Sarah Goodwin's Blog, page 3

An Aside

Yes, that was the first chapter of my novel, Prior Engagements, which is being published, dun-dun-dun-duuuuh, in three days. At the back of said book is a glossery of English terms, and here’s a little snippet of that too.

BHS

British Home Stores, a department store selling clothes, bedding, kitchenware, home decor, appliances, gym equipment, and, depending on the season, Christmas decorations, Easter eggs or live goats (sacrificed during the British celebration of the advent of Morris dancing). Middle of the range prices make this an affordable shop, with classic style options, and fashion inspired ranges.

Also has a café, usually full of harassed child-bearing families and old people eating cod and chips and drinking tea.

Primark

A department store linked with ‘Pennys’ in Ireland. Sells much the same things as BHS, but at a much cheaper price. For example, a cardigan here will set you back £6 instead of £18. (Though instead of being a classic, grey, cashmere mix it will be neon yellow, and made of rayon wool). Lots of social comment involving sweatshop labour.

I once slipped on half a pasty that someone had left on the floor of a Primark changing room.

Iceland

A shop where bargain foods can be bought, almost exclusively frozen or pickled, for the convenience of the thrifty minded and nutritionally unconcerned.

The Town of Bath

The setting of this book, a town located in Somerset, the west of England. It rains a lot there, and there are a lot of big hills. It’s a town in which there is a large Abbey (a big-ass church), Roman baths (big, smelly, old swimming pools), two universities (one for the arts, one for actual subjects) and approximately 1 billion cafés. All normal prices, upon entering Bath, inexplicably increase by about 50%.

I lived there for three years, and adored everything about it, except the tourists, the terrible jobs I had there, and the fact that it is impossible to get good coffee for less than £4 a cup.

Bristol

A town adjacent to Bath, and regarded as ‘the wild one’ of the two. Were it a person, Bristol would regularly chug alcohol, pass out in the gutter, and become ‘that relative’ who shows up every year to borrow money. Bath is it’s older sister, the sensible one who wears tweed, reads a lot of Jane Austen novels, and has never, ever been accused of having a good time.

The biggest Primark that I have ever seen is in Bristol.

 

 

Chapter and…glossery?

Chapter One

 

“Oh fuck…not again.”

Of all the things to hear from a changing room cubicle, it was hardly the least alarming. It wasn’t even my station, worst luck, but I was going to have to deal with it because, 1.) Morgan had gone on a break and I didn’t know where to, and 2.) If someone was having a heart attack in the Men’s changing area, I wasn’t about to leave them to die. This wasn’t Primark for God’s sake.

(Though, it was BHS, so I wasn’t about to give the poor sod mouth to mouth or attempt surgery with a coat hanger and a box cutter. Tapping on the door and coughing politely was probably going to be my limit).

I tapped on the door, and coughed politely.

The man within the cubicle sighed dramatically.

“Is everything alright, Sir?” I asked. They’d trained us to use that phrase instead of the often more forthright, ‘Are you having a heart attack? And if not what the fuck are you doing?’

“Fine,” he answered, and the door swung open unexpectedly, revealing a tall, blonde man who looked like he’d just lost a fight with a three-piece suit. “Sorry for the umm…language.”

“That’s alright,” I smiled like a crazed cheerleader, “just let me know if you need anything.”

I was about to bound back to my department (Homeware, where no one ever needed medical help – bliss) when he shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat.

“Actually…if you wouldn’t mind giving me an opinion about something?”

“Certainly,” I said, inwardly deciding that my actual opinion was almost certainly going to remain firmly undisclosed (People could be so touchy about the truth, especially when rayon blouses or skinny jeans were involved).

“Would it be rude, not to show up to my ex’s wedding, in…” he checked his watch. “Thirty minutes, even though I RSVP’d…just because my date backed out.”

I knew one day I’d regret never reading Cosmo. I’d just always thought I’d have an STI or a stubborn moustache when that day came.

“I…” I faltered.

“Just ignore me, that was stupid,” he looked down at his Blackberry, clutched in one hand, “it’s just that…my friend’s sister was supposed to go with me, to stop me looking utterly pathetic,” he sighed, “and now she has to go to hospital because her partner’s in labour.”

“Right.” Sales training really hadn’t prepared me for this. “So…you can’t just go alone?”

“She was the love of my life,” he said, “which sounds pathetic, I know, but…she ran out on our wedding, for the man she’s marrying today…and I can’t go on my own.”

That struck a chord. It wasn’t so long ago that I’d been standing in a church, in a dress I was still trying to pay off, waiting for a groom who was never bloody coming.

“Oh,” I muttered.

“Yes, like I said, pathetic,” he looked down at his cuffs, adjusting them awkwardly, “and I spilled coffee on my suit, so now I need to find another one.”

“Well, that I can help with,” I seized on the problem, “give me a minute.”

I left the changing room and went out into the men’s department, looking at the mannequins and comparing them to the colouring of the strange man in the cubicle. I decided on a charcoal grey suit with a white shirt and deep blue tie and took the clothes back to the changing area, finding the man in the middle of removing his waistcoat.

He raised an eyebrow uncertainly.

“Trust me, it’ll look good,” I said as I handed him the hangers.

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he closed the dark green curtain and I heard him shuffle out of the rest of the suit.

“Well…it’s a better fit,” he said, grudgingly.

“Better style too,” I couldn’t resist pointing out.

“Fair point…” he paused. “I’m sorry, I know you were wearing a badge but…”

I felt myself smile. “Annie.”

“Dorian,” he sounded pleased, “and that is my real name.”

“I don’t think anyone would lie about being called ‘Dorian’.”

He opened the curtain and looked at me doubtfully.

“Is this…OK?”

“It’s perfect,” I assured him, and for once I could actually be honest. The blue in the tie brought to life his pale complexion and made his eyes look extra bright.

“Good, maybe I won’t look completely pitiable.”

“Can you really not ask anyone else?” I asked, as I watched him turn and start to pick up the pieces of the discarded, coffee stained, suit.

“Rebecca, that’s my friend’s sister, was really my last hope. I don’t have any female friends and actually finding a date proved a little beyond me.” He folded the unwanted suit trousers neatly and put them back onto their hanger. “There isn’t really…an…alternative,” he faltered and looked at me.

“What?”

“It’s just…I don’t suppose…you could do it?” he asked.

I blinked at him, hoping that he wasn’t asking what I thought he was.

“It would just be for the day,” he put in quickly, “and the wedding’s at the Abbey, it’s just across the square.”

“I’m working,” I said, “also…you’re crazy.”

“I can pay you.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Way to make it not sound like prostitution.”

“Sorry,” he scratched the back of his neck, “it’s just that…I got engaged, again, after Opal broke it off with me…and then a few weeks ago, my new fiancée ran off with someone she met at the Build-a-Bear place…”

“You seem to have bad luck at this.”

“Pretty much,” he smiled slightly, “but I can’t show up to this, with everyone thinking I’m engaged again, and tell them that I’ve been dumped…again.”

“So you want me to pretend to be your fiancée…?”

He looked nonplussed for a second, and then got the prompt. “Claire.”

“And you’ll pay me?” I asked, thinking of all the money I still owed for the wedding-that-wasn’t.

“Two thousand pounds?”  he offered, “and I’ll pay for a dress, shoes…which you can keep.”

“Considerate.” I thought for a moment. I had a friend in Homewares, they’d cover for me while I was gone but…could I really do it?

“Deal,” I held out my hand.

We shook on it and Dorian grinned, relieved.

“So…occasion wear?” he asked.

 

Buying occasion wear in BHS is a bit like putting together a gourmet dinner from stuff bought at Iceland. Obviously you could, but why would you want to?

Although, if you pull it off, and do it well, you’re rewarded with surprised gasps and mild praise. It’s a fine line, but one that I’d walked at every major social event in my life thus far (and with most Christmas dinners).

Dorian and I headed over to the small section of the shop devoted to party dresses and formal wear, right between the seasonal display (currently stocking sugar pink Mother’s Day gifts) and the children’s clothes.

“So…would you like to pick something?” Dorian asked surveying the dresses, which ranged from ‘Gay-divorcee rouge’ to ‘Texan chastity pledge white’.

“You should probably give me a price range first.”

“Right,” Dorian looked dubiously at the dresses, “you’d probably know better than me…maybe…two hundred?”

I looked at him disbelievingly. My Ex, The Disappearing Groom, had gaped at me when I’d suggested spending more than ten pounds on a pair of trousers.

“How are you still single?”

Dorian actually seemed to consider this. “Continuous bad luck?”

I smiled at his tentative good humour, and then started looking around for the dress that I’d been thinking of ever since he’d snatched this crazy plan out of thin air.

(Yes, I had already thought of a dress. Don’t look at me like that. The thing is…sometimes when the weather’s awful, or I wake up late and I’m feeling just a little bit shitty, I like to look at the pretty formal wear. OK? If it’s my day off, and I’m in town, sometimes I go into Marks & Spencer’s and try some on. Not bridal dresses or anything crazy like that. Just…sometimes it’s nice to feel important and glamorous for a while, before you slump off to Greggs and buy enough steak slices to get you through the week).

The dress I eventually found was one that I’d wanted to try on for ages. A strapless midnight blue number with lacy, white underskirts that puff out at the bottom, 1950’s style. Fifty-nine pounds ninety-nine of utter perfection.

“Posh enough?” I asked, thinking of the Abbey and how loaded you’d have to be to get married there.

“It’s nice…just…”

I waited for the other shoe to drop, but Dorian just reached for a blue and white fascinator on a stand and handed it to me.

“Do you need blue shoes?” he asked, “is that still a thing? Matching shoes?”

I tried not to look at him like I thought he was crazy. “I think that will always be a thing, but I have blue shoes on.” I displayed my midnight blue pumps, incongruous beneath my awful nylon uniform trousers. “I just need tights.”

“Excellent. Can I leave you to pick those out? I just realised, we need a ring.”

I looked at him blankly.

“An engagement ring.”

“Oh! Right, obviously,” I pointed towards the accessories department, “jewellery is that way.”

His eyes followed my finger. “I think I’ll pop next door, if you don’t mind?”

“No, of course not,” I said quickly, feeling dread curl in my stomach at the prospect of something from Claire’s Accessories that’d turn my finger green.

“I’ll be back to pay in about fifteen minutes,” he promised, “why don’t you try everything on?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, and, what’s your ring size?”

“O…I think.”

“Terrific,” Dorian smiled nervously, “this is all rather weird isn’t it?”

I smiled back. “Just a bit.”

He went off towards the front doors, leaving me with his new suit, folded in a cloth basket next to the fascinator. I picked up the dress on its hanger and went over to where the tights were hanging in their little packets.

Yvonne was at my side in around a fifth of a second, descending on me like Medusa, the ends of her braids whipping through the air and her Christina Aguilera perfume assailing me unexpectedly.

“Who the bloody hell was that?” she demanded, her hung-over eyes wide under their fresh make-up. Yvonne was my best work friend, and she never seemed to go home, but rather moved between work and clubbing like a stray cat between houses. Today I could see she was still wearing a gold studded bustier under her work shirt.

“You’re supposed to be in Homewares,” I pointed out.

“Oh stuff it, they can find throw pillows without me,” she waved a pink-nailed hand dismissively, “what’s with the personal shopper routine?”

“It’s…a little odd…I met him in the changing rooms…and he needs a date for a wedding today.”

She just looked at me, and I realised that I was competing with the after-effects of a great deal too many shots.

“And I’m going to be his date today,” I explained patiently, “so you need to cover for me.”

She frowned. “Is this Pretty Woman I’ve walked into or something? Is he taking you shopping?”

“Well, Julia Roberts was a prostitute, and I’m just going to an awkward social event, but yes, yes it’s exactly the same thing.” I rolled my eyes.

“Seriously, have you thought this through?”

“Yes. He’s paying me, and I could really use the money.”

She gave me a look.

“I am not a prostitute,” I snapped.

“OK…OK, I’ll cover for you.” She slumped and did her best ‘put upon’ expression.

“I’ll pay you back, promise…I’ll cover you on your birthday.”

She perked up. “Deal,” glancing over my shoulder she said, “he’s coming back.”

Yvonne moved away, heading back to the land of blankets and saucepans, just as Dorian crossed the shop floor and reached me. He offered me a small, black, ring box.

“This, I’m afraid, you don’t get to keep.”

I opened the box, and looked down at the diamond ring in its velvet case. Not a Claire’s zircon, but the real thing, from the jewellers next door.

“Wow,” I said, when my mouth started receiving signals from my brain again.

Dorian ducked his head. “I wanted it to be convincing. Anyway…shall we pay?”

“Um..yes…do you want to use my staff discount? It’s fifteen percent,” I said, feeling suddenly guilty at the huge amount of money he was spending (albeit in the name of his own insane plan).

He looked at me and raised a slight smile. “It’s OK, I think I can cover it.”

Of course he could. He’d just dropped what looked like over eight hundred pounds on a diamond ring. On impulse.

I hoped he wasn’t in the mafia. Or a banker.

As Dorian paid for our clothes, and I skulked by the entrance, avoiding my manager, I thought to myself that there was no way Will was going to believe this when I showed up to work at the café on Monday.

 

We got changed in the toilets at the Burger King up the street. I felt bad about it; if it was my wedding I’d at least want my guests to get ready at Café Nero.

Dorian offered me his arm as we left the restaurant, followed by twelve pairs of curious eyes, and we ran down the street to the Abbey with just two minutes to spare. Everyone looked as fancy as I’d feared they would, and there were very few high street dresses in attendance. There was a small crowd milling around in the entranceway, and I attracted even more curious stares there than I had in Burger King, though these were altogether less friendly.

“Dorian, it’s nice to see you,” said a middle aged woman in a turquoise shift dress that looked like it was decorated with virgin tears and trimmed with braids of mermaid hair. Her opal necklace alone could have paid for my gas bill, and then my flat (providing I took it to the right dealer).

“Meredith,” Dorian submitted to an air kiss, “it’s good to see you again, how’s…”

“Oh, Opal’s nervous, the poor thing,” Meredith turned her chilly blue eyes on me, “and who’s this you’ve bought to my niece’s wedding?”

“Hi, I’m Claire,” I lied, rather well I thought, “Dorian’s fiancée.”

She smiled tightly.

“Lovely. We’ve heard so much about you.”

“All good I hope,” I said.

“Well…” Dorian said, after a silence far longer than anything that could be described as ‘comfortable’, “we should get to our seats.”

We were shown from the door to a pew by a man in a starched uniform that probably cost more than my unused wedding dress.

“Wow, she really hated me,” I said as we sat down.

“Meredith hates everyone.”

“She likes you.”

Dorian barely held back a laugh. “Of the two of us, I am the lesser of two evils today – you’re the one her niece is being compared to.”

“Way to make me feel even more intimidated.”

“Just remember, they’re far more afraid of you, than you are of them.”

“Comforting…by the way, I can’t believe you were going to marry someone named Opal.”

“My name is Dorian,” he pointed out.

“Touché.”

He smothered a laugh and I looked up at the altar. The groom stood there with his best man and groomsmen. Dark haired and reasonably well built, he looked OK, but he wasn’t a patch on Dorian with his Icelandic good looks and Jane Austen charm.

You know, if you liked that kind of thing.

Which I so did not.

Just then, the wedding march started, played by about fifty violins.

“Show time,” Dorian murmured.

I should say, for the wedding aficionados out there, that the Abbey was beautiful: white roses, yellow ribbon, candles, a choir, bloody millions of violins, but none of it compared to Opal-the-bitch-goddess.

Leaving aside the designer dress (probably woven by pixie maidens on the lost isle of impeccable couture) the hairstyle and the flowers – Opal was gorgeous. She was blonde for a start, and tall, not to mention skinny, like a moodily intense Norwegian runway model, only smiling a Katherine Heigl thousand watt smile.

I can honestly say that I didn’t hate her on sight, but only because her gorgeousness travelled

forwards in time a few seconds, making me envious before I even caught sight of her.

I felt ratty, comparatively speaking, in my BHS six-billion-of-a-kind dress. I knew my brown pixie cut was showing mousy roots, and that morning it hadn’t occurred to me to put on any make-up besides lip balm. Tesco’s own-brand lip balm (‘used bacon grease’ flavour).

I chanced a sideways look at Dorian, and I had to wince, I’d never seen anyone look so destroyed before. Against my better judgement I reached over and took his hand in mine. He jumped a little, then glanced at me, raised a smile that didn’t fool me for a second, and held onto my hand for the rest of the service. Which went on forever. I suppose if you’re getting married at the Abbey, you want to get your money’s worth, but even so, I could feel myself developing deep vein thromboses and bed sores.

By the time Opal kissed Not-as-hot-as-Dorian, I was way past bored and into ‘Doctors surgery waiting room’ levels of mental inactivity.

The bride and groom swept down the aisle together, the choir singing angelically somewhere near the front of the church. Three billion violins sawing away in harmony. We followed them en masse, politely smiling and throwing confetti from the sachets handed to us by the uniformed ushers.

I watched Dorian as he smiled at the few people who acknowledged us. He looked strained. I didn’t blame him. All that anxiety, all the effort to get me here, to show up at all, and Opal hadn’t even seemed to be looking for him.

“That was horrible,” he said, white faced, as we stood to one side of the Abbey, watching a photographer snap pictures of Opal and her bridesmaids.

“Well at least it’s over n…”

“Can we get all the guests in for this one?” called the photographer.

Dorian looked ready to run for it, but we trooped forwards and took our place at the edge of the swath of people. The photographer took the picture, and that’s when I noticed Opal looking over at us.

“She’s looking,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.

Dorian’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Yes,” I glanced back at Opal, who was still looking at us. “What do you want to do?”

Dorian was frozen like a rabbit about to be mown down by a (really gorgeous) car.

I took matters into my own hands, slid my arm through his and reached up to kiss the side of his mouth. While he was still blinking at me I led him quickly away from the wedding party and around the corner into a side street.

“That was horrible,” Dorian muttered, once we were well away from the wedding party.

“At least you got through it.”

He looked at me, pale and pinched and miserable.

“Let’s go get a coffee, OK?” I said, pretending he was Yvonne on another one of her ‘how could he give me crabs and run off with my jewellery?’ crying jags. “I’ll pay.”

Of course, in Bath, the home of Starbucks, Café Nero and independent, four-pounds-per-tiny-tourist-loving-cup cafés, the only place I could afford to go was right back to Burger King.

I parked Dorian on a red vinyl chair in the downstairs seating place, subterranean, where no one would see him through the window. I hitched up my fabulous blue skirt and climbed the greasy stairs all the way back to the counter, where I ordered two coffees (sans fancy names) and a paper packet of mini pancakes.

What? Weddings make me hungry. And it wasn’t like I was going to get any cake.

I took the lot downstairs on a tray and watched Dorian empty nine and a half sugar packets into his coffee.

“She looked…stunning,” he said, stirring the brew half-heartedly.

“She is gorgeous,” I offered him a pancake, and he declined, “but…the groom? Nowhere near as hot as you.”

Dorian looked at me, a small smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

“Is it OK if that makes me feel better?”

I nodded.

“I just…I never thought she’d go through with it…I was very much under the impression that it was a sort of…cry for attention.”

“That she broke it off with you, for that guy?”

“It’s how she got me to propose,” Dorian admitted.

My expression must have betrayed my disgust in her, and my disbelief at him, because Dorian covered his eyes with one hand and groaned.

“I’ve been an utter idiot, haven’t I?”

“They probably won’t be letting you into MENSA anytime soon, but…” I found myself wanting to be something other than sarcastic and marginally supportive, just this once. “…you really loved her, and sometimes we act like idiots for the people we fall for.”

Dorian sighed.

I ate a pancake.

This inspirational, comforting thing wasn’t going all that well.

“Tell me about how you met her,” I said, after a prolonged silence in which Dorian had sipped his coffee, then put it down and glared at it.

“Opal?”

“Well, start with her, we can do fiancée number two later, if we have time.”

That raised another smile.

“Opal’s family owns an airline, and her father is friends with my second cousin, Amelia…we met at a coming out party in New York, and I knew right then that I wanted to marry her. So I proposed a year into our relationship, on a visit to the south of France… ”

“I’m getting the feeling that your cup rather runneth over with posh.”

“Yes, I suppose it does. Or did anyway. I declined to go into the same line of work as my father, and my three brothers, and since then I haven’t really been the family favourite.”

“What’s the family business?”

“Mainly stock trading, though my brother recently branched out into small business ownership.”

I snored loudly.

“I agree, and anyway, I’ve always liked art more than having a lot of money.”

“I’m sensing that this is where Opal got cold feet?”

“At the prospect of me making an almost negligible living as an artist, and inheriting very little from my disappointed parents…she called off the wedding.”

“But you look like you’re doing OK, money-wise.”

“I’m a very very lucky artist. And after a while my parents realised that I was doing well, and came to terms with my career choice.”

I grinned. “Beats working in a shop for minimum wage…still, my fiancé left me at the altar before I got the job. So at least I know it wasn’t that that tipped him over the edge.”

Dorian winced. “You were…jilted?”

“To the extreme,” I sighed, “Stephen-the-indecisive. Proposed, insisted we rush the wedding, then didn’t even show. Five years ago.”

“And since then you haven’t tried again?”

“Clearly you’re more hopeful than me,” I said, stirring my coffee and looking at it rather than at him, “I think I’d have to trust someone a hell of a lot to go through with that long, long walk again. Or, I’d just have to…not care, about whether or not we made it. Hardly excellent reasons to tie the knot.”

“The first one was.”

“I trusted Stephen,” I pointed out, “and here I sit, broke, in a dress someone else paid for, pretending to be the fiancée of a man I barely know.”

“So what you’re saying is…it all worked out fine, and you adore my company?”

“Cute.”

“I try.”

“So, what do you have planned for the evening, post-wedding?” I asked.

“I was thinking I’d go back to my hotel, crack open the awful novel I bought at the airport, and have complimentary coffee for dinner.”

“That sounds…unbearably sad.”

“Sad is the running theme of today.”

“No, I refuse to accept that.” I sat back and crossed my arms. “You are going to have a good time tonight if it kills me.”

“…hurrah?”

“I’m serious. You’re all dressed up…I can show you a nice restaurant and you can at least have a good dinner, maybe see a little of Bath?”

“We.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We, can have a nice dinner,” Dorian said shyly. “You deserve it after braving the wedding.”

“I couldn’t…I mean, I don’t have the money for a nice place…I barely have the money for a nasty place.”

“I’ll pay.”

“But…”

He raised a hand. “You paid for the coffee, it’s only fair.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You are just too bloody charming.”

“Or, I’m just charming enough.”

“I’ll work it out at dinner,” I said.

 

 

 

 

A Tiny Slice of My Magnum-four-pus

No idea what magnum opus actually means (Wikipedia says – Magnum opus (plural: magna opera, also opus magnum / opera magna), from the Latin meaning “great work”,[1] refers to the largest, and perhaps the best, greatest, most popular, or most renowned achievement of a writer, artist, composer or craftsman.)

But anyway, I like the word ‘fourpus’ because it sounds cute, like a cat with four heads, or some kind of sponge cake with raspberry cream and a chocolate fan.

So, here’s a little bit of my novel ‘Prior Engagements’ which is coming out on the 21st. (Apologies for lack of paragraphs, wordpress does not like my formatting).

I showed up at work on Monday with a reluctance heretofore reserved only for pelvic examinations and anything involving my mother. I was exhausted, having just experienced a whirlwind wedding and (I had to admit) a pretty energetic honeymoon. I could have happily stayed at home with some Desperate Housewives, and had eight-plus cups of tea with Malteaser croutons and a side of Mars Bars.

But no – Raspberry Bereft called. Oh yeah, the name, not my idea. Actually, I thought it was the stupidest name anyone had ever given an eatery, and I’d spent a year getting my lunch at Bagels Ahoy!, so that was saying something. Will defended the name, saying it was logical, because we never served anything with raspberries in. This was because Will was ‘allergic’. I, however, maintained that not eating a fruit just because you think it looks like a nipple and that ‘freaks you out’ did not constitute an allergy.

“Late,” Will boomed, as I reluctantly shunted open the door. I winced as the bell trembled over my head. The bright pink walls assaulted my brain, as did the radio, which blared Ke$ha.  It was Monday, and so it was Will’s turn to pick the music.

“Always,” I said, without my usual vigour. As a rule, you go into Raspberry Bs ready to fight, or you go down in flames, at least if you’re an employee. Will loved to take all kinds of ‘the piss’.

A host of waitresses, cooks and busboys had run screaming from Will’s management skills (taking choice pieces of our décor with them, in lieu of compensational therapy). At present, our staff consisted of me (too stubborn to leave – besides, Will was my friend) and ‘Water’ the gangly teen of indeterminate gender, who did the washing-up.

Will swore that Water had turned up to the interview wearing a suit and claiming to be ‘Walter’. But on the first day of work, ‘he’ had shown up in a skirt, with lilac dreads, and had introduced ‘himself’ to me as ‘Wilma’.

Out of awkwardness, we had started to mutter ‘his’ name and avoid all pronouns. The name ‘Water’ had just become a thing, and Water never complained.

Will ignored me after our initial exchange, and went back to wrestling with the cappuccino machine. I swept into the back and put on my apron, scrunching my hair up into an almost-ponytail. My rings caught in my hair, and once I’d freed them, I wondered if I should slip them off and put them into my pocket.

“Come on! Milk’s turning faster than you’re working.”

I stalked back out into the café, prepared to snap at him, but I got distracted by his hair, which had changed colour again. The last time I’d worked a shift, Will’s hair had been bright pink, but today it was the lime green of the counter tops.

I groaned, loudly and disparagingly.

Will lovingly petted his Mohawk and batted his eyelashes, which were smothered in mascara to match. “Gorgeous, aren’t I?”

“Like Courtney Love’s surgical runoff,” I simpered.

He threw an old coffee filter at me. “Pick that up.”

“Up yours, you cockatoo.”

He rolled his eyes and bowled me a bagel for breakfast. Salmon and paprika cream cheese, my favourite.

“Wass’at?” I asked, face stuffed with bagel, pointing at the monstrosity on the far wall.

“It’s a new painting, your highness,” Will drawled, swiping at the bagel crumbs I’d left in my wake.

“From a skip?”

“….maybe.”

I sighed.

“And what’s that?” Will retorted, pointing at my hand.

I winced inwardly, I’d planned to wait until things were a bit more settled between Dorian and I before I started telling people. But, Will was my best-friend, and I always told him everything (even when he had absolutely no interest in the matter whatsoever. That’s just what friends do).

Besides, it was better to get the piss-taking over with.

“I got married.”

Will sniffed. “And I got knighted.”

“I’m serious.”

He looked at me, harder and harder, like he was trying to force me to stop bullshitting him.

“Will, I got married, on Saturday, to a man I met at work.”

“How long have you known him?” Will looked gobsmacked. “Why didn’t you invite me?”

“Because I’ve only known him since Saturday.”

Will blinked. “…Two days ago Saturday?”

“Yes,” I said, waiting for the inevitable backlash.

“Are you CRAZY?”

“Says the man with the nuclear hairdo.”

“Annie, I mean it, you married a man you’ve only just met? Where, for Christ’s sake?”

“I met him in BHS, but I married him in Vegas.”

“You flew to VEGAS with him?!” Will’s eyes practically skewered me to the floor. I hadn’t really thought about it at the time (thank you wine) but in the harsh light of the Day-Glo café I realised just how badly the whole thing could have gone. People got abducted or murdered, sold into the sex trade or ground down into burger meat, strangers would stab you soon as look at you. I read about it in the Daily Mail.

Like hell was I going to admit that to Will though.

Good fortunes commeth,

Yes, the rumours are true, I have found a job.

Cue much happiness on my part.

The job is currently cold calling people and asking about their insurance. Hardly glamourous but it does mean I get a desk, free tea and coffee and a nice working environment, all things that were lacking at my last job at Casa Del Evil. It also means that I can start saving for my masters degree again. though I am still taking my unofficial degree ie – reading every book I can get my hands on, and writing as much as I can.

Speaking of writing, the vampire novel is coming along well, almost too well, as it may be longer than anticipated. Hey ho.

The chick-lit novel, Prior Engagements, is out on the 21st of this month, as stated *prior* to now. And here is the blurb (the new blurb, should I say) so you can see a little of what it’s about. I may also post a sample chapter up later…(also, feast your eyes on my lovely cover art, thanks to Vikkie Moule for another amazing job).

Da Blurb:

Annie is not enjoying her roaring-twenties as much as she should be. She’s been jilted at the altar by Stephen-the-indecisive, is paying off a mountain of wedding debt by holding down two jobs, and her flat is mostly made of cardboard and spackle.

Then at work she meets a man in need of a date to his ex-fiancée’s wedding. Annie goes, and one wedding and four bottles of wine later, she finds herself getting married in Vegas to Dorian, an erotic illustrator.

Of course, it’s all great and romantic, until someone loses an eye, which here means, ‘until Annie gets home, and realises that her best friend (and boss) Will, has kind of been working up to popping the question himself. Will is not happy to see Annie married, in fact he’s willing to trade his Mohawk and every Ke$ha CD he owns to get Dorian out of the way.

As if that wasn’t enough to make things tense at work, Annie’s best-work-friend Yvonne (who knows something really fun you can do with a rugby player, some roller skates and chocolate spread) can’t resist getting involved in Annie’s love life. Neither can Dorian’s kleptomaniac sister Fifi, Dorian’s ex-bride and Annie’s mother.

In between breaking into cafés, having her door kicked down by the police and trying not to kill each and every one of her friends and relatives, Annie tries to work out how the hell her life got so complicated.

And now tis January

This is why I should not hang around with people I went to school with, the notable exception being my illustrating editor Vikkie. I get very sad, because we’re all old now and gainning weight/losing hair, and I drink too much and wake up headachy and weird in a brand new year.

The good news is, it has helped to put things in perspective. Yes, I am unemployed (possibly unemployable, if you believe everyone who has interviewed me so far) but I am not without purpose. I don’t need to think back to how great it was being at school, because 1. It wasn’t, I loathed it, and 2. I am now a much better writer than I was at 14, hammering out my first ‘novel’ on a Windows 98 PC.

A lot has happened since then, and I wouldn’t care to live through it all again, but, I can say with great certainty that all of it has helped to get me here. And ‘here’ is ’2/3 of my way through novel number 5, and having a grand old time of it’.

At 14, the world of self publishing looked very different to how it is today. For starters, you needed money up front for ISBNs, hard copies and shipping. You’d end up with boxes and boxes of books to shift. When I realised back then that I didn’t have the money, and that if I did, I wouldn’t spend it on such a thing, I was destroyed. I cried for hours, watched some Kim Possible, and tried to come to terms with it.

Now of course, the world is a little bit nicer to authors who are having a hard time getting on up the bookcase. It costs nothing to self publish on amazon, a good thing too given the economic downturn and almost extortionate price of new books. I’m very interested in where things are heading, and hope that soon all uni students will get at least one lecture in ‘making it alone’.

But of course, I’m not alone, and, at the start of this new year, I’d like to thank everyone who has bought my books, told people about them, and reviewed them online. Without your help, I would still be sobbing on my sofa.

A Year in Swings and Roundabouts

This year has been a bit of a doozy.

I started it still at university, two novels released on Amazon and no idea what the future was going to bring me. Then I got myself a job, saved some money, and started to flirt with the idea of maybe doing a masters degree.

I did jury service, started and ended my first real relationship, and graduated university.

Oh, and I also became unemployed, had to move out of my student house, come home to my parent’s village, and start signing on for job seekers money.

There have been ups and downs, but, thanks to those downs, I managed to write my third book, After the Fall, which has been a success, thanks to everyone who’s reviewing and recommending it. I am  very hopeful for my writing ‘career’, or, more accurately ‘odd jobs’. I’m releasing a chick lit novel in January, and can announce that it will be published on the 21st.

I am currently working on a new novel in the gay M/M genre, with a slight horror theme, in that it contains vampires. I’m very interested in the gothic side of vampires, in Dracula for example, as well as in modern books. So I’m having a lovely time writing my own vampire novel.

I’m also in the middle of my ‘at home masters degree’ which basically involves just reading as much as I can, classical literature, as well as contemporary works. My to-read pile is some thirty books strong, and growing all the time.

I hope to get a job, sort out my life, and have lots of time to write while I’m doing it. But, even if it takes a long, long time to get back together, I’m going to write anyway, because it’s what’s keeping me together.

Love to everyone who bought my books, and a very Happy New Year to you too.

 

Chick Chick Chick Boom!

Almost forgot to say, I’m still working on getting my chick-lit novel Prior Engagements(written earlier this year) published.

As I have failed at procuring an agent (mainly because job hunting is taking up 90% of my time) I am going to hopefully publish the book online, like my others, and plan to do so some time in January.

The book could be best described as a love triange between Colin Firth, Priestly from ‘Ten Inch Hero’ and Max from ‘Two Broke Girls’

But, that could get me sued

Here’s the blurb anyway, I’ll be sure to let you know when it comes out.

Annie works at a Cafe in Bath, with her best friend and one time crush, Will, a self confessed Gaga addict with a hate-on for hipsters and Starbucks.

Having been left at the altar five years ago by Will’s friend Stephen, Annie has pretty much given up on love (even if Will hasn’t given up on her). That changes when she meets Dorian, a desperate graphic novelist with a string of failed engagements, and a wedding to get to.

Annie agrees to step in as Dorian’s date, and, seven bottles of wine later, finds herself marrying him in Vegas.

When she gets back to England, it’s to find that Will is not exactly pleased with the fact that Annie is now the wife of another man. Nor is he pleased that she’s going to be moving to New York – permanently.

In between working out what the fuck is happening to her life, Annie has to deal with Dorian’s sister putting the moves on her mother, the police breaking down her door in pursuit of biscuits, and her own stunning lack of money.

 

Things as they stand…

Hello people,

Sadly, my leap into the blogosphere is more of a prolonged climb. I will never get used to sitting down to type out my innermost thoughts and ideas. At least, on a site where there isn’t a 140 character limit.

Anyway, my new novel ‘After the Fall’ has surpassed my expectations by selling extreamly well, and I’d like to thank everyone that’s bought a copy so far, and send especial thanks to everyone who has reviewed it.

Preparations on my next novel are going well, and I’m almost 10,000 words into it, with promising character development notes and a good number of plot options. So, I’ll keep you updated on that. It is, as some of you will be upset to learn, a vampire novel.

Yes, I know, vampires are so over played that they might as well be a Snow Patrol single, but I am confident that I can bring something fresh to the rather musty crypt of vampire novels.  As someone who grew up with Buffy, who read and disagreed with Stephanie Meyer, who thinks Dracula could have been half the length, and who half-likes True Blood and who has an on again, off again abusive relationship with Supernatural….I’m trying to stay clear of all of them in terms of inspiration.

I’m also looking into getting a job that pays money. So, hopefully that’ll work out and I’ll be able to write and earn at the same time.

We’ll see how she goes.

Things that, lets face it, I just need.

http://www.etsy.com/listing/88154407/...

This writer necklace is to die for, and I’m planning on getting it at such a point where I a. have a job, and b. can actually be bothered to start wearing jewellery. I love plath, and even though it’s a teeny bit over priced, I still want it.

http://www.etsy.com/listing/108625077...

Dead writers perfume. Need I say more? Well, I’m gonna. I’ve always wanted a signature scent, something that’s a part of me. For years, that scent was incence and vanilla body spray, but something more distinguished would be heavenly. And I love the idea of smelling like old books.

Ahoyhoy!

What’s this? Two consecutive posting days? it’s madness!!

Anyway, today I have been working on what I am calling my ‘porn study’ but which everyone else is still calling ‘Sarah’s room’. It was my bedroom before I went to university, and, while I was being driven out to the campus, my brother moved in.

So, for the last three years my bedroom was converted into an xbox and sweat room.

No longer!

With a can of ‘vanilla’ paint, and a black and white art photo of a naked dude (named Gary) I am reclaiming the space. First coat of paint went on today, and now my shoulders really really hurt. But it’s worth it.