Ros Clarke's Blog, page 24

Lying for the Camera: chapter two

Read chapter one here.

Chapter Two

“He’s not a con artist, Mum.” Hattie repeated for the fourth time. “He’s a well-known fashion photographer and he wants to take some pictures of me.”

She tucked the phone under her chin and continued to listen to her mother’s bewilderment while she switched the oven on and extracted a dish of leftover shepherds pie from the fridge.

“But why would he do that, darling?”

She gritted her teeth. Her mother didn’t intend to be cruel. Her confusion was quite genuine. Why should anyone want to take pictures of Hattie? Hattie was the fat daughter, not the pretty one.

“He said he was looking for someone a bit different.”

“Oh, Hattie, he’s not going to make you into some kind of freak show, is he?”

“Mum! I’m not a freak.”

“No, of course not, sweetheart. I didn’t mean that. Just that you’re not, well, normal, are you?”

Counting to ten and praying for strength, she didn’t answer immediately.

“Hattie? Darling, are you still there? You know I didn’t mean anything by it. But you’ve got that job now and I wouldn’t want you to do anything foolish to jeopardise it.”

“I’m taking the rest of my annual leave,” she replied. “So the damn office will still be waiting for me when I get back.”

There was half a bottle of red wine left from the weekend. Hattie found a clean wine glass and poured herself a generous slug. She was going to need it.

“Language, dear,” her mother said automatically. “Well, that’s good. You’ll have a bit of fun, I expect, and then settle back into normal life.”

“With a portfolio from the world’s leading fashion photographer. This could be huge, Mum. This is the break I’ve been waiting for.”

“I’m just saying you shouldn’t get your hopes up, darling. You know that girls like you don’t…”

“Girls like me don’t what, Mum?” She couldn’t help letting a little of her bitterness seep into her voice.

“You know what I mean, sweetheart. You’ve never had good luck with men, have you? Perhaps if you just tried to lose a little bit of weight?”

The doorbell rang. Hattie silently gave thanks. There was only so much of her mother’s thoughtless needling she could bear.

“I have to go now, Mum. There’s someone at the door.”

“Oh, Hattie, you know perfectly well you’ll never slim down while you’re eating takeaways every night.”

“It’s not a takeaway. It’s Tom Metcalfe, actually.” She waved him in, pointing apologetically at the phone in her hand and mouthing an apology.

“The photographer? In your flat? What’s he like? Is he good looking?”

“Mum!” She looked round swiftly hoping that Tom hadn’t heard her mother’s piercing whisper.

“I’m just asking, darling. No need to be like that.”

“Huh.”

“Anyway, be careful, darling. Remember what happened with Alex.”

She turned away from Tom, instinctively hiding her face from his keen gaze. “I’m not likely to forget, Mum.”

There was a brief pause at the other end of the phone. “No, I suppose not. I just don’t want you to go through that again.”

“Honestly, I’m fine.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, willing back the tears that threatened to belie her words.

“He’s only here to look at a picture of me. The one from my business cards.”

“Not that dreadful one where you’re naked, darling? I don’t know why you use that picture. You can see everything.”

Outrage was not nearly so disarming as tenderness. “Not everything.”

“Near enough. Couldn’t you show him the photos from Claire and Marc’s wedding? You looked so pretty in that dress.”

“He doesn’t want to see family wedding snaps, Mum. Look, I’ve really got to go now. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

She pressed the button to end the call before her mother started worrying about whether her flat had been cleaned recently and was she wearing nice underwear. She slammed the phone down onto the sideboard, then took a deep breath to calm herself.

“I’m sorry about that. My mother can’t decide whether I’m so repulsive no man will ever lay a finger on me or so attractive that I’m in danger of being ravished by every man she’s never met.”

“Mothers aren’t always rational about their children.” His voice was grave but around his dark eyes there were laughter lines.

Hattie shook her head in amused despair. “Well, mine certainly isn’t. Come on, I need another drink after that. Will you have a glass of wine with me? Or there’s some gin somewhere, I think. No beer, I’m afraid.”

“If you’re having wine, I’ll join you.”

Tom leaned against the counter in her kitchen while Hattie searched for a second glass. In the faded jeans and dark blue shirt he’d had on earlier, he looked relaxed. He looked gorgeous.

“Have you come straight from the studio?”

He nodded. “I had some work to do after the casting finished.”

“Haven’t you eaten?” As much as she found her mother incomprehensible, Hattie had definitely inherited her impulse to feed people. “I’ve got a shepherds pie in the oven and there’s easily enough for two.”

“I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“No trouble. I’ll just do some carrots and peas to go with it. Not very sophisticated, I’m afraid. I don’t really do gourmet cooking.”

“Neither do I.”

Hattie gave up pretending there might be another glass in the cupboard and went to extract one from the large pile of dirty dishes waiting to be washed up. Aware of Tom’s gaze on her, she felt a strong urge to apologise. She resisted. She was a grown woman and she could make her own choices about when to do housework. Mostly she chose to do it tomorrow. Or the day after that.

“That’s better,” she said, after they both had a glass of wine in hand and she had taken a fortifying gulp. “Sorry about before. My mum always manages to set me on edge. She means well enough but she just doesn’t get it.”

Tom sipped cautiously at his glass. “So why don’t you want me to see your family wedding snaps?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You can see them if you like. Why would you want to?”

He shrugged. “I want to get to know you better. A picture of your family could be a good place to start.”

“Well, okay, I suppose. I’ll go and hunt them out. You can peel a few carrots while I’m looking.” She plonked the bag of carrots on the counter and found the peeler. “There. I won’t be long.”

 

 

 

Tom ignored the carrots and instead poured most of his undrinkable wine down the sink, then wandered back into the sitting room. Hattie’s furniture was crammed into the tiny space. Bookshelves filled with novels had been pushed up against DVD racks, and all of them were spilling their contents into heaps on the floor. The side table and the sofa, squashed in against one wall, were similarly laden. An eclectic mix of brightly coloured pottery, an empty coffee cup, several dog-eared invitations and cards, and a small silver trophy cluttered up the mantelpiece. Tom picked up the trophy and grinned at the inscription: “Harriet Bell, Community Service Award, St Mary’s Grammar School, 2005.” He’d have to ask her about that later.

A pile of glossy magazines was stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, weighed down with a bowl of fruit. Tom flicked through them, pleased to find all his most recent cover photos. She must have been doing her homework. His gaze fell on a bright pink folder with her name printed on the front. He hadn’t thought to ask for her portfolio in the studio earlier but now he was curious.

“What do you think?”

She was watching as he turned the pages.

“Who took these for you?”

She sighed and came to sit beside him on her saggy floral sofa. “They’re terrible, aren’t they? I knew as soon as I saw them but I couldn’t afford to get them redone by anyone better.”

Tom grimaced. “They’re not the worst I’ve ever seen.”

“But?”

“They don’t give anyone a reason to book you. There’s no personality in these at all. And, frankly, personality is the biggest asset you’ve got, Hattie.”

She winced. “Right. All the big girls have great personalities. I get it.”

He laid a hand on her thigh. “No, they don’t. But you do. You light up in front of the camera, Hattie, I saw it today. The idiot who took these clearly never did.”

“To be fair, he didn’t have much chance. I only booked an hour and we had to get through a lot of shots.”

“Do you always do that?”

She met his gaze, a question in her eyes.

“Make excuses for the way other people treat you,” Tom explained.

“I don’t do that,” she replied too quickly.

“Yes, you do. Why?”

“I don’t know.” She had stopped looking at him and started flicking through the portfolio again.

“Hattie.” Tom took the folder away from her and waited until she turned her face up again. “If you’re going to be my muse, you have to be honest with me.”

Her expressive eyes began to twinkle. “Your muse? Is that what I am?”

He shrugged. “Of course. My mind’s been sparking with ideas ever since you walked into my studio this afternoon.”

Hattie’s jaw dropped. “Really? I’m your muse. How fabulous. I feel like I should be draped in a 1920’s dress and wafting around your studio with a cigarette holder.” She picked up an apple from the fruit bowl and held it as if she were offering it to an invisible god. “Muse, with apple in her hands.”

Tom grinned. “Or in a grecian gown, holding an urn?”

“I haven’t got an urn. Will a colander do? Muse, holding colander aloft.”

She held her pose for an instant, then collapsed into giggles. “Are you sure you want me? I’m not very good at being serious.”

He laughed and took the colander out of her hands. “Muses aren’t chosen, Hattie, they’re born. And you, it seems, are mine.”

Her eyes narrowed as she held his gaze. Then she nodded. “I’m glad.”

When Hattie had left the studio earlier, Tom’s mind had exploded. New ideas crashed into each other like waves against a cliff, too fast for his pencil to keep up as it flashed across the pages of his sketchbook. He wanted her falling from a cliff, dodging a fast car, facing the venomous tongue of a snake. He wanted fear in her eyes, masked with courage and determination. He wanted Hattie, grasping at life with both hands while fate threw up every unimaginable danger in her path. He wanted her open, vulnerable and fragile.

As he looked down into her eyes now, he found it again. Naked honesty under a cracking surface of bravado. He could make those fissures deepen and split, exposing the desperate soul underneath.

Her body would provide its own incongruity in the images Tom envisioned. Her earthy voluptuousness gave the appearance of invincibility. It seemed that nothing should be able to harm a woman like Hattie. She had her own defences, internal and external.

His mouth twisted. Where were the chinks in Hattie’s armour? Not the body image issues that dogged most women in the fashion industry, he thought. But there was something that made her eyes flicker when he held her gaze. Something made this self-confident woman doubt herself. Some part of Hattie that she wanted to cover up and hide. He needed to find that part of her. He needed her soft, trusting, and vulnerable, spilling out her deepest secrets to him.

The easiest way would be to seduce her. It wouldn’t be a hardship. He wanted Hattie. She was gloriously sexy with her silky smooth skin, her inviting eyes and her infectious smile. Most of all, her unselfconscious ease with her own body. She would be an incredible lover and it would be the easiest thing in the world to take her to bed, to make love to her, to win her trust and discover her secrets.

She was looking at him expectantly. She wanted him to kiss her. Maybe more. Definitely more, by the way her eyes gleamed and her body shifted subtly towards him. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Maybe he was the world’s biggest bastard but even he had his limits.

   

He didn’t kiss her.

Hattie bit her lip and turned away, embarrassed to have read things wrong. Usually she had no difficulty in knowing when a man was attracted to her. She would have sworn that Tom was interested in her as more than an artistic muse. Earlier, in his studio, there had been real heat in his gaze and enough sexual tension between them to power her flat for a week.

He’d drawn back then, too. Pretended he was only interested in seeing the picture of her, not the real thing. Well, this time she would call his bluff.

“Here.” She handed over a large black folder which contained the few life drawings she’d liked enough to buy from the students.

He opened it carefully, smoothing out the paper with strong, controlled hands. The first was a simple sketch from a two minute pose. Strong and fluid, a couple of charcoal lines brilliantly captured a favourite pose of Hattie’s. She lay on her side, knees slightly bent and one hand supporting her head. Tom examined it for a few moments then moved on.

The next picture was a full-frontal pose of Hattie standing with one hand on her hip. Nothing was hidden from view. Not her wide thighs and hips, nor her well-rounded stomach. But the portrait drew the viewer to Hattie’s face. This artist had managed something that very few of the students even attempted. She had painted Hattie as a person, not merely a model. When Hattie looked at her painted eyes, she saw herself looking back.

She glanced across at Tom. His eyes roamed across the page, predictably lingering on her breasts. But then he, too, looked at the model’s face. He saw it. He saw her. She sighed with relief she hadn’t anticipated. He’d said earlier that her personality was her greatest asset and now she knew for sure he meant it. In Hattie’s experience, men all too often said she had a great personality when what they meant was that she had great tits.

Tom laid aside the watercolour and picked up the pastel drawing he’d seen part of earlier. She heard his intake of breath.

“It’s stunning,” he told her. “How much did you pay for it?”

“Fifty quid. More than I could afford, really, but I had to have it.”

“Yes. You got a bargain.”

“I thought so.”

He looked at the picture in silence for several minutes. Hattie looked at him. It was only fair, she decided, if he was going to keep looking at her. Mid brown hair, neatly cut and minimally styled. No jewellery. A plain leather watch. All as unobtrusive as his clothes. In fact, everything about his appearance was designed to deflect attention away from him.

It might almost work, if he weren’t so attractive. If his faded jeans didn’t cling quite so nicely to his thighs. If his hair didn’t curl up in just that way at his collar. If his eyes didn’t crinkle into amusement when he was trying not to laugh.

Yup, she still wanted to kiss him.

Judging by the way he was all but drooling over her picture, he felt the same. Hattie leaned forward, gently turning Tom’s head to face hers. She bent down and found his lips with her own.

For an instant, she thought he was going to pull away. Hattie pressed a little harder, wanting him to know she was quite sure. And then he relaxed. His mouth opened under hers, and suddenly, she wasn’t kissing him after all. He was kissing her and it was every bit as glorious as she had imagined it could be.

“So beautiful,” he murmured as his hand came up to tangle in her hair.

“Mmm,” Hattie agreed. “Kiss me again.”

Tom obliged. Again and again, until they both lay breathless and half naked on her sofa.

“Well,” she said, smiling down at him. “That was nice. Are you suitably inspired?”

“Inspired?” He frowned.

“Isn’t that what a muse is supposed to do? Inspire you?”

He sat up, pulling his shirt back together and fumbling with the buttons that Hattie had painstakingly undone just minutes earlier.

“Hattie, I think there’s been a mistake.”

“If you’re getting dressed now, there’s certainly been a mistake.” She watched him cautiously from the other end of the sofa.

“Please put your top back on,” he said, as calmly as he could manage.

“I thought you liked the way I look without it,” she retorted.

“I do but put it on anyway.” Because there was no way he could have this conversation while so much of Hattie was on display.

To his relief, she complied.

“Look, we need to talk,” he said. “But I’m starving and you did say something about shepherds pie. Can we discuss this over dinner?”

“I expect it’s burnt by now.”

He laughed. “If it’s burnt, I’ll order takeaway. My treat.”

“You know, you’re not doing a lot for my self esteem,” she grumbled.

“I don’t think there’s much wrong with your self esteem, Hattie. You’re gorgeous and you know it.”

“Hmm.”

She didn’t sound wholly persuaded, so he reached across to put a hand on her knee. “This isn’t about whether or not I find you attractive, Hattie. Because I do.”

“So, what is it about? Because I find you attractive, too. And since we’re both adults, freely consenting, I’m struggling to see the problem.”

Tom took a deep breath. “We’re going to be working together.” Which was true enough.

“So?”

“So it makes things complicated.”

“You’re telling me you’ve never slept with one of your models before?”

If only. “It’s never worked out well when I have.”

“Oh.”

“So, now that we have things clear, you can feed me shepherds pie and disgusting wine. And I am going to tell you how I became the most famous fashion photographer in the world, while you tell me why you dye your hair red and make excuses for the way people treat you. Okay?”

Hattie pulled away and regarded Tom with an earnestness he hadn’t expected from her. “No way. If you get to decide what I tell you, then I get to say what you tell me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Why you hide behind the camera.”

“I don’t hide behind the camera. I’m a photographer. There is a difference.”

“Okay, then. Why are you a photographer?”

Tom paused. It was a question he’d been asked many times over the years by journalists who didn’t care what the answer was so long as they could print it in their magazines. He normally gave the same reply about wanting to show the world to itself. Which was true, so far as it went.

He liked to watch the world. He always had. Even as a child, he was the one on the edges of the playground, watching the others in their games. Teachers who assumed he was lonely had tried to involve him. But they hadn’t understood. He wasn’t lonely, he just liked to be alone.

An uncle had given Tom his first camera one Christmas and he had immediately fallen in love. Looking through the camera, he didn’t have to join in. He was separate, isolated by the lens. He could watch and observe and listen to his heart’s content.

“What other job lets a man stare at beautiful, half-naked women most of the day?”

Hattie rolled her eyes at him.

He laughed, reluctantly. “I like taking pictures.”

“You’re very good at it.” She waved a hand towards the magazines. “I can always tell when the cover shot is one of yours.”

“Thanks.”

“But I still don’t know why you chose to do it as a career.”

“It pays pretty well. I get to travel. Meet interesting people.”

She shook her head. “Fine, don’t tell me. But don’t expect me to give up all my secrets either.”

“I already know your secrets.”

Hattie snorted inelegantly. “What, that I like shepherds pie and crappy wine?”

“That you don’t do housework.” He glanced around the flat. “Ever, apparently.”

“That’s no secret. Even my mother knows that.”

“What doesn’t your mother know? About the life-modelling?”

“She knows.” Hattie dished up the meal and indicated where Tom should sit. “She doesn’t tell her friends about it but she knows. She’s seen the business cards.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “This is delicious, by the way. Your mother didn’t approve of the business cards?”

Hattie forked up her dinner. “No. Well, you can see why. She thinks it makes me look like a prostitute.”

“I’ve never seen a hooker’s card with a pastel drawing on it before.”

“Nor has she. Mind you, I don’t suppose she’s seen many hooker’s cards at all.”

Tom couldn’t help smiling. Hattie was like no one he’d ever met before in her honesty and her unconventional view of life.

“So you had a strict upbringing? Miss Community Service 2005.”

She groaned. “I can’t believe you found that.”

“It’s in the middle of your mantelpiece.”

“I knew I should have hidden it. My sister brought it with her last time she came. It had got into her box of stuff by mistake. I stuck it on the mantelpiece to keep it out of the way of my nephew. Not,” she said with a stern look at him, “as a display of my achievements.”

“What did you do to win it?”

“Modelled for a life drawing class at the local old people’s home.”

He choked on his mashed potato. “You didn’t!”

Hattie laughed and went to get him a glass of water. “No, I didn’t. I helped out with lots of their other activities, though. Bingo calling, quizzes, jigsaw championships, gardening. There was a drawing class but they wouldn’t let me sit for them.”

“I bet they loved you.”

She shrugged slightly. “I enjoyed it. Besides which, I told my mum that I was supposed to be there until dinner time. It got me an unaccounted hour twice a week.”

“Which you used for?”

“Kissing, mostly. Occasionally a bit more than kissing.”

“Hattie Bell, do you always say things to try and shock people?” He wasn’t falling for it again.

“No, that one’s true. My parents didn’t approve of my boyfriend when I was seventeen. That was the only time I could see him. It worked for months, until I found out that he had several other girls as part of his schedule. After that, I just used to hang out with my friends at the shopping centre.”

“Did he break your heart?”

“Nick? No way. My pride was a bit bruised but nothing else.”

She picked up their empty plates and dumped them in the sink.

“So who did?”

“Break my heart? Why should you assume anyone has?”

Tom leaned back in his chair, admiring Hattie’s bottom as she bent to look into the fridge.

“I’ve got some yoghurts, if you’d like one. Black cherry or peach.”

“Neither for me. So have they?”

Hattie emerged with a yoghurt and a spoon. “You don’t mind if I have one?”

He shook his head. “Well?”

“No. Not really.”

“Tell me.”

“About my tawdry love affair? Okay, but we’d better go back to the sofa. This could take a while.”

She made coffee for him and tea for herself. Sitting cross-legged at the other end of the sofa, Hattie looked pensive as she sipped from her mug.

“He was… not exactly my boss, but senior to me at work. He was a few years older, straight out of university while I’d only just left school.”

“Did he seduce you?”

Hattie smiled. “I seduced him, of course. That was my first mistake.”

“How was that a mistake?”

“He assumed I was easy. He never respected me. I can see it now, but then, I was just so overwhelmed that someone like him would want to go out with someone like me. I never thought about it at all. He was beautiful, you see, with cheekbones you could cut glass on and a knowing sort of smile that sent shivers down my spine. It wasn’t just me. Everyone in the office fell for him. The girls used to fight over who would take his coffee in.”

“I bet you won.”

She shook her head. “I never bothered. I just went over to his desk one day and asked if he wanted to go for a drink after work.”

“Brave.”

“Stupid. I’d unbuttoned my shirt enough so that when I leaned over to talk to him, he could see everything.” She stared down at her mug. “I was such an idiot.”

“You were young,” he pointed out gently.

“Old enough to know better. Anyway, we ended up in bed that first night and any night he felt like it.”

“For how long?”

“A year, nearly. I was working round to suggesting that we move in together.”

“What happened?”

“The usual. I got pregnant. I was scared but I thought we would be fine if we handled it together.”

“He didn’t want to?”

Her eyes were squeezed together in an attempt to keep tears in.

“No, he didn’t. His wife wouldn’t have liked it.”

“Oh, Hattie.”

“Everyone else at work knew. They all assumed I did too. That’s why they never said anything.”

“What did you do?”

“He gave me some money and told me to deal with it. So I did.”

She was staring at him fiercely, daring him to pity her. Or judge her.

“And you’re telling me he didn’t break your heart? You’re a strong woman, Hattie Bell.”

“He didn’t and I am. Thank you for noticing.”

“How long ago was it?”

She frowned, working it out. “It’ll be five years in October.”

“You haven’t been single for five years.”

She smiled. “No. Do you want a list?”

Tom laughed. “No. Unless any of the others were heartbreakers?”

“Not even close.”

“I’m glad.” He was. He didn’t like to think of Hattie miserable and alone. She should be laughing her way through life with her bright smile and even brighter hair. “When did you start dyeing your hair?”

“When I was 15. Mostly because it annoyed my mother so much. They hated it at school but short of shaving it off, they couldn’t do much about it.”

“Does it still annoy your mother?”

Hattie grinned. “Probably, though she’s stopped going on about it so much. Unless she’s telling me all the reasons why I haven’t found anyone to marry me. It usually gets a mention then.”

“Why haven’t you found anyone to marry you?”

“For the one reason my mother just can’t understand. I’m not looking.”

Tom nodded. “He broke your heart. Thought so.”

Hattie glared at him. “That is such a typical response.”

“What?”

“You just assume that the only reason a woman doesn’t want a husband is because she’s pining after some other guy. For your information, I’m happy with my life the way it is. I have a job, a place to live, and money in the bank. I get to decide when I go out and with whom. I have no problem finding men to spend time with me if that’s what I want, and no problem telling them to get lost when I’ve had enough.”

“That sounds… pretty selfish to me.”

She was on her feet in an instant, standing in front of him, hands on hips and eyes flashing with rage. “You hypocrite!”

“What?”

“Well, you’re not married, are you?”

“No, but…”

“Are you pining over a woman you can’t have?”

Tom shook his head silently. He was not pining over Lianne. The situation was completely different. And Hattie did not need to know about it.

“So just what, exactly, is more selfish about my life than yours?”

He opened his mouth but there was no answer.

Hattie’s stance relaxed and her eyes began to twinkle. “Go on,” she told him. “Admit it. I’m right.”

Reluctantly a smile tugged at the corner of Tom’s lips. “Fine. You’re right. I’m every bit as selfish as you are.”

“I never let anyone else touch the TV remote,” she challenged.

“I take up all the space in the bed,” Tom countered.

“I don’t wash up unless I run out of plates.”

“I noticed. I work until four o’clock in the morning if I feel like it.”

“I pick all the prawns out of the takeaway curry.”

“I do that too.” He grinned.

“We’d better make sure we never agree to share an Indian, then.”

“Or just order twice as much.”

“Good idea.” She sank down into the sofa again, looking at him curiously. “Did you mean to make me fly off the handle like that?”

“Why would I do that?”

She shrugged. “To see what I look like when I’m angry.”

“Sexy,” he said. “You look very, very sexy when you’re angry.”

“You do know that women hate it when you say that?”

“Do they?” he answered mildly.

He watched in fascination as Hattie’s expression simmered again then settled into a knowing look.

“If you want to get me into bed, you don’t have to go to all this effort. You could just ask.” She paused. “Or you could just kiss me again.”

“I told you before, I don’t get involved with my models.”

“Right. Silly me. It’s just that you were looking at me like you couldn’t wait to rip my clothes off and shag me senseless.”

His jaw dropped. She wasn’t supposed to have noticed that. He turned away and picked up his jacket, taking a moment to recover his composure. When he looked back, Hattie was still reclining on the sofa. “I’m going now. And next time I see you Hattie, I might well ask you to take some of your clothes off. But there will be no shagging. Ever.”

Newsletter

If you’d like to receive a very occasional newsletter from me with information about forthcoming releases, giveaways and so on, please sign up using the form here.

Lying for the Camera

A new book, published one chapter a week right here on the blog.

Chapter One

WINNERS

So, I collapsed with exhaustion after the bank holiday bonanza and completely forgot the most important thing: the winners!

With no further ado, here we go:

BOOKS: Amanda Brewerton!

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DUGONG ARTWORK: Myra White!

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 AMAZON GIFT CARD:

Here are the longest leeks:

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Which were carefully measured by the judges:

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The longest one is 23″. The nearest guess was 20″ – congratulations Yadira!

Well done everyone! I’ll be in touch to arrange to send out your prizes.

Fill in the blanks romance

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They say that romances don’t follow a formula these days, but we all recognise the familiar tropes. Can you take this outline for a romance and produce something wholly original? Be bold, be silly, but above all be creative! Can’t wait to see what you come up with.

______________, a professional _______________, has been hurt by _______________________.

When she meets ________________, a ____________________, her old wounds start to heal and she begins to hope for the future. Catching sight of his ____________________ when he doesn’t know she’s looking, she knows she wants to ____________.

A freak __________ leaves them trapped alone together in _________________________, unable to escape their _____________. But he has his own ______________ to deal with and she is afraid to ___________________.

It’s only when they find a way for one of them to _____________ that things come to a head and he admits he __________________.

Slowly, they let their ______________ down, and _______________ each other enough to love again.

Top seven reasons why you should read my book

Here’s why you should read my new book, The Oil Tycoon and Her Sexy Sheikh:

1. It’s about an oil tycoon.

None of them. A female oil tycoon who is brilliant, ambitious and determined to prove that she’s as good at her job as any man.

2. It’s about a seriously sexy sheikh.

Not him. I said seriously sexy, didn’t I?

3. The seriously sexy sheikh is a marine biologist. There are cute baby animals.

Not hedgehogs, because they don’t live in the sea. Baby dugongs which are, um, not quite as cute.

4. There’s sex.

PICTURES = NSFW

5. There’s a ridiculously over the top Arabian palace.

 

Not that. That’s a hotel. When I am a multi-millionaire best-selling author, that’s where I’ll go.

6. There’s two decent, honest, brave people trying to do the right thing in an incredibly complicated situation.

7. There’s a happy ending that makes both of them better, stronger, more fulfilled people for the future.

What are you waiting for?! Buy it here:

Amazon US

here for free.

Win, win, win!

Because I love you and this weekend has been so much fun, I’m giving away an Amazon gift card (worth £10 or $15) to one lucky reader! Obviously, the best way to spend it would be to buy all my books, but in the unlikely event that you already have them, you can choose whatever you want.

Today I’m going out for my traditional Bank Holiday trip to the Sandwell Valley Country Show featuring the Midland Leek Show. To be in with a chance of winning the gift card, simply leave a comment with your guess of the length of the largest leek at the show. The nearest answer will win. I shall take my tape measure and camera.

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Big Bonanza Bank Holiday Bash: Round up

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It’s the last day of the Bank Holiday Bonanza!

Coming up:

Another giveaway, another game and a sneak peek at what I’m writing right now. Stay tuned!

Round up of what’s happened so far:

Competitions to enter:

Find me a sheikh – and win three of my books!

Tell me your favourite ugly animal – and win a beautiful piece of art

Caption that cover art: classic romance crazy

Caption that cover art: contemporary romance crazy

Here’s what you’ve missed:



Liveblogging

Back in the day, I used to write reviews of romance novels. Occasionally, I would liveblog my reviews as I was reading through the books. It was a lot of fun but quite a lot of work. Today, for one day only, I shall be doing a very special liveblog indeed. Starting around 6pm (BST) if you want to follow along live.

Liveblog

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Focus on food

It’s true, I like food a lot, and I like to include it in my books. I’ll be gathering together some of the recipes for you to recreate these scenes in your own home. Sort of.

Luke and Fliss’s Favourite Coffee and Walnut Cake

Emily’s Pasta with Tomato and Balsamic Sauce

Giovanni’s Tiramisu

Ward’s Perfect Bacon Sandwich

Khaled’s Saqati Biryani

Liveblog: chapter seven

Nearly there!

The Marquis tells her they are going ashore tomorrow. Valessa panics that she is going to be abandoned to starve to death in France. She thinks about being alone and cries. She doesn’t know that the Marquis’s valet has told him he thinks she’s about to get Brain Fever. Tonight she is wearing a blue dress and another blue velvet stole trimmed with ermine. How many blue velvet stoles does one woman need, I wonder? I haven’t got any which seems unfair.

Valessa looks at the moon and of course she remembers that the Marquis is the Man in the Moon. He is ‘a being apart from the ordinary world. He was out of reach and not really human.’ This book is suddenly going in an unexpected urban fantasy direction. Is the Marquis a werewolf? Or a shapeshifter?

Valessa, meanwhile, has hair with magnetic buoyancy. What is that? Magnets are buoyant. I have no idea.

Anyway, his lips capture hers. Then they both think a lot about all sorts of other stuff while they are still kissing. He thinks how intelligent she is. Hmm. She thinks about the ideal love eulogised by poets and expressed by musicians.

Apparently the Marquis is not a werewolf, but Apollo come down from the skies. Glad we’ve cleared that up.

Valessa is now feeling sensations she’s never even imagined.

They rose through her body and were an ecstasy beyond words. It was like the shafts of light pouring from the moon and was rapture to which her whole body vibrated.

There are pages and pages of this rubbish. Because the Marquis can’t read her thoughts, she is still in Fairyland and not human. I can’t even begin to parse that.

He says goodnight and goes to bed. Valessa tells the moon that she loves him. I don’t know whether she means the Marquis or the Man in the Moon, or whether she genuinely believes they are the same person. The Marquis decides he loves her and therefore he shouldn’t kiss her again. Because that’s what people do in romance novels.

At breakfast the next morning, Valessa wants to burn incense in front of the Marquis as if he were a god. Instead she has coffee. Then they go ashore. She is wearing her prettiest dress just in case he decides to abandon her there. She doesn’t take her £200, which would have been more useful if that happened. He meets an old friend who…

DRAMATIC PAUSE

…knew Valessa’s father and recognises her. So then the Marquis realises that he hasn’t actually married a guttersnipe. You’d have thought the cutlery would have been a clue. Anyway, it turns out that Valessa’s grandfather is a cousin of the Marquis’s mother. Gosh. This is a miracle, apparently.

Back on the boat, Valessa goes for her afternoon nap. But this time the Marquis joins her. Oo-er, missus. After this, there are more ellipses than actual words. He kisses her until they are together in the moon, which shone far above the mundane world, and were in fact as gods. That’s quite some kiss. Then they have sex, or as Cartland puts it ‘he lovingly made her his’. Then they go back to the moon for a bit, because nothing can hurt them there and love encircles them like the stars. “A love which would carry them into eternity together.”

So, there you go.

If you like this sort of thing, there are at least another 411 of them out there. Lucky you.

Liveblog: chapter six

The Marquis was overwhelming.

 

Valessa has to hold onto the door because she is so feeble she can’t stand up in his presence. He tells her to sit down and then accuses her of blackmailing him. Valessa tries to defend herself but since she mostly comes out with ellipses, he is unconvinced. He tells her he’ll pay anything to be rid of her. She runs away and decides to drown herself in the sea. She is such a drama queen.

The Marquis saves her despite her pleas to be allowed to die. Idiot.

Instead he gives her brandy and she cries. He points out, quite reasonably, that he doesn’t want to be accused of her murder. That is a good point. I forgive him for saving her. They go round in conversational circles for a bit and he hands her a handkerchief. She tells him she is frightened of him.

“Of me?”

“Y.yes.. I knew.. you would be.. very.. very angry.. and.. gobble me..up!”

 

Apparently this admission makes him more sympathetic to her. I can only assume he is mentally composing a letter to the lunatic asylum. She tells him everything that has happened, in repetitious detail with which I will not bore you. We learn, however, that she is nearly nineteen and that she still has no idea what to do with her life except probably starve to death. Oddly, the Marquis believes the ridiculous story and decides to forget Lady Barton and never mention her again.

They have lunch together and the Marquis notices that she knows the right cutlery to use and doesn’t have a Cockney accent. He doesn’t think she is going to flaunt herself as the Marchioness of Wydonbury. It seems unlikely since she is either the Marchioness of Wyndonberry or Wyndonbury but not Wydonbury. He decides that he will teach her to act the part of a Lady and if she is at all intelligent, she will get away with it. He doesn’t seem to have noticed how stupid she is yet.

She wears a pink dress for dinner. He likes it. There is a completely incomprehensible bit where his eyes talk completely impersonally to Valessa. He has never had a conversation with a woman who doesn’t fancy him before. They have become “what he might call ‘friendly’. Here, I am channelling Miranda: ‘It is friendly. It’s not what you call friendly, it just is friendly.’ I should point out that all sorts of phrases and words are randomly enclosed in inverted commas for no obvious reason throughout the book.

The Marquis falls asleep thinking how unusual she is. Because she doesn’t fancy him. Yeah, right.