next time she’d make sure to find a guy who wasn’t petrified by the thought of a second date.

Might as well make him regret what he was losing. She picked out one of her favourite dresses: a fifties-style halterneck with wide circle skirts, white with bunches of cherries printed on the fabric. She’d re-dyed her hair after the photoshoot, back to her preferred scarlet. Lush red lips and dramatic eyes completed the old-school Hollywood look she was after. The halterneck of the dress did incredible things to her cleavage and the skirt ended just above her knee, showing off her curvy calves and ankles. She sprayed perfume around her wrists and behind her knees, and clipped sparkly costume jewellery into her ears and round her neck.

With any luck, he’d faint at first sight of her.

Serve him right.

Promptly at seven she heard a knock on the door. Hattie didn’t answer. She wandered into her kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. The second knock was louder.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she called out, then sat on the sofa, put her feet up on the coffee table and drank her wine.

Five minutes later, Tom knocked again. “Hattie, can you at least let me in?”

She grinned. She was really going to enjoy this.

“Oh, sorry. Forgot you were there.”

She finished her glass, checked her face in the mirror over the mantelpiece, then went to the door.

He was leaning against the wall in the corridor. His anxious smile hadn’t reached anywhere near his eyes. He’d stuck his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers. Nice suit, she noticed. It was a warm grey that matched his eyes and cut perfectly to fit his tall frame. Hattie watched as he took in her appearance, satisfied to see his eyes widened and his mouth fall open.

She waited.

He swallowed, opened his mouth, closed it again, and cleared his throat. His eyes ran slowly down her body, lingering in all the right places, then back up again.

Eventually he nodded. “You look… great.”

“Thanks. You don’t.”

He looked thinner than before and there were shadows under his eyes. Had he been working too hard? Forgetting to eat? She almost put out her hand to touch his sleeve, then remembered. She tightened her lips and metaphorically girded her loins. It was more likely, after all, that his haggard appearance was simply a result of too many sleepless nights having waking nightmares about a baby.

Their baby.

“So, are you ready to go?” he asked.

“I’ll just get my bag.” She’d deliberately picked a small clutch. Black and beaded, it looked stunning with her dress, but more importantly, she couldn’t quite fit the information from the clinic in it. She’d arranged it so that the leaflets stuck out of the top, for Tom to see the bold type which said ‘Pregnancy’, rather than the small print which talked about the kinds of services they offered.

In the taxi on the way to the restaurant, they barely spoke. Every possible topic seemed to be fraught with potential conflict. He daren’t ask whether she’d heard from the advertising agency. She wasn’t interested in the Morocco shoot. Neither of them wanted to deal with the memories inextricably linked to the shots he’d taken for his exhibition.

It was a relief to get out of the enclosed space of the car. He waited for her to straighten her dress – a dress he was sure she’d picked for maximum distraction purposes. He’d chosen the Italian restaurant because it was known for its generous servings, but now he was glad to be somewhere loud and full enough that it would be easy to keep their conversation private. A smartly dressed waiter with an East European accent showed them to a table tucked away in a corner and brought a basket of Italian bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar to dip into it while they ordered their meal.

“Can I bring you anything to drink?” the waiter asked.

“Hattie?” Tom asked politely.

She met his gaze defiantly. “A large glass of white wine.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. She was drinking alcohol. That had to mean… “You can make that a bottle,” he said to the waiter and glanced at the menu. “The Didier Dagueneau. But we’d like a bottle of sparkling mineral water as well.” His stomach was more or less recovered but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

“Certainly, sir.”

Hattie picked up her menu and hid behind it. He smiled wryly. Subtlety had never been Hattie’s forte. But surely he’d read the cues correctly? Her bag was resting on the table and he could make out the logo of the Pregnancy Advisory Service. She’d decided this pregnancy was as bad an idea as he had, then. He relaxed back into his chair and watched her. If he did this right, there was still a chance of getting back to where they were before. He’d cancelled the booking for the musical, but dinner and sex with Hattie was still an excellent date.

“The fish is always very good here,” he said, mostly to provoke her into speaking to him.

Hattie rolled her eyes at him. “What kind of a person comes to a restaurant like this and chooses the fish?”

He grinned. “An idiot?”

She laughed. But her face quickly grew serious again and he saw her straighten her shoulders in that way she had when she was scared of something. “So, about this baby.”

No need to string it out when he was happy with the decision she’d made. “You’re not going to have the baby. That’s fine, Hattie.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her.

Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened in shock. Or maybe anger.

“What the hell?” Anger, then. She slammed her hand on the table, hard enough to frighten the waiter who had returned with their drinks order into a swift reverse and hover manoeuvre. “That’s not up to you, you bastard.”

He shook his head and put up his hands in a gesture of defence. “I didn’t say it was.”

He gave the waiter an quick glance and indicated that it was safe to put the bottles on the table.

“You just told me not to have the baby,” she shot at him.

“No, I anticipated the decision you’ve already made. Otherwise, Hattie, what are you doing ordering a large glass of wine to drink?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe making my own decisions about my own body?” Her voice was loud and people at the nearby tables were turning round to look at them. He tried to look calm and reassuring.

It was almost working until Hattie got up from her chair, grabbed the bottle of wine and took a deep slug straight from it. He didn’t try to stop her, knowing that a fight would only make things worse. He could already see a couple of phones held up in their direction. They’d be on twitter in under a minute and he had no ambition to become the next viral internet sensation. So he sat and waited for her to come to her senses.

As he’d hoped, she didn’t like being ignored. She waved the bottle in his face “Not going to stop me, huh?”

“Your glass is just there, Hattie. When you’ve stopped being so childish, maybe you’d like to use it?” He knew he’d made a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. She wouldn’t react well to being called childish.

She picked up an olive-studded ciabatta roll and threw it at him. As weapons went, it didn’t do much damage. The crumbs could just be brushed off. But he wasn’t going to let this descend into a fullscale food fight. He grabbed her wrists and held them firmly. Not tight enough to bruise, but enough that she couldn’t pull away.

“No more.” He held her gaze until her eyes flickered and he could sense the edge of her wrath subside. “Hattie, I am not the enemy here.”

Wide eyes looked at him in disbelief. “Four days,” she bit out. “Four days without so much as a bloody text message, let alone a damn phone call. And now you think you can just turn up and tell me to get rid of it? You bastard, of course you’re the enemy.”

Ah. No wonder she was angry. “I was ill.”

He didn’t let go of her, but she was sitting down again and their arms were resting on the table. He began to rub small circles with his thumbs against the soft skin on the inside of her wrists.

“Stomach bug,” he explained. “Everyone on the shoot got it. I was barely conscious until yesterday morning.”

For an instant, her eyes darkened with compassion, but then the flash of heat returned.

“Yesterday morning. And since then?”

He could make excuses. He’d been weak and tired, and the flight home had exhausted him. But he owed her the truth, if nothing else. He sighed. “Since then I’ve been trying to work out what to say. And failing. I’ve dialled your number a hundred times and never had the guts to let it ring.”

She pulled her hands away from his and opened her mouth, but a discreet cough made her pause. Their patient waiter glanced between them, his eyebrow raised just a fraction of an inch.

“Are you ready to order?”

He hadn’t even looked at the menu. Hattie stared at hers for approximately three seconds. “The gnocchi and then the saltimbocca.”

“And for you, sir?”

“The same.”

Without the menus, there was nowhere to hide. He poured a small amount of wine into his glass, then tilted the bottle in Hattie’s direction. She shook her head.

“Water?”

“No.”

He picked up his glass, but didn’t drink. He wasn’t thirsty.

Hattie leaned forward. “You didn’t have to find the right thing to say,” she told him quietly. “There isn’t a right thing. But I needed to hear your voice. To know that you’d seen my message.” Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table. “Mostly, I just wanted to know you were in this with me. But it’s fine. You’re not, and so I’ll deal with it myself.”

“It’s not you, Hattie,” he said helplessly. What was he supposed to say when she said there wasn’t a right thing to say?

She shrugged. “I know that. It’s all you. But that doesn’t actually make things any easier for me. How’s it supposed to help when I’m changing my thousandth nappy or getting up for the tenth time that night? What difference do you think it’ll make when she’s asking why her daddy doesn’t come to sports day or when she’s a teenager who doesn’t think she was good enough for her dad to stay and love her?”

Oh, God, no. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She was still talking. Lecturing him. He fumbled around, loosening his collar. His throat was still too tight. He reached for his wine glass and gulped the contents down. She’d stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly. “You’re not actually planning to have the baby. Are you?” And if that last question had sounded desperate, that was because he was.

Her eyes, her beautiful Hattie-eyes, clouded with emotion. Anger, still. Disappointment. Something he couldn’t identify but hated himself for doing to her.

“Why shouldn’t I? You may not be capable of taking that kind of responsibility, but I am.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Christ, why couldn’t he say anything right? “Hattie, what about your career? You said Andy loved you. This is supposed to be your big break. I thought that was what you wanted.” She was the one with the big dreams and the castles in the air. Surely she realised what having a baby would do to that?

“It turns out that women are capable of working and raising children. I realise that’s almost impossible for a man to imagine. Especially one who’s barely capable of making a phone call.”

He flinched. But this wasn’t about him, not right now. “They say that, Hattie. But you can’t have it all and you don’t have to exhaust yourself trying? You don’t have anything to prove. Do you?”

He was squirming just as she’d planned, although she hadn’t intended to take it quite so far. But then, in that devastating way he had, he’d seen straight through her. Her stomach dropped, as if she was in a lift and the cable had broken.

Because she did have something to prove.

She let the waiter put a plate of gnocchi down and nodded at his offer of black pepper and parmesan cheese. She needed the breathing space. The food was delicious. Rich tomato sauce, flavoured with olives and capers and a lighter note of basil. She barely noticed it as she forked it up methodically, avoiding Tom’s gaze.

He didn’t think she could be a working mother.

It shouldn’t have come as such a shock. All her life people had told Hattie she couldn’t do the things she wanted. Her parents, her teachers, even her so-called friends. No one had ever been ambitious for Hattie. They’d always seen the problems and pointed out the obstacles. She’d had to supply all the ambition for herself.

But Tom was different. He was the first person who had seen that she wasn’t just another talentless wannabe. He’d made her his muse and together they had created images that were works of art. He’d recommended her to his friend and given her a great reference. He’d believed in her.

She should have guessed that was too good to last.

…you can’t have it all and you don’t have to exhaust yourself trying. You don’t have anything to prove.

Of course she had something to prove. She’d always had something to prove.

“It’s my baby, too,” Tom said in a low voice. He had finished his gnocchi and pushed the plate aside.

“It’s my body,” Hattie replied automatically.

“Right. But if you go ahead, it’ll be my child. Ours.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t expect you to pay child maintenance. I’ll take responsibility for my decision.”

“Don’t be silly. This isn’t your fault.” He laid a hand on her arm.

She shrugged. “It’s not anyone’s fault.”

“I wish it had never happened,” he said with vicious urgency.

“It’s not like I planned it.” She didn’t want the rest of her gnocchi, but she pushed the fork around her plate, making patterns in the sauce. She didn’t want to look at him and see him blaming her. If she’d ruined his life, he’d done the same to hers.

“I know that.” The anger had slipped out of his voice. She recognised his self-pity. He was going to blame himself. That’s what he did. “I should have got some condoms. We should have waited.”

She sighed and pushed her plate to the side. “I was on the pill. We thought we were safe.”

“It’s never guaranteed,” he said bleakly.

Oh, for God’s sake. “Look, I’m not completely sure, but I think I didn’t take it the night I was in hospital. I wasn’t really thinking about it then.” Anything to stop his maudlin flood of self-loathing.

He nodded slowly. “So that’s my fault, too. Hattie, I’m sorry.”

“How is that your fault? That’s my fault! I was the one who forgot.”

He twisted his lips. “The accident on the photoshoot. That’s why you were in hospital in the first place. I should have taken better care of you.”

He was still beating himself up over that? He was even more screwed up than she’d realised. “Tom, you’ve got to stop doing that.”

He was crumbling a piece of bread into nothing on his plate and he wouldn’t look up to meet her eyes. “Doing what?”

“Blaming yourself for everything.”

He shook his head. “It was my fault. Of course I have to take the blame for it.”

Damn, but it was hard not to feel sympathy when he was looking like a rock had hit him in the solar plexus. After effects of the stomach bug, she told herself. Coupled with the inner strength of a wet haddock, obviously.

“Right, fine. It’s your fault I’m pregnant, it’s your fault my career is ruined, and it’ll be your fault if I spend the rest of my life trying to make up for the fact that this child only has one half-decent parent.”

“I can’t make any promises, Hattie.”

“I haven’t asked you to.”

“You know how I feel… after Lianne.”

“I know you’re still letting yourself wallow in guilt for something that wasn’t your fault, yes.” Maybe that was harsh, but she’d had enough of pussyfooting around his hang ups.

The saltimbocca arrived, smelling fabulous, fragrant with sage and parma ham. Hattie picked at the edges of her plate.

“But it’s the same thing again, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Why aren’t you eating that, Hattie?”

She put her knife and fork down. “Not hungry. Sorry.”

“You have to eat,” he said with an urgency that was almost desperation. “God, Hattie, you have to. I couldn’t bear it if…”

She pushed her chair away from the table and picked up her bag. “It’s my decision, Tom. It’s not about you.”

“What about the baby?”

He’d stood up, too, and taken hold of her elbow. She looked at his face, hollow from tiredness and illness, but etched most deeply with fear.

“What are you really afraid of, Tom? That I’ll hurt the baby or that I’ll have it?”

He turned his face away but she’d seen the tears. He was on the brink of collapse. She put her hand on his cheek and guided it round to face her again. She smiled softly.

“Poor Tom.”

He began to shake his head, but she stopped him.

“It’s okay, I know it’s too hard. I’ll take care of everything.”

“What does that mean?” His voice was trembling.

“It means you can stop worrying about me.” She kissed his cheek gently. “Stop worrying about us.”

Lying for the Camera continued…

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

There’s been a lot of behind the scenes progress, but I’m aware that those of you reading online have been left hanging for far too long. So here we go with the final chapters of the pre-editing version of the story. I almost don’t want to post them because I know a lot of this is going to change in the final version, but I’m going to anyway. Partly so you can finish it, and partly for those who are interested in seeing what difference the editing process makes.

Last time I left you half way through chapter eight. Here’s the rest of that chapter.

She’d bought three tests, because Tom had said so and her brain was too full to make its own choices about something so irrelevant. The chemist had given her a strange look and pointed out that they were very reliable these days, but Hattie merely shrugged and handed over her credit card. It wasn’t going to make any difference how many tests she did. Either she was pregnant or she wasn’t.

She lined up the boxes on her kitchen table, next to a huge mug of strong tea. Three tests meant three lots of weeing and tea was the drink most likely to make that happen. She put three spoons of sugar in and stirred until the tea was cool enough to drink. While she waited for it to have its diuretic effect, she opened the first kit and read the instructions.

Wee. Wait. Blue line for pregnant. Nothing for not pregnant. As easy as the chemist had assured her it would be.

Last time, she hadn’t bothered with the tests. She’d been far enough along to go straight to the doctor with her suspicions. She’d been excited, optimistic. They hadn’t planned it, of course, but she’d had no reason to think he wouldn’t be happy when he found out. This time she already knew what Tom’s response would be. She’d never known someone who ran so hard and so far from anything that might lead to commitment.

How would he cope with a baby if she went ahead with it?

How would she?

It was all there on her kitchen table, the evidence of how badly she’d screwed up this time: three pregnancy tests; one mug of tea, half-drunk; and the portfolio of shots that were supposed to change her life.

Her phone rang, incongruously cheery. She checked the screen and silenced it. Tom’s mobile had to be costing him a fortune to call from Morocco. No point answering until she had some information. She took the plastic wand into the bathroom and executed the manoeuvre without too much ungainly splashing. She laid it on the edge of the bath and washed her hands.

Two mugs of tea later, she had three plastic indicators. She balanced them on top of each other and snapped a picture with her phone. It came out a little blurry but the important parts were clear enough. She pressed the buttons to send it as a text to Tom, adding a brief message: +++

She hadn’t answered. Why wasn’t she speaking to him? What did that mean? He dialled again, furiously, only to be sent straight to voicemail. He cursed loudly and slammed his phone shut. How long did it take, anyway? Weren’t those things supposed to be practically instant? So that you didn’t have to go through this agony any more. He grabbed the phone and tried again. Still no reply.

“Hattie, I swear to you, if you don’t pick up the damn phone now and tell me what’s going on I’ll…”

It buzzed to tell him he’d received a text message.

From Hattie.

He peered at the blurry image. What the hell was that? He turned the phone round and shook his head. The message hadn’t come through properly either. Just +++.

Unless…

Oh, God. He clicked back to the picture and decoded it slowly. Three greyish plastic sticks lined up. Three small screens. Two blue line and one pink one.

+++

He’d told her to take three tests. And now she was telling him she had three positive results.

He threw the phone down on the bed and ran a hand over his face. His knees felt weak and he grabbed the edge of the dressing table to steady himself.

Hattie was pregnant. With his child.

His.

He was going to be sick.

Tom reached the bathroom just in time. Hanging on to the edge of the toilet seat, he was violently ill. His stomach cramped again and again, trying to expel its contents long after it was empty. Eventually, it gave up the struggle and Tom slumped onto the elaborately tiled floor. He closed his eyes and slept.

Three days later, he’d just about recovered from the stomach bug which had brought the entire shoot to a standstill. After that first night of vomiting, and later, diarrhoea, he’d mostly just slept. He’d drunk bottled water and eaten nothing for two days. This morning, he’d finally felt hungry again and managed a small amount of the local dry, crispy flat bread. He’d called the formidable fashion editor who was running the shoot and apologised for his absence. Apparently almost all the crew and half the models had been similarly indisposed, so she’d simply extended the shoot.

“We’ve got two and a half days. You’ll have to work with whoever’s upright.”

“I can’t, Louisa.”

“Nonsense. A good meal and you’ll be perfectly well.”

“No, I mean I have to leave tomorrow morning. My flight’s at ten.”

“Aston’s rearranged it.”

“I told him not to. I need to be on that plane. I’m sorry I won’t be able to complete the shoot.”

There was silence. He wondered what had happened to the last person foolish enough to refuse her.

“I hear Irina Cazelles is looking for more work,” she said softly.

“Excellent. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a replacement, then.”

“No. I daresay no one will have any trouble replacing you.” She hung up.

He sighed and let his head fall back against the pillows. Probably he ought to care more about her threats. She’d be waiting for him to call back, expecting him to apologise and say he’d come to his senses. Beg on bended knees for another chance.

Ten years ago, he’d have crawled across broken glass for a shoot like this. Even a year ago he wouldn’t have dreamed of turning it down. A month ago, he’d have thought it unprofessional to walk out.

Now, all he could think of was Hattie. They had a date and he’d be damned if he didn’t show up for it. He smiled, as he always did when he thought of her. He reached for his phone and scrolled through all the messages he’d missed in the past couple of days, hoping there might be something from her.

Not since Wednesday night. He frowned. She’d be upset he hadn’t replied. He opened the message. It took a minute to decipher the symbols and click on the attached photo, then it all came flooding back. Everything his virus-addled brain had conveniently suppressed. Her late period. The pregnancy tests. The positive result.

He wanted to crawl back under the duvet and hide.

He had to go back to London and face Hattie.

What I did on my summer holidays

Gosh, I’ve been away for a long time. Hello! Did you miss me? Or were you off having exciting adventures of your own this summer?

Here’s what’s happened in the last six weeks:

I went to the Lake District for a week. It rained every day. Also, I was not relaxed because I had three huge looming deadlines shortly after I returned. Also, there are a LOT of people who go on holiday to the Lake District and I found it hard to escape the crowds and relax. On the plus side, I got to spend some time with the lovely Kate Hewitt, and Andy Murray won Wimbledon.
It was hot. Too hot. For two weeks when I needed to work really, really hard. I had revisions to do on the footballer book, and I had to finish Hattie and Tom’s book to send to the editor. I did get there in the end. At 3am the night before I was due to go away again.
I went on summer camp (no actual camping involved, phew). This is a thing I have done for over 20 years, though not for the last few years, so it was good to go back again this summer.
I had three days at home, one of which was spent in Manchester catching up with an old university friend, which was such a treat.
A long weekend in Northern Ireland including a wedding and chance to visit other friends. I had a really wonderful time and hope to go back again sometime soon.
Three more days at home including… FINISHING AND SUBMITTING THE THESIS!!!!  I know, right?! I can’t quite believe it either. I still have to have the viva and doubtless there will be corrections, but IT IS DONE.
Very kind friends invited me on their family holiday in Scotland. I’ve been here for two weeks and thoroughly spoiled – no driving, no cooking, no decision-making. It’s been miserable weather mostly (apart from the one glorious day when we went to Skye), but it’s been a lot of fun. I’ve swum in the sea, taken boat trips and seen seals, a basking shark and sea otters. I’ve had an impromptu spinning lesson, eaten wild raspberries warm from the sun, and begun writing a new story.

I’ll be home again tomorrow and getting ready over the bank holiday weekend for normal life to resume. It’s going to be an exciting few months with two new books coming out. Lying for the Camera should be available to buy from the last week in September and An Unsuitable Husband is due out with Entangled in December, I think. I’m also planning to finish up the Scottish short story and have that on sale in October or November.

Me, with Scottish castle: 

Στην Αγκαλιά του Σεΐχη

Olivia and Khaled are in Greek!

Isn’t that the coolest thing ever?! Tell all your Greek-speaking friends to go forth and read!

How to… run a successful Kickstarter campaign

This is nothing like an expert guide, just an account of how I went about it, what worked and what didn’t.

Setting up the campaign

Before doing anything else, I worked out the budget for my project. I got estimates for the content editing, copyediting and proofreading that I wanted to pay for. I worked out what I could afford to contribute, and I set my target at the minimum level I needed to be able to pay for everything. Don’t be tempted to set your target too high, because if you don’t reach it, you don’t get any of the funding. Then I worked out my reward levels with the target in mind. I wanted people to be able to pledge just a couple of pounds and still get something, but I also included a couple of much higher levels of reward in case anyone was feeling especially generous. Some rewards I set a limit on so that I wouldn’t end up creating excessive work for myself if I got a huge, unanticipated response to the project. For instance, I limited the number of printed books to 50. If all of those were taken, I’d have exceeded my target, and I wouldn’t end up in a situation where I was dealing with shipping thousands of books out.

I did make a video, because all the advice suggests that helps massively in getting your project funded. I made mine a bit like a book trailer, so I didn’t film myself speaking. I used some royalty-free music and did some basic editing. I am not an expert, but I think it was worth the time it took to do this.

In my campaign story I talked about the book, linked to sample chapters, explained what I wanted the money for, where the project was at, and why I was confident I could complete the project. My advice is to be as clear and concrete as you can with this information. Think of it like a business proposal you’re taking to the bank. You can have fun and show personality, but ultimately you’re asking someone to trust you with their money, so you need to show you’re taking that seriously. Make sure that the focus of your campaign is on the book, not on you and your dreams of becoming a published author.

Promoting the campaign

Some campaigns will get traffic via Kickstarter itself. If your project is a staff pick, it will appear on the front page of the site. Some locations generate local traffic. Some kinds of project are more appealing to the community. I got almost no funding via the Kickstarter website. Almost all of my backers are people new to Kickstarter, and of those that have backed previous projects I know that all but one found out about my project elsewhere. You can’t assume that just by putting up your campaign you will generate funding. You have to go out and get backers.

Here’s what I did:

Blogged about it.

Tweeted about it.

Mentioned it on my personal and author FB pages.

Added it to my signature on online forums.

Posted about it (with permission from moderators) in online forums.

Sent an email to friends which included information about the campaign among other things.

Contacted a number of other blogs.

Signed up to Kicking it Forward, Kicktraq and Ayudos.

Talked about it on a writing forum.



Here’s what didn’t work:

Tweeting. I tweeted to my followers and also to several of the kickstarter/crowdfunding accounts. I think I got maybe 2 RTs.

Contacting other blogs. One posted an enthusiastic link in a weekly news post. No backers. One posted a distinctly unenthusiastic piece about the evils of Kickstarter without a link to my campaign. However, this was not wholly negative, since in the comments, there was some very useful discussion. It’s a blog I regularly follow and know many of the commenters there, so I was able to join in the conversation. I added a new reward level and an update clarifying more financial detail as a result of that conversation and one backer found me through that (indirectly by clicking on the link to my blog which had the link to Kickstarter).

Signing up to the other crowdfunding sites. As far as I can tell, no backers came through those channels.



Here’s what did work:

Using my own pre-existing online contacts. By far the majority of the backers have come via facebook and Ravelry. Some are people I know pretty well online but many are not. But because they are part of the same communities there’s a predisposition to trust and be interested.

Emailing my own RL contacts. I was quite reluctant to do this for various reasons, but by including it as one item in a regular (ish) update I send out anyway, it seemed easier. My strategy of last resort was going to be sending out a similar email to various family members next week.

Blogging. I’d posted various updates with links to the campaign which hadn’t had much impact. Then a few days ago, I wrote a post that had been brewing in my head for a while about the nature of Kickstarter and how it relates to arts patronage and commercial creativity. I linked to it from Facebook and twitter and a couple of other forums. That prompted a good number of backers who pledged very generous amounts.

Of my 27 backers, 5 are people I know in real life, 3 are online friends, 2 are friends of friends, 2 I have no idea about, and 15 are from online forums. The average pledge is just over £25 (which is a little lower than the overall Kickstarter average of about $50, I think). The most common pledge amount is £10. 7 backers pledged more than they needed to for their reward level and one chose to receive no reward at all.

I think only about 40% of Kickstarter projects get funding. If you look at some of the unsuccessful ones, it’s very clear why – not enough information about the project and what the money will be used for. For others, the target level is unrealistically high or the reward levels don’t match the target. If you’re hoping to raise $10,000 with 5,000 $2 pledges you’re just making life hard for yourself. But similarly, don’t expect ten $1000 pledges, either. You need a range and they need to match the rewards you’re offering. But for many unsuccessful campaigns, I think it may be because there isn’t a marketing strategy in place. It helped me to think of selling this campaign in the same way as I would think about selling my book. If one of your reward levels is effectively a simple pre-order, then that’s exactly what you are doing, after all.

Good luck!

Kindle Daily Deal!

For ONE DAY ONLY, The Oil Tycoon and Her Sexy Sheikh is part of the Kindle Daily Deal promotion on Amazon (.com only, I think. Sorry.) It’s on sale for the bargain price of 99c.

Buy it for your summer reading!

Give it to your friends!

And to celebrate this awesome bargain, I will be giving a $25 Amazon gift card to one lucky commenter. Have a look at all the Indulgence bargains and tell me which cover/title/blurb intrigues you the most. Competition open internationally, so even if you can’t take advantage of the Daily Deal, you could still win! Make sure to leave your comment before midnight (Pacific Time).

Reader, I Married Him.

I am not, in general, a fan of books written in the first person. In fact, I was dismissive of them all until Liz reminded me earlier this week of Jane Eyre. Which has made me think a bit more about what in particular I dislike about some first person narratives and why others work for me.

The problem of voice

If a book is written in the first person, then it only has one voice (yes, I know, some books alternate, but let’s keep things simple for the moment), and that voice belongs to a character. Usually the main character. That means I’d better like the character and the voice if I’m going to spend a whole book with her. Some characters just aren’t likeable enough for me to enjoy that, whereas perhaps if their voice only came in dialogue, or even filtered a bit through a third person close narrative, they might be okay. The Kristan Higgins book I tried (Too Good To Be True) didn’t work for me for this reason.

The problem of perspective

This can be a problem for any book told only from one point of view, whether it uses first or third person. You only get one view of events and one perspective on their consequences. In a romance I find this problematic because unless the author is extremely skilled, I only get to see one of the characters falling in love. This was a problem for me in The Story Guy by Mary Ann Rivers.

I am not your therapist

Sometimes a book written in the first person can read like the character is unburdening herself to her therapist. Everything is about the character and her responses and feelings and the inside of her head are examined in tedious detail and often in emotionally manipulative ways. I hate this kind of book with a passion. If I wanted to be a therapist, I would become one. Pushing the Limits by Katie McGarry felt like this while I was reading it.

Over-identification

Mostly, I like to be told a story rather than expected to live through it. First person narrative, for me, often puts me into the action. I am the ‘I’ when I’m reading. It’s exhausting and emotionally draining, and I don’t enjoy that kind of reading experience. Third person allows me to keep the book at a safe distance.

So, here’s my advice if you’re thinking about writing your book in first person:

Work hard at making your character someone who is easy to spend time with. Give her the most attractive and compelling voice you can, since there’s nothing to dilute it for the reader.

Work hard to show other points of view when they are needed for the sake of the story. Show us when your narrator gets things wrong. Give other characters plenty of chance to speak. Help the narrator to understand what they are thinking and feeling so that the reader can too.

Remember that you are still telling a story. Edit your characters thoughts and feelings. We don’t need every last drop of internal angst. Do not EVER give her an inner goddess.

And mostly, my biggest tip is reconsider. If you can possibly find a way of telling it in the third person, do it. Use first person if you have to, and only if you have to.

Also, and here’s a tip from Charlotte Bronte, first person does not have to mean present tense.

So Ros, how’s your Kickstarter campaign coming along?I’m...

So Ros, how’s your Kickstarter campaign coming along?

I’m glad you asked.

100% FUNDED. That’s how it’s coming along.

Which is incredible and amazing. I am giddy with excitement and very, very grateful to everyone who has pledged, shared, tweeted and liked the project. You can still pledge if you REALLY want the rewards, but the project is now guaranteed to go ahead. WOW.