The Great Escape

by Fiona Gibson

  Which authors inspire you?

  A Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing is one of my favourite books. I love how Melissa Bank writes with such a cool, sassy and accessible voice. And Mark Haddon did something amazing when he wrote The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time – his main character, Christopher, was utterly believable. My kids loved it too.

  Do you spend a lot of time researching your novels?

  Not really – I find out what I need to know as I go along. But research is good, as it often throws up lots of new ideas for a character or plotline. I spent some time meandering around Garnet Hill, near Glasgow Art School, when I was writing The Great Escape.

  What is a typical working day like for you?

  I start work at my laptop in my tiny workroom at 10 am, after I’ve walked Jack, our rescue collie cross. I’ll work through till 3.30 pm when the first of my three children comes home from school, then grab more time in the late afternoon or evening if I need to. I wrote my very first book entirely at night, but couldn’t do that now – I no longer have that sort of stamina. I did take my laptop on holiday to Cornwall last summer, to finish a book, but have been banned from doing that ever again! I grab a couple of hours at weekends too – I work an awful lot, more so now my kids are older (my daughter Erin’s 11 and my twin boys, Sam and Dex, are almost 15).

  Have you ever had writer’s block? If so, how did you cope with it?

  Yes, I’ve had small, short bouts of it, and find there’s no point stressing at the screen – a big blowy walk usually helps, or some cleaning! Something physical, rather than too brain-achey. Luckily, it happens very rarely – usually when I’m stressed about a tight deadline, or have taken on too much. Then I’ll be rigid with fear about how I’ll get everything done. But if I get enough sleep, and work steadily, things usually turn out okay. It was much harder to focus when my kids were little, all milling around the house all day. School is a fine invention …

  Do your characters ever surprise you?

  Yes, all the time – they run away with themselves. I don’t plot a book terribly accurately before writing. This can be nerve racking, but it also allows room for surprises and changes, and writing is more fun this way, I find.

  Which five people, living or dead, would you invite to a dinner party?

  I’m re-reading To Kill a Mockingbird after 30 years, as my sons are studying it at school. So I’d like the mysterious Harper Lee to be there, alongside Al Pacino, Dustin Hoffman and Roald Dahl – plus my late grandma, May. She was a lovely, kind Liverpool lady and a hoot at parties. If we were playing Trivial Pursuit, and a question came up along the lines of, ‘What is Brazil’s biggest export?’ she’d retort, ‘How am I supposed to know that? I’ve never been to Brazil!’ We did things like baking and drawing together when I was little and I adored her.

  What’s the strangest job you’ve ever had?

  Before writing books, I worked on teenage and women’s magazines, ever since I left school at 17. The oddest of these was when I was taken on as beauty editor at the teen mag Just Seventeen, knowing not a jot about beauty or correct mascara application techniques. In preparation for my interview, I read the Vogue Body and Beauty Book from cover to cover, and slapped on as much make-up as I could possibly fit onto my face. I was twenty, and getting the job meant leaving Dundee for London, which was terribly exciting.

  And what can you tell us about your next novel?

  It’s called Pedigree Mum and was initially inspired by Jack, the mad hound we acquired from the Dogs’ Trust in Glasgow. After eight years of being nagged to death about having a dog, I finally crumbled. This triggered the idea for a story about a mum trying to keep everything together after a break-up, and a move from London to a posh seaside town where everyone is kitted out from the Toast catalogue. Moving to a new place can be daunting, especially if your marriage has just ended – yet it’s at times like this that we often think, heck, I’ll just make life more complicated by getting a dog. I like to take inspiration from my real life and had a feeling that Jack would throw up lots of ideas and humour. And I couldn’t resist the title – even though my kids don’t get the pun at all! Jack prefers a different brand, you see …

  Here is an exclusive extract from Fiona’s upcoming novel Pedigree Mum, out in 2013.

  Pedigree Mum

  by Fiona Gibson

  Chapter one

  Certain activities should be left until the children are safely tucked up in bed. With all the swearing and blood loss involved, they’re best not undertaken with impressionable young people around. Kerry Tambini has already acquired a repetitive sewing injury from jabbing herself with the needle several times in one spot; all this to stitch a few name tapes onto school uniforms for the new term ahead. Does she have to do this, or could she get away with writing their names in Biro on the wash-case labels instead? It’s considered slapdash, Kerry knows this – but surely it’s better than staining Freddie and Mia’s white polo tops and sending them to their new school covered in blood?

  As a fresh scarlet bead seeps from the wound, Kerry abandons the uniforms. By some miracle, she manages to locate the first aid box from one of the many packing crates which are still full and stacked precariously along one wall of the living room, like reinforcements against floods. Opening the tin of plasters, she selects the one that’s cunningly disguised as a strip of streaky bacon (Freddie had requested these in last year’s Christmas stocking; the set includes an egg, sausage and a blob of beans – a full English breakfast in plaster form).

  They’re too thick, that’s the trouble, Kerry reflects as she sits back at the kitchen table. No, not her children – Mia’s old primary teacher described her as a ‘smart cookie’ and Freddie was virtually in charge of his nursery. She means these blasted name tapes, which might as well be made from rhino hide. The Biro option hovers tantalisingly in her mind, even though Kerry has already surmised that Shorling-on-Sea is a sewn-in-name-tapes sort of place.

  The small, compact seaside town had a very different vibe when Kerry spent childhood holidays here, in this very house where her Aunt Maisie used to live. Back then, the place bustled with holiday makers scoffing chips from greasy paper bags, and children carried enormous pink clouds of candyfloss. Whereas the smell of fried onions once hung tantalisingly in the air, these days it’s all organic bakeries and seafood restaurants. Apparently, more scallops and langoustines are consumed per capita in Shorling than anywhere else in Britain. Eating a donut in public would probably have you shot. The Gold Rush Arcade is now a Wagamama, the Word’s Biggest Museum of Tattoo Art a glass-walled restaurant filled with glossy people tackling crustaceans with an impressive array of little metal tools. The middle-aged ladies in velour tracksuits who once ran the numerous B&Bs – where did they all go, Kerry wonders? – have been replaced by glowy-skinned women entirely kitted out from the Toast catalogue.

  Of course, during their more recent visits, when Aunt Maisie had mooted the idea of Kerry and Rob buying her home at a ridiculously low price, she’d realised that Shorling had gone posh. But it wasn’t until they’d actually moved in, and got the lie of the land, that the extent of the transformation had truly sunk in. Still, Kerry thinks, pushing the pile of name tapes and uniforms aside, at least there’s one final weekend left before autumn term starts. Her friend Anita has suggested that she and Kerry take their children to the end-of-summer beach party, and if Freddie and Mia can squirrel out a few new friends, surely starting school will be a little easier.

  This faint flicker of optimism leads Kerry to picturing Rob selling their London home (although it’s on with an agency, Rob is adamant that estate agents are clueless, and that as deputy editor on a men’s magazine, he’s far better equipped to point out its numerous Unique Selling Points). Reassuring herself that the house will sell, and that Rob will soon join them in Shorling, Kerry turns her attentions to the large, square chocolate cake sitting solidly on the table to her right.

  In contrast to her shodd
y needlework skills, Kerry can decorate cakes pretty nicely, if she says so herself. Nothing fancy, no detailed scale models of Loire valley chateaux – just intricate piping that usually garners her a few brownie points at the kids’ birthday parties and partly compensates for her inability to style Mia’s unruly dark hair in a ballerina-style bun (leaving those wretched ballet classes is one bonus of moving to the south coast; Kerry suspects that Mia, who used to stomp around the hall like a navvy, is relieved too). For Freddie’s last birthday – his fifth – she replicated an entire comic strip from his beloved Tin Tin book, and for Mia’s seventh she crammed the entire Simpsons cast, including many lesser-known characters, onto a ten-inch Victoria sponge. She even created a replica magazine cover to mark Rob’s tenth anniversary of working at Mr Jones, ‘The Thinking Man’s Monthly’, as the famous tagline goes.

  This cake, too, is for Rob, but Kerry can’t decide what to put on it. A simple ‘Happy 40th Darling’? No, too generic – plus, Kerry can help worrying that people who call each other Darling are usually on the brink of divorce. She could do a portrait in glace icing but, while her beloved is undeniably handsome with his striking, dark-eyed Italian looks, she wouldn’t be able to resist exaggerating the strong nose and full, curvy mouth (trying to do a flattering portrait on a cake would be ridiculous, surely?) and he might think she was taking the piss. He’s been a tad touchy lately, possibly due to this approaching milestone birthday when the rest of Mr Jones’ editorial team are young pups in their twenties. No – better tread carefully with this cake.

  She ponders some more, deciding that if she doesn’t get a move on the icing will set in the piping bag she’s clutching, leaving her with a cone of solidified sugar. Think, think … Taking a deep breath, and a large sip from the glass of now tepid white wine at her side, Kerry pipes carefully, transforming the slab of cake into an elaborate book cover with delicate curlews all around its edges. In the centre, in her fanciest curly-wurly writing, she pipes:

  ROBERTO TAMBINI

  THIS IS YOUR CAKE!

  Yep, that’s pretty good. Kerry knows he finds exclamation marks vulgar, and is tempted to add more (CAKE!!!!!!!) but manages to restrain herself. Anyway, he’ll be delighted when she turns up to surprise him tomorrow morning at their London home. He’ll be wowed by the cake, plus the smoked salmon, bagels and champagne she plans pick up on the way for a birthday brunch. The plan was for Rob to head down to Shorling late tomorrow afternoon, after showing more prospective buyers around the house. However, Kerry’s spent the past week hatching secret plans. They’ll celebrate his birthday by having a whole, much-needed child-free Saturday together in London, and a child-free night (she has already shaved her legs in readiness). And on Sunday morning they’ll head down to Shorling where the children will present him with home-made cards and gifts and they’ll have a big family lunch together.

  It’s just what he needs, Kerry reflects, clearing up quickly, heading upstairs and peeking into Freddie and Mia’s rooms before running herself a bath. Come tomorrow, she’ll be up with the lark and tackle those name tapes with nimble needlework fingers. Then she’ll drop off Freddie and Mia at her old friend Anita’s before hopping onto that London-bound train.

  This year, she feels certain, Rob’s birthday will be perfect.

  Chapter two

  ‘Are you planning on staying here all night?’ Eddy calls good-naturedly across the spacious, pale grey carpeted office. Rob swivels his gaze from his screen to where his new editor is pulling on his jacket by the door.

  ‘Yep, just got a few things to tidy up here …’

  ‘Oh, c’mon, Rob. It’s Friday night and it’s gone nine o’clock! We’ve had a full-on week. Why don’t you come out for a quick drink? Nearly everyone else has been there since seven …’

  Rob shakes his head. ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll just head off home. Got people to show round the house tomorrow, better make sure it’s ship-shape …’

  Eddy makes a bemused snort. ‘Just a quick one. It’ll do you good. What’re you working on now anyway?’

  ‘Well, you said you wanted some alternatives to the strapline …’ Secretly, Rob strongly believes that ‘The Thinking Man’s Monthly’ does the job perfectly well, conveying the message: Listen, mate, we run features on politicians and shiny leather briefcases. If you’re looking for topless women you’ve come to the wrong place because we are, officially, Too Posh For Boobs. This policy pleases the magazine’s high-end advertisers and slowly dwindling, but still respectable readership of mainly straight, thirty-plus men. However, Rob can’t admit his reluctance to tamper with the tagline because clearly, Eddy thinks it’s not ‘dynamic’ enough.

  Mr Jones isn’t supposed to be bloody dynamic, he mouths silently at the screen as Eddy banters with Frank, the art director. That’s the whole point of it. We once ran a feature on the history of Gentleman’s Relish and that’s what our readers expect. Biting his bottom lip, and sensing tension spreading from his back and shoulders towards his neck, Rob glares at the straplines he’s managed to dredge up from the dusty recesses of his brain.

  For men who means business.

  The discerning man’s glossy.

  It’s a man thing.

  For men who think. ‘Think what?’ he mutters under his breath. ‘Think, “What the hell have they done to my favourite magazine?”’

  Life, style and luxury – every month for men. No … for men every month. For monthly men … God, he can barely cobble together a coherent strapline any more. In a flash of rebellion, he types: No naked girls here – we’re too fucking refined for that. Then he adds, smiling to himself, Although we do feature the odd, deeply patronising sex tip which suggests that our ‘thinking’ readers aren’t actually that hot in the sack.

  He sits back, about to add to his little personal rant when he realises with alarm that Eddy is hovering behind him, grinning at his screen. ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I’m thinking of upping the sex content, Rob. We should run a few more features, practical advice, A-Z of foreplay, all the usual get-her-into-bed stuff but delivered with a punchy edge …’

  Rob turns in his chair and blinks at Eddy. Try as he might, he cannot get his head around what an ‘A-Z of foreplay delivered with a punchy edge’ actually means. ‘Well,’ he says, frowning, ‘if you really think our readers –’

  ‘What, have sex?’ Eddy guffaws. ‘No, you’re right, Rob. The uptight little farts probably aren’t getting that much. All the more reason to help them, eh?’

  ‘Er, I suppose so …’

  Eddy laughs and slaps a large, pink hand on Rob’s shoulder. ‘I don’t mean we’d do it tackily. It’d be really tastefully done, intelligently handled …’

  Nodding sagely, as if taking all of this on board, Rob wonders if now might be a good time to grab his jacket and head home. ‘You could write it,’ Eddy adds.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Rob says quickly. ‘I’ve got a lot on and I’m sure we could find a good freelancer, an expert, I could start putting out some feelers …’

  Eddy shakes his head vehemently. ‘You’re the best writer here. On all the magazines I’ve edited’ – Christ, the guy’s only about twenty-four, did he start editing moments after emerging from his mother’s womb? – ‘I’ve never come across anyone as versatile …’

  ‘Really?’ Rob asks, flushing a little.

  ‘God, yeah. You can turn your hand to anything, can’t you? Interviews, travel, food, politics … You come across as this serious, keep-things-ticking-along type, but actually you’re a pretty intelligent guy!’

  ‘Um, thanks, Eddy …’ Why don’t you patronise me a bit more at nine o’clock on a Friday night, arsehole in your pink shirt and Dolce & Gabanna suit …

  ‘… So don’t tell me you can’t knock out a monthly sex column, under a pseudonym of course, we’d have to make out it was by a woman, a sort of what’s going on in her mind thing …’

  Rob nods mutely.

  ‘We could call you Miss Jones!’ Eddy anno
unces, triggering a loud snort from Frank.

  Rob blinks at his boss. ‘We could just commission an actual woman,’ he says levelly.

  Eddy exhales through his nose. ‘Yeah. Well, let’s think about it. It probably needs some kind of angle. But anyway, that’s enough about work – can I drag you out for that drink or what?’

  ‘Yeah, come on, Miss Jones,’ Frank sniggers.

  Rob takes a moment to consider what to do next. He knows he should socialise, and he did from time to time with the old team – the ones Eddy shuttled off onto less prestigious magazines within the publishing group, like Tram Enthusiast and Carp Angler (Rob has already vowed that, if he ever finds himself working on a magazine that gives away little packets of bait on the cover, he’ll be forced to find an alternative career). He is also aware that he doesn’t quite fit in with the new dynamic attitude which Eddy announced would replace the ‘stuffy, gentlemanly tone’ before he’d barely had chance to peel the lid off his cappuccino on his first day. So he really should make an effort and try to get to know everyone. He’s lucky to still have his job, he realises that – yet, unlike the new team with their braying voices and unwavering self-belief, at least Rob knows how to put together a magazine on time and on budget (as well as writing roughly a third of it), which is possibly why he’s still here. Rob is a grafter, a hard-working family man with a wife and two young children. It’s all very well being ‘out there’ and ‘promoting the brand’ over lavish lunches but, in his view, someone has to know what the hell’s going on in the office.

  ‘So? Can we drag you away from the coalface?’ Eddy is beckoning him out of the office now, with Frank looking bemused at his side.