Written From the Heart

by Trisha Ashley

  Then Linny started emailing me, but I just put them straight into my junk folder without opening them. There was no magic formula of words that could exorcize the pain of what she had done.

  I only wished I could pour my heart out to Jackie, who had lots of common sense, despite all her wacky ideas, but even though Linny had so totally betrayed our friendship I still couldn’t do it. Jackie could see I was deeply upset about something, though, and came round to do a cleansing ritual with lots of metal bowls and a bunch of smoking twigs, which set the fire alarm off.

  Anyway, after a few days I began to feel quite cold, calm and businesslike and had a huge chunk of my book done, just the right mood for when Tim the Suit rang me in order to be nice in a gritted-teeth, I-have-to-do-this kind of way. He said that we seemed to have inadvertently got off on the wrong foot, but there was no reason why we couldn’t get on better, despite our shared history, since we were both professionals, and why didn’t we get together for lunch the following day if I was free, and talk over my future with Salubrious?

  ‘I’d love to – as long as I can bring my agent,’ I said sweetly.

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ he agreed, and I didn’t tell him it wasn’t Miracle any more.

  Fortunately when I phoned Nathan he was free to come, and we planned to meet earlier so we could go together. I was dying to see Tim’s face when he realized, which at least gave me something to look forward to!

  Twenty-Three

  Occupied Territory

  NOVELTINA LITERARY AND CRITICAL AGENCY

  Mudlark Cottage, The Harbour, Shrimphaven

  Dear Randi Tisward,

  I enclose your manuscript and full critique of The Blood-Red Tyne.

  Initially the work gave me some problems, since you have written it in a stream-of-consciousness way that I have not seen since I was forced to read James Joyce in school.

  When you get past this, though, there is actually a jolly good murder mystery in there, and I loved your detective, Baz Hankin, the accidental sleuth. The setting too is all very interesting, atmospheric and well done, although it can’t always be foggy, even by the Tyne, can it?

  What I think you have to do with this one, Randi, is abandon your delusion that you are writing a literary novel (which at best would only be a pale pastiche of Joyce) and concentrate on honing up the very cutting-edge modern murder mystery that is struggling to get out.

  I have noted some indications of paragraphs and punctuation in the margins, but perhaps you would like to work on this aspect of it and then send it back to me (at no further charge) so that I can have another look at it in its new form.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tina Devino

  Poor Tim! I felt almost sorry for him when he looked up with a slightly tigerish smile and spotted Nathan, and although he made a good recovery, it really put him off his stride.

  It was very entertaining listening to him and Nathan fencing about my future books and contracts and stuff. Clearly Nathan was a lot brighter than he looked, despite not having realized he was playing a starring role in my novels, and I was perfectly willing to prostitute my art any day, just sell me to the highest bidder.

  Tim had obviously made an effort to look suave and sophisticated, but Nathan always has that terribly sexy slight hint of rugged son-of-the-soil (or maybe son-of-the-rugby-field? I do hope not!), which is refreshing: well, it was as long as he didn’t suddenly reveal an all-consuming passion for some sport.

  Then Nathan and I left and went to an Affiliated Authors’ meeting, which was unexciting, except for the unique feeling of turning up at a writers’ event with a personable man. Ramona was there so I introduced her, and afterwards Nathan invited me back to his flat for coffee and a chat about things. As we were going Ramona winked at me.

  When we got there Nathan said I was looking as beautiful and poised as ever, but he couldn’t help noticing I was not quite my usual self and was something the matter?

  And then I am afraid I got a bit tearful, though fortunately at the last minute remembered that I had already jokingly thrown Linny to the wolves; so I said I had found it difficult to forgive Linny and Sergei for what they had done together, and so I hadn’t seen either of them for ages (a week does seem ages when you usually speak to people on the phone at least once a day, if not more, let alone see them), and it was all at an end between us.

  All of us.

  Nathan looked taken aback by this declaration, but said he understood and admired the way I was being so brave and dignified over something that must have been an awful shock. I found him very, very comforting in a cuddly blanket kind of way, especially when he said he hated to see me cry and sat next to me on the sofa with his arm around me. And our lips were barely an inch away and closing rapidly when the door opened and we immediately sprang apart, probably looking guilty as hell, though I don’t know why.

  The girl from the photograph stood there, a skinny honey-blonde with startled marmoset eyes, which were giving me daggers, and her pouty little mouth snapped, ‘Sorry, Nathan – I didn’t know you were occupied,’ which made him sound a bit like a war zone – and come to think of it, perhaps he was, for clearly there’d be a fight if I tried to annex him. Then she turned on her four-inch stiletto heels and went out again, slamming the door. The signed photo of Sergei fell off the wall like a dire omen.

  ‘That was Rachel,’ Nathan said uncomfortably. ‘She’s an old friend doing some secretarial work for me until she finds a new job.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, and actually it was fortunate that she walked in just then and administered a cold dose of reality, because he ought not to have done anything that might alienate his best-paying author, Sergei, and I didn’t want to cause him to do that; and anyway it’s always a big mistake to mix business with pleasure.

  So before I knew it we were suddenly sitting far apart and talking in agent–author mode again, though our eyes were saying warmer things and clearly we shared a lust that dare not speak its name.

  After a while I went home with even more to think about. Just how long could I keep the threads of my life running smoothly parallel without them suddenly jumping over and knotting up? Then I remembered that I wouldn’t personally have to worry about the Sergei thread any more, except on Nathan’s account, and I went sort of cold and hollow again as though something vital had been taken away, like the last solid heart from a set of Russian matryoshka dolls.

  When I was letting myself out (because Nathan was taking a phone call), Rachel came through a door into the hall and said I must be Tina Devino, but she’d thought I was younger.

  ‘And you must be Nathan’s ex-fiancée,’ I said pleasantly, ‘but I thought you’d run off with the best man?’

  And then we both smiled (lips only) and Rachel said she’d had a slight crisis with pre-wedding nerves and gone away to find herself, but Nathan understood, and they’d put the past behind them, and I said how lovely for her to be able to pick up where she left off and was the wedding on again? she said, all narrow-eyed, that they didn’t want to rush things this time and so they hadn’t set a date yet. So now we knew where we all were – for the moment.

  Ever had the feeling you are involved in an emotional Armageddon, one that you are unlikely to win? Paradoxically, the more I got to know Nathan, the less he inspired my writing.

  NOVELTINA LITERARY AND CRITICAL AGENCY

  Mudlark Cottage, The Harbour, Shrimphaven

  Dear Sharon Gillespie,

  Thank you for your novel, which I have read with great interest, and I believe I can now put my finger on a few of the major problems in Passing Out that have caused you to get such a poor response from agents and editors – and full marks for perseverance, Sharon, I don’t think you’ve missed a single one out!

  Now, in your synopsis you describe Passing Out as a sort of historical timeslip, paranormal thriller with a love story, a bit of crime, and a slight fantasy element. But not limiting the number of genres is a huge drawback to selling your
novel, because how could they market it? What on earth as?

  Regarding the timeslip element, it does not so much slip in and out of different historical ages (and, indeed, worlds) as shoot in and out like a well-greased piston – which brings me to the next major consideration: there is an awful lot of very graphically described sex, isn’t there? I mean, absolutely everyone (and everything, in chapter eight!) is at it, and almost none of it seems relevant to the plot at all. Do remember that when describing sex scenes less is more, because after the first few explicit (and, frankly, rather stomach-churning) descriptions, the reader does get quickly bored with it and will start flicking onwards in the hope of some kind of plot. And readers who actively prefer graphic sex scenes to plot tend to stick to books by specialist publishers such as Red Hot Candy.

  This brings me to historical accuracy. If your characters are in well-documented eras, then anachronisms like Henry V’s en suite garderobe with flushing toilet stand out like a sore thumb, and will only work if you are describing a parallel universe where such oddities are perfectly acceptable.

  I have gone into all these points in much greater detail in my critique, but you certainly have a fertile imagination and great sticking-power, Sharon, and those are both strong assets in a novelist!

  Best wishes for your success,

  Tina Devino

  Twenty-Four

  Dished

  Having caught up with my manuscript assessments, I only had to pop them back into the post with their critiques, and then next day I set off for my speaking engagement at the Mallard Rise Writers’ Week.

  I hadn’t told anyone other than Mel the mouse-sitter where I was going because, frankly, it would be good to leave all my recent traumas behind for a couple of days, even if I had to take my freshly re-broken heart with me together with the diamond one.

  But I was looking forward to hearing Hereward Brunswick give his talk on ‘Research from Life’ the following day, because I was hoping it would be the uncensored bits and therefore very entertaining.

  I caught an early train so as to get there with plenty of time to unpack and find my way about before I had to perform, and I went First Class because although you still have to listen to a lot of boring businessmen bleating down the phone telling their secretaries they are on the train, like it’s going to be a big, big surprise, you do get a better class of accent doing it, plus endless cups of coffee – which was just as well, because I discovered later that Mallard Rise coffee tastes like it was made from ground-up owl pellets, and possibly was.

  I got off the train somewhere industrial, and then was whisked by taxi through quite promising countryside until we suddenly turned off into a seedy village, then on up a long drive to what looked like some kind of institution … which, sure enough, proved to be my destination, though most of it was very modern, so it was unfortunate that my room was a vast and sparsely furnished attic chamber in the one old building, spooky even in the middle of the day.

  Stephen King would have felt quite at home there.

  Moira, the desiccated but sprightly pensioner deputized to show me the ropes, seemed to think she deserved congratulations that I was not sharing the attic with anyone else, since the many small bunk-bedded compartments leading off it were often used for the overflow of late-bookers. (And serve them jolly well right, too, her tone implied.)

  After explaining that she would meet me later to escort me to dinner where I was to dine in state with the committee, and then afterwards show me to the Great Hall to give my talk, she added that she was sure everyone would be there, even if, like her, they hadn’t actually heard of me before, and wasn’t it wonderful about Hereward Brunswick coming tomorrow? They could all hardly wait, but now she would have to leave me to settle in because she had to dash off and take her class in ‘Successful Steps to Getting Your First Novel Published’.

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t realized you were a fellow novelist,’ I said. ‘What do you write?’

  ‘Religious poetry, actually. Well, see you later!’

  All this gave me a feeling in my waters, as Linny so repulsively used to say … only I had vowed not to think about Linny. At all. Ever again. Or Sergei.

  I unpacked, showered in a bathroom straight out of Psycho, and put on the garnet suit, since no one here would have seen it. It was certainly earning its keep, which was just as well because it was very expensive. And it was either wear the diamonds or carry them, because my door seemed to have a very odd lock on it. You could only lock it from the outside so when you were inside you couldn’t tell if it was locked or not.

  The place just got weirder and weirder.

  So I wore my glitzy baubles, thinking they might be over the top but at least they’d be unforgettable, which meant I would be too, and from what I’d heard about him, Hereward Brunswick was unlikely to be big in the bling department so there wouldn’t be a lot of competition.

  Then, just as I was gilding the lily with a bit of blusher, this sort of factory foghorn blasted out right under my window, and suddenly the lawn outside was full of scurrying octogenarians heading, presumably, for the dining room. I hurried down the three flights of stairs, where Moira collected me impatiently and rushed me into a big bare room full of long tables, a bit Dickensian apart from all the Formica.

  ‘You’ve missed the bar, I’m afraid, if you drink alcohol,’ she said blithely. ‘It opens for ten minutes before dinner to allow members to buy wine or have a pre-dinner drink, but I am a teetotaller, as are Deirdre and Felicity here.’

  I exchanged stiff smiles with two more Moira clones, then she quickly introduced me to the other members of the committee, whose names I decided to forget instantly, and call all the women Moira and the men Ted, which served them right for their tendency to call me Nina.

  I took my place as directed in the only empty chair at the end of the table, and then they said we might as well begin, and would I like to do the honours?

  The honours? Of course! So I joined my hands and said quickly: ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord God make us truly thankful,’ which showed a trusting faith, as it turned out.

  One of the Moiras said, ‘Thank you, dear: and now perhaps you’d like to dish out?’

  ‘Dish out?’ I echoed, then realized that all the serving dishes and the stack of plates were lined up right in front of me, and was informed that the person in the catbird seat always served, and they took it in turns.

  Clearly it was all a cunning plot. Had I known I was doling out the slop like a dinner lady I wouldn’t have worn my best suit, that’s for sure, besides all this not being quite how I had expected to be treated as tonight’s guest of honour and speaker.

  Anyway, I stood up and took the lid off the biggest dish, and there was this huge, glistening white mound like the Quatermass experiment gone wrong, and one of the Teds exclaimed: ‘Oh, goody, mashed potatoes!’

  Then I took the lids off the other two and there were sausages – one each – and pallid life-leached vegetables that looked as though they’d been cooked for a month.

  Oh, yummy!

  It actually tasted even worse than it sounds, and the texture of the bits that didn’t taste of anything at all was indescribable. I’m not sure what the dessert was because, having dished it out, I wasn’t feeling inclined to experiment with my health any further. Then the full glory of the coffee burst upon me and it all began to seem like some hellish nightmare, but then, so did my entire life lately.

  It seemed even more ghastly when I was marched, biliously, to the Great Hall, a minor aeroplane hangar with dodgy acoustics, where the chairman stood at the microphone telling bad jokes for ages before he let me anywhere near it.

  When I finally had the talking stick, though, I went into automatic and whipped through my usual ‘who I am, what I write, and funny anecdotes’ spiel in a spirit of ‘let’s get it over with’, because after that it was going to be more a case of ‘I’m an author – get me out of here!’

  My talk was followed by
lots of questions from the audience of the ‘I’ve been writing for thirty years, how do I get my first novel accepted?’ kind, to which there is no easy answer … or even any answer, except that there is always hope.

  Then the chairman thanked me, adding that the bar was now open, and I was astonished that no one got trampled to death in the rush. Certainly by the time I got there the queue was a mile deep, due to my having been detained and interrogated by the committee just like the Spanish Inquisition but without the fun factor; and by Moira, who gave me the list of next day’s events so I could join in, though frankly I thought I’d got beyond ‘Plotting for Beginners’, or ‘Self-publishing the Easy Way’. But ‘Postmortem Procedure for Crime Writers’ sounded interesting if you had a strong stomach, and I thought it might prepare me to face dinner with more stoicism.

  I gave up on the bar and I’d had enough of the committee, so I retired to my haunted chamber where I spent most of the night with the light on and the TV murmuring for company, while people I couldn’t see trod the creaking floorboards.

  I had just managed to drop off with the dawn when I was jolted out of bed by that damned klaxon again.

  Breakfast hit a whole new low, even though I hadn’t thought food could get worse than the previous night’s dinner, and calling custard scrambled egg fools nobody, even if you do dollop it on a piece of limp toast first. Although there were six whole fresh grapefruit on a side table you had to queue for them, and the one sharp knife to cut and segment them with, otherwise it was Blunt Teaspoons at Dawn, and so I gave up, and I’d be surprised if the ones there for a whole week didn’t get beriberi.

  I did try to drink the coffee, but by the time breakfast was over I was starting to get acute caffeine withdrawal symptoms, so once everyone had rushed off to their group sessions I phoned for a taxi and begged the driver to take me to the nearest decent cup of coffee, which proved to be at a pottery factory and showroom with a tea shop attached, a few miles away.