Chapter 8
FRAN
‘I should never have come. I don’t know what I was thinking,’ I tell Elsa, who’s having to almost peel me off the walnut-panelled walls of the sleeping cabin Flynn gave me to prepare for the Writing a Romantic Hero workshop.
‘I’m a has-been with writer’s block. I don’t belong here amongst all these current bestsellers. ’
‘Fran, you’ll give yourself a panic attack if you don’t calm down,’ says Elsa, and I know she’s right; my heart is racing and my head light.
‘I should have had another champagne, for Dutch courage.’
‘There’s no such thing,’ Elsa reprimands gently. ‘The champagne is probably what got you into this state in the first place.’
I restrain myself from reminding her about the state of my marriage, that I left without talking to Robin – over a week of him hiding in his office and me concocting stories in my head – that I’ve essentially run away from my husband.
‘If it weren’t for that book . . .’ I say, looking at the copy of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame poking out of the top of my handbag, my thought being that I might have been less reactive to Robin’s threat if the book hadn’t turned up.
That I might now be home sorting out my marriage, our future, rather than hurtling towards my past.
‘Let’s both lie down for a moment,’ she says, climbing on to the bed and lying next to the wall. She pats the crisp white duvet cover for me to join her.
‘I need to go to the workshop.’
‘Frances,’ she says, and I’m reminded of being told off by my mother as a girl, a woman who took no nonsense from anyone, particularly a young child.
‘These people have paid a lot of money to be here. Believe me when I tell you that being five minutes late will only add to the “writerly mystique” they’re so enamoured by. ’
‘Fine,’ I say, not believing a word.
I clamber on beside Elsa, feel my spine sink into the mattress and recognise how much tension I’m holding compared to Elsa’s loose form.
‘Let your feet and hands fall away,’ she says, her eyes closed. ‘Feel the sensations of where your body is in contact with the bed.’ Elsa lived and breathed the New Age movement of the seventies during her time as a student and artist in London, hence why she speaks with calm authority.
Physically I do as she asks; mentally I’m on a different page, my mind switching between confusion and panic every split second.
‘Focus on the sensations of your feet,’ she continues, my mind anywhere but my feet, but as she asks me to focus on the feelings in other parts of my body, I notice my mind does begin to settle.
By the time she has me focusing on the sensations in my neck and head I can feel a noticeable difference.
‘Rest in awareness of your whole body,’ she breathes. ‘Just rest.’
She continues to guide me through a breathing exercise, of noticing my breath moving in and out, and when my mind wanders from my breath to gently acknowledge where it went and then return to my breathing.
‘Be kind to yourself,’ she smiles next to me. ‘Nurture patience, not frustration. Connect with the here and now.’
We lie there in near silence, the two of us breathing next to each other, until there is a gentle rap on the door.
‘Ms Henderson,’ calls a voice.
‘Coming,’ I call back, rising from the bed, feeling as if I’ve been asleep for hours.
Jenny, a young crew member, escorts me down the wood-panelled corridor, her kilt swishing as she walks, to the library carriage.
On arrival I find an elegant space with large mahogany and glass bookcases at both ends, and smaller ones between the windows.
Eleven eager faces look up from a long table for twelve.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce your host, bestselling romance author, Frances Henderson,’ says Jenny, to which everyone applauds.
‘Thank you,’ I smile, acknowledging Jenny as she leaves, and taking the remaining seat at the middle of the table. I place my jotter and pen in front of me.
‘Good morning,’ I begin, aware that my breathing is hurried again. I look round the table, all eyes on me, and realise that I’m surrounded by readers, not writers, and that I have little reason to worry.
‘As you already know, I’m Frances Henderson,’ I smile, allowing myself to pause and breathe. ‘I’m the author of twenty-five romantic fiction novels, some of which, as Jenny said, have made the bestseller lists.
‘Let’s start by going round the table and introducing ourselves. Whatever you’re comfortable with, perhaps your name, something you enjoy, and what brought you on the trip.’
To my left, two best friends tell me they’ve travelled from Lincoln, are both celebrating their sixtieth birthdays and, as avid readers, it seemed like the perfect celebration.
Next to them, at the head of the table, is a twenty-something woman from Inverness who dreams of living in Paris and becoming a writer.
‘Hi, I’m Jo,’ smiles the next woman at the table with a good-natured face and a comfortable body.
‘And this is my husband, Frazer.’ Frazer, a tall, balding man, offers a wave.
‘We’re celebrating our silver wedding anniversary – I’m a book lover, Frazer’s a train enthusiast, so it seemed like a fitting choice. ’
‘Lovely. Welcome, and congratulations,’ I say before moving my attention to the next pair of women, two sisters from Wales who are besotted with romance novels.
‘And you are?’ I ask the woman sitting next to the sisters.
‘Virginia, Ginny for short,’ she says, playing with the watchstrap on her elegant wrist.
Sensing that Ginny isn’t keen to offer anything more, I move to the last group of women at the table, three ‘golf widows’ in their sixties from Florida.
‘So,’ I say on an outward breath, literally rolling up my sleeves. ‘You’re here to learn how to write a strong romantic hero. Let’s begin.’
As I open my jotter, everyone else round the table does the same.
‘The first thing to know is that there is no one right place to start. In the past I’ve built romantic leads starting with a picture, someone I know, or someone I’ve read about, but you could start anywhere – a characteristic, a physical attribute, a profession, anything really.
What’s important is where you end up, not where you start.
With that in mind, take a moment to conjure up a glimpse of your romantic lead. ’
A glance round the table tells me that most of my ‘workshoppers’ are paralysed with fear of getting this wrong, so I give them an example: ‘When I close my eyes and think of something I find attractive in a person – an attribute or something physical – my mind takes me to a “thirst for life”. So that’s my starting point, my romantic hero has a passion for life. I’ll write that down.’
As the participants close their eyes, look at their notepads or gaze out of the window, the North Sea sparkling in the morning sun, I take a moment to consider what my next question will be, and as I do I find my mind wandering to Alistair, and the moment we first met, sitting at the base of a statue, outside Notre-Dame.
‘What are you reading?’ he asks, his lean body turned slightly towards mine.
I show him the spine.
‘What else!’ he laughs, his eyes sparkling.
I shrug, a little embarrassed at being so predictable.
‘You like it?’ he asks, almost suggestively.
‘Too early to tell,’ I say, a hint of tease in my voice. ‘Have you read it?’
He nods.
‘What did you think?’
‘That might give away the ending,’ he flirts, and I smile, the shine of my eyes reflected in his.
I watch him discreetly as he bends forward to remove something from his bag on the ground. His basic white T rises sufficiently to expose a hint of his strong, wide back, above the waist of his faded blue jeans.
‘What brings you to Paris?’ he asks, an anthology of poetry now in his large hand.
‘The wind,’ I say, not wanting to delve into the story of Mum. ‘How about you?’
‘Work,’ he answers, and I realise the bag at his feet is a camera bag. ‘I’m headed further on, one-way. This is just a stopover to meet a journalist.’
‘You’re a photographer?’
He nods. ‘You?’
‘Editorial assistant.’
‘In London?’
I nod.
‘It’s just your accent . . .?’ he says, in a lame Scottish accent, and I laugh.
‘Right, not from round here,’ I say, glancing up at the huge tower as the bells strike.
‘You have no intention of telling me where you’re from, do you?’ he asks, a smile pulling on his pale lips.
‘None whatsoever,’ I say, enjoying the game, and he watches me, his gaze deep. It feels as if he can read my every thought.
I allow my gaze to drift from his and on to my book, and he does the same, though I’m conscious that his eyes shift from the page to me, to the place, and watching the tourists pass by.
We fall into a comfortable quiet, until I need to change my position. I press my foot into my inner thigh, and push my chest forward to relieve the discomfort in my back.
‘You dance?’ he asks, correctly observing my flexible joints.
‘Not so much now, but I did, all through my childhood and into university.’
‘It’s a beautiful thing . . .’
‘What is?’ I ask when he tails off.
‘Being able to express yourself without words.’
‘Mmm,’ I breathe, thinking of my mother’s paintings and my father’s illustrations, and Bill’s pottery and Elsa’s tapestries, all of which colour the house – a home full of thought and emotion, and yet so little of it expressed in language.
‘I guess that’s the skill of a photographer too.’
‘One picture is worth a thousand words,’ he muses.
‘So true,’ I say, and I have to restrain myself from reaching out, taking his hand and not letting go of it for a very long time.
The motion of the train pulls me back from my memories and I find several sets of eyes on mine.
‘Now that you have that piece of information, let’s bind it to something else.
In my case, my guy is eager to experience life.
Alternatively, he could be an older character who’s missed out on life, someone middle-aged having a bit of a crisis, but for me he’s a young guy and he’s travelling. What can you add to what you have?’
Again, there are a few worried looks round the table.
‘Let’s delve into a few of yours. Who’d like to share?’
Katie, one of the Welsh mums, puts her hand up and says, ‘My guy has a scar on his arm.’
‘Brilliant, that raises lots of questions – how did he get the scar and when? And what happened to cause the injury, and why? Does that help? If you keep asking how, what, when, why and where, then you’ll rapidly build up a picture of who the person is.
‘Maybe you’ve got enough now to give them a name, but don’t rush this.
Naming a character needs to be led by their backstory.
Who were their parents and grandparents?
Don’t give your character an upper-class name if he was raised in poverty or, if you do, make sure the backstory supports that choice. ’
While the group writes, I sit back for a moment and gaze out of the window as the train carries on down the rugged east coast. It occurs to me that I know very little of Alistair’s backstory.
We agreed at some point not to give away any identifying details; looking back, I can’t remember why.
Was it me being young and uncertain, worrying that he might not be exactly what he seemed to be, or was it him, toying with me, keeping me at arm’s length?
And if so, why? Whatever the reason, the outcome was the same: the mystery created a binding chemistry between us.
I know that he loved art, music, literature and photography, but I know nothing of where that love came from, and likewise, he had no idea that my love of the arts grew out of sharing a home with four artists.
‘Think hard about what gives your character motivation in life,’ I say, having thought often about what gave Alistair his thirst for travel and photography, where and with whom he grew up.
‘Perhaps they came from a stable background with all the love and support they needed, perhaps they came from the opposite.
Really think about what has happened in their life that has brought them to this particular point and how that will colour their journey in love and life.
‘Because what makes a romance interesting isn’t the perfections, it’s the imperfections, the hang-ups and bang-ups of life that really make the characters who they are,’ I say, my mind diverting to Robin.
‘What is it that makes your romantic hero vulnerable, what does he need to overcome, and how will your heroine aid him in that, or hinder him? Whatever that might be, know your romantic lead intimately.’
A glance round the table tells me that the group members have pages full of ideas, and that I do too. It’s just that my pages are full of thoughts of Alistair, not Robin, causing a wave of guilt to flood over me.