Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories
Page 47
And then five years ago, hubby and I had had enough of the UK. We got fed up with the constant grey weather, bills that seemed to increase as you looked at them, working constantly to pay them, and never having quality time for ourselves or our family. Right, it was time to make my childhood dream come true and move somewhere exotic, where the cost of living was lower, and we would actually have time to enjoy each other and life again. Then I would finally have the time and opportunity to dedicate to writing. Yes, we’d have to sacrifice a lot of things to achieve it, but it would be worth it in the end. So we moved to North Cyprus, and it was like my brain suddenly said, Hallellujah! Now we divide our time between Cyprus and the UK.
I didn’t actively think about what I was going to write, but a year after we’d moved there I had an exciting idea for a story, using my unique Turkish Cypriot/British cultural heritage, and my debut romantic comedy Fourteen Days Later was born. Then I actually became the guinea pig for the sequel, My Perfect Wedding! But it was all very well completing my dream of writing a book, but until it was published, no one would get to read it.
So I started querying hundreds of agents and publishers. I got too many rejections to even count! OK, small white lie, a while ago I did count them out of morbid curiosity, and it was a whopping two hundred!
I did come close a couple of times to being traditionally published, but it never quite worked out. It was either, “one group of editors liked it but another didn’t”, or “the chick lit market is saturated”, or “we love it but…”
When I first looked into publishing independently, platforms like Amazon Kindle didn’t support international authors. So the way I saw it, I had two choices. Either I could write another book, hone my writing skills and learn all I could about my craft, and wait for an opportunity to come up, or I could let all the rejection letters get me down, think my writing career was over before it had begun, and stick my head in the oven! Since heat tends to turn my curls into a ball of frizz, it was no contest, really. I wrote my next novel, a chick lit mystery called The Fashion Police, and waited. Because I knew, I just knew, that I COULD do this. I could write novels that people wanted to read. If only I could get the chance.
In the meantime, I also entered several writing competitions. And while I was still getting the dreaded rejections, Fourteen Days Later was shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Prize 2008 and received a Highly Commended by The Yeovil Literary Prize 2009. And The Fashion Police was a runner up in the Chapter One Promotions Novel Competition 2010 (and later nominated for the Best Novel with Romantic Elements 2010 by The Romance Reviews). Surely I was doing something right, wasn’t I? But I STILL couldn’t get a publisher!
Then last year, when Amazon opened up their doors to non-US authors, I uploaded Fourteen Days Later and The Fashion Police onto their Kindle store. I couldn’t believe it when I finally saw my books on sale. It was scary, rewarding, exciting, amazing — so many experiences rolled into one.
But what if no one liked my novels? What if I had all bad reviews? What if all the two hundred rejections were right? What if, what if…?
Time for a deep breath, Sibel. If you want to be an author, you have to repeat this mantra everyday… “I can do this. I can do this. I CAN do this.”
So I did.
And boy am I glad I did! The first month with Fourteen Days Later and The Fashion Police, I sold 44 books (another eeek!). Then I released my third novel, a romantic comedy called My Perfect Wedding, and later released my second chick lit mystery Be Careful What You Wish For. In the last 6 months alone I’ve sold over 40,000 ebooks, and all my novels are consistently in the Amazon top 100 genre categories for humor, contemporary romance, comedy, and romantic suspense. My highest overall sales ranking to date is 136, just missing out on the Amazon top 100 bestseller charts. Considering there are over 900,000 Kindle books on Amazon, that’s not bad!
And this is one lesson I’ve learned in the last couple of years…You can do anything you want to in life. It may mean you have to go a different route than you originally planned, but if you’re determined enough and believe in yourself, you can overcome any obstacles.
So I’m toasting all you women out there with my glass of wine. Cheers to dreams and making them come true!
About the Chick
Sibel Hodge writes romantic comedies and chick lit mysteries (with the odd thriller thrown in). In her spare time she’s Wonder Woman!
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The Fashion Police
Sibel Hodge
An Excerpt
1
If life is like a box of chocolates, then mine is the mother of all coffee creams. You know — the ones that always get left in the box because no one wants them? Today I felt like a coffee cream, too. On the outside I was sleek and hard, but on the inside, I was just a lump of mush.
I sat in Brad’s office, trying to ignore the queasy tingle that gurgled in the depths of my stomach. As he droned on about my assignment, I tuned him out and debated whether or not things could get any worse. I tried giving myself a pep talk, but I’m not sure it worked.
Come on, Amber, get a grip. It’s no use wishing you could get the hell out of here. You can do this new job with your eyes closed.
Suddenly, something Brad said caught my attention and I snapped back to the conversation. ‘Hang on a sec. Let me get this straight. You want me to plant some bugs?’ I asked, wondering if I’d misheard. ‘I take it we’re talking about bug bugs and not the creepy crawly variety.’ I shuddered at the thought. Spiders were a definite no-no.
Brad gave me a cool nod of agreement. The owner of Hi-Tec Insurance, Brad was a former Special Forces operative whom I’d know for years. He was also my former fiancé. I’d accepted a job as claims investigator at Hi-Tec after being let go from my position on the police force. Not the ideal situation, I know, but it paid the bills.
‘Exactly why does an insurance company want to plant bugs in its client’s offices?’ I asked as I sat back in the chair opposite Brad’s, my right leg jigging up and down like a pneumatic drill.
‘This is the twenty-first century. We’re in the proactive insurance age now,’ Brad replied.
‘So you’re trying to avoid an insurance claim before it happens?’
‘You’ve got it in one, Foxy. Claims are money, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s losing money.’ An amused smile played around the corners of Brad’s mouth as he looked at my knee aerobics. ‘Am I making you nervous?’
I stopped jigging and gave him the eye roll to beat all eye rolls. ‘I think we’re way past the stage of you making me nervous, Brad.’ He raised an eyebrow at that but continued, handing me a manila folder as he spoke.
‘I’ve had a tip from one of my informers that this particular client is into something a bit dodgy—actually, a lot dodgy. I need to get a handle on the truth before I find myself involved in a multi-million pound insurance payout.’
I took the folder. ‘And what informer would that be?’ I asked as I flicked through the file, watching out of the corner of my eye as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. The familiar action brought a reluctant smile to my face. A suit, dress shirt and trousers didn’t fit Brad. He was more at home in desert camouflage and chunky-soled boots. As I read the client’s name, I knew my jaw had fallen to the floor but I couldn’t help it. I barely heard Brad’s response to my question.
‘The usual—the seedy, underhanded kind.’
‘Umberto Fandango, the fashion designer? He’s one of your clients?’
‘Hi-Tec Insurance has a very diverse clientele, ranging from the scum-bag lowlifes to the rich and famous ones.’ Brad rested his feet on his huge, mahogany desk, looking pretty pleased with himself. He picked a piece of fluff from his trousers, examining it with distaste before depositing it in the trash bin.
‘His bags are to die for!’ Maybe being a claims investigator wouldn’t be so bori
ng, after all. ‘Have you seen the ones with—?’
‘Here.’ Ignoring my amazement, he tossed me a packet of black ballpoint pens.
Distracted, I examined the packet with interest. ‘What are these?’
‘The bugs are cunningly disguised as pens. I just need you to go to Umberto’s office, plant a few of these around the place, and leave the rest to me. To activate them, you just have to click the top of the pen. Do you think you can handle that?’
‘No problemo. I’m Amber Fox, Miss Hot-Shit Investigator. I can do anything.’
Brad glanced over at my leg, which was now bouncing up and down, Space-Hopper style. ‘I’d definitely agree with the “hot” part.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Janice Skipper might agree with the “shit” part.’
I cringed. Janice Skipper was the reason I’d been let go from the force. She had carried a vendetta for me around for a long time, and had taken pleasure in making my life hell. To say Janice was a sore point for me was an understatement.
‘Urgh! Don’t mention that woman. If it weren’t for her—’
‘I know, Foxy—you wouldn’t be here now.’ Brad stood up and moved around the desk. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you to Hacker. If you want anything technical done, he’s your guy.’ He strode toward me, six feet of solid muscle that backed my five-and-a-half-foot frame into the wall. He stopped mere inches away from my face.
I caught a musky waft of his aftershave and sucked in a breath. A tingling sensation erupted in my stomach.
Calm down, Amber. Nothing to worry about. You’ve just got a case of gas, that’s all. What else could that peculiar sensation be?
‘It’s good to have you back, Foxy,’ he whispered, staring down at me with haunting grey eyes. They’re the kind that are lined at the corners, giving you just a hint that he’s seen more in his forty years than most people would see in ten lifetimes.
I matched his stare pound for pound, and swallowed hard, feeling goose bumps springing to attention on my skin. My throat felt constricted and dusty. ‘Don’t call me Foxy,’ I finally managed to croak out.
‘It’s either Foxy or Sexy. You choose,’ he said. His words caused his breath to tickle my cheek.
‘And Brad? You haven’t got me back,’ I told him, hoping he couldn’t see the pulse that was booming away at the base of my throat. Just when I thought I was going to have to do something to make him back off, he slowly leaned past me and opened his office door.
‘We’ll see about that,’ he drawled as he pushed away from me and went out the door, beckoning for me to follow him to meet Hacker.
A few minutes later, I rushed to the restroom. Cold water by the bucket load was in order. I leaned on the sink, staring into the mirror at my flushed face. My heart was still banging out a tribal drum beat. I hoped Brad hadn’t seen it through my T-shirt.
OK, so this probably wasn’t a good idea, working for my ex, but then I hadn’t exactly had many job offers in the last six months. No, scratch that. I’d had zilch, and I still had to pay my mortgage, so I didn’t have a choice, really. The sensible part of me thought it was a positive and productive sign that Brad Beckett didn’t affect me in the slightest anymore. By ‘affect’ I mean I’d managed to get through a whole half-hour conversation with Brad without crying, fainting, or molesting him. Then again, maybe it was the crazy part of me who thought this was progress. It was definitely one of the two. I just hadn’t worked out which was which yet.
OK, Amber, this could work. I’d be professional about my job and just solve this one case for him before I found a new job. I wouldn’t be here long enough to fall in love with him again. Anyway, my curiosity had been piqued so I couldn’t quit straight away. I just hoped that curiosity didn’t kill the Fox.
I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. Right, here we go then. Onward and upward, and all that rubbish.
I turned on the cold water to splash onto my face, expecting a trickle. I shrieked with surprise as the water gushed out, tsunami style, splashing up and soaking the front of my T-shirt.
‘Great!’ I looked for some paper towels, but the restroom only had dryers. Before I could move to it, the door opened and closed behind me and I glanced up in the mirror. Brad was standing behind me, examining the reflection of my wet chest with great interest. I could feel my nipples straining through the tight fabric. And even worse, judging from Brad’s smile, I knew he could see it happening.
‘Nice look,’ he said, a husky note entering his voice.
I rushed to the dryer, frantically flapping my top underneath it. ‘What are you doing in the women’s bathroom?’ I hissed.
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? This building has unisex toilets.’ He shot me an overly innocent grin.
A searing hot tingle rippled through me. How the hell was a girl supposed to have any secrets around here, if even the bathrooms weren’t safe havens from his presence?
Brad winked at me. ‘There aren’t any secrets around here.’
It wasn’t until I’d barged out of the restroom that I realized I hadn’t actually said it out loud. So how did Brad know exactly what I was thinking?
*
The home of the Fandango Empire was a converted flour mill in Ware, Hertfordshire. According to the file, Umberto had a pretty impressive set of offices that took up the whole of the building, which included a runway for the models to practice on.
I cruised down Ware High Street in my blend-in-with-the-rest-of-the-world silver Toyota, silently rehearsing my fake spiel about how I needed to check and make certain his insurance coverage was meeting his needs, which was a laugh. What I knew about insurance could fit on the head of one of the pens Brad wanted me to leave. Still, I could BS with the best of them, and I promised myself that if I pulled this off, I’d be having a super-duper celebratory lunch afterwards—ooh, maybe I’d even throw in a monster chocolate muffin, too. My stomach gurgled loudly, although I couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or hunger.
Squaring my shoulders, I pushed open the front door and stopped cold in the reception area. I looked around, soaking in the crazy decor. The theme seemed to be ‘If it didn’t move, leopard skin it.’ Don’t get me wrong, I love leopard skin. I’m a real leopard skin kind of girl—as long as it’s fake, of course—but a leopard skin reception desk, sofa, chairs, rug, curtains, and phone were a tad overkill.
Trying to act casual, I wandered over to the receptionist. ‘Hi, I’m here to see Umberto Fandango. I’m from Hi-Tec Insurance.’ With my hand in my pocket, I tried to look calm as I felt for the pens. Grabbing one, I covertly clicked the top to activate it and waited for my moment.
The receptionist looked around her computer screen at me, forehead pinched in a harassed frown. She appeared to be in her early twenties, and was attractive in a subtle way that probably went unnoticed in this kind of industry where obvious beauty takes center stage. ‘Do you have an appointment? I didn’t see one for you in the book.’ She ran a finger down the page of a leather bound diary in front of her.
‘No, unfortunately not.’
She glanced up at me again, the frown looking more harassed. ‘London Fashion Week is next week, and we’re all very busy. Mr Fandango is rushed off his feet.’
‘Look, I’m sorry to just turn up like this, but I really need to talk to him about his insurance. We wouldn’t want to find out he didn’t have the coverage he needed for something, would we? It’ll just take a few minutes.’ I flashed her a conspiratorial smile and placed my hand face down on the desk, willing her to turn her head for a second.
She sighed, seeing I wasn’t going to give up. ‘Let me just buzz him, then. Hang on a sec.’
Her momentary glance at the leopard phone was all it took for me to deposit the pen under the bottom of her monitor.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
While she spoke to someone on the other end of the line, I gazed toward the glass doors off the reception area, where an echoing male voice shouted out instructions. I followed the sound and moved to peer
through the door to get a better look. Some female models with scary wigs stalked up and down the runway, covered in very spangly, glittery creations, as a tall woman stood yelling at them. On second thought, maybe the male voice I’d heard wasn’t really male. Maybe it was just a giant woman wearing size-thirteen stilettos with a gruff voice. It was hard to tell. In the background, a woman who looked to be about five times over the required model weight limit of three stone sat at a desk, hot-fixing rhinestones to a white swimsuit.
A tall, blonde woman, so thin she looked like she’d been photocopied, clicked her spiky heels in my direction. She eyed me from head to toe with disdain, studying my usual uniform of khaki combats, black T-shirt, and very comfy sneakers. ‘You’re obviously not one of the models,’ she said as she tilted her head back. Her cheek bones were so sharp, they looked like they could put out an eye, and I had to stop myself from leaning backward, just in case.
‘Hi, I’m Amber, from Hi-Tec Insurance.’ I held out my hand to shake hers.
She ignored it and crossed her arms in front of her. Was it me, or was the atmosphere getting noticeably colder? I glanced over at the receptionist who was chewing on the end of her pencil, a sympathetic look on her face.
‘And?’ the blonde woman said through lips painted a shade that Dracula would have been proud of.
‘That’s it, just Hi-Tec Insurance. There’s no “and” after it,’ I said.
The woman rolled her eyes. ‘What do you want?’ Her voice sharpened, and she frowned at me; the really wicked, twitchy-eye, wrinkly forehead kind, except her forehead didn’t wrinkle when she did it.
‘Hey, you’re fun! Isn’t Botox amazing?’ I asked, fascinated by her un-wrinkly forehead.
This earned me something eerily close to a snarl. ‘What do you want? We’re very busy.’
Properly chastised, I answered. ‘I just need a few moments with Umberto Fandango. It’s about his insurance.’