Chapter 11
FRAN
At the end of the workshop, most of the participants filter out with a word of thanks and a smile before heading to the dining carriage for lunch.
The Welsh mums and the friends in their sixties linger to chat a while, eventually asking me to sign copies of books and then leaving to join the others.
Only Ginny remains as I gather up my notepad and pen.
‘May I walk with you to the dining carriage?’ she asks, clutching her leatherbound notebook to her chest.
‘Certainly,’ I reply, intrigued by this unassuming, slender woman with auburn hair.
Unlike the rest of the group, she had been quiet throughout the workshop, but there was something in the way she held herself, a composure, that suggested to me that she knew more than all the others combined. ‘It’s Ginny, yes?’
‘It is,’ she answers, and we weave our way through the observation carriage and the bar with its countless whiskies and cut-glass decanters and readers perched on stools. The bridges of Newcastle glint in the sun as we pass over the Tyne river.
‘What brings you on the trip?’ I ask.
‘I’m here with my work hat on,’ she answers in a tone that suggests she’d rather not be.
‘How so?’
‘One of my authors is joining us in London from America. I had a meeting in Edinburgh during the week, so Flynn suggested I make the most of it, spend a couple of days in the city and then head back to London on board the Scotsman. If I’m honest, I needed the break.’
‘You’re an agent?’
‘A publisher. I’m Christopher Rose’s UK editor.’
We’re greeted in the dining carriage by another cheerful young woman in a kilt and waistcoat. ‘How many for lunch?’ she asks.
‘Shall we eat together?’ I ask Ginny, aware that with Chris still to arrive she must be alone on the train.
‘If that doesn’t inconvenience you?’
‘Quite the opposite.’ Having seen Carly with Flynn as we walked through the train, I know she is busy, and Elsa isn’t one for a heavy lunch, so I know she won’t mind.
Agreeing, we are seated opposite each other at a linen-covered table for two with a pretty white rose and thistle flower arrangement.
‘I don’t know how they do it,’ Ginny confides, when the waitress has taken our drinks order and asked about our dietary requirements. ‘Working in a hot, tiny kitchen while travelling at speed. It’s my idea of torture.’
‘I’ve never understood the appeal of preparing food and not eating it yourself,’ I laugh.
‘Exactly, where’s the pleasure in that!’ she giggles, relaxing a little as we speed past the Angel of the North.
It comes as no surprise to me that the noise and hustle of a galley kitchen doesn’t appeal to Ginny.
Despite not knowing her, it’s obvious from her perfectly ironed trousers to her rumple-free top, even down to her minimal jewellery and immaculate hair, that Ginny is a woman who likes things to be calm and orderly.
‘Your sparkling water,’ says the waitress when she returns, placing the drink in front of Ginny. ‘And your double espresso,’ she says, reaching over the table to position my cup.
‘Your workshop was excellent,’ says Ginny, recognising correctly that the espresso is to give me a much-needed energy boost.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, allowing myself to relax into the soft green padding of the dining chair, feeling a little less fraudulent now. ‘I didn’t feel prepared at all.’
Ginny raises her eyebrows at my remark. ‘Surely after all the books you’ve written, after all the success you’ve had, it’s not difficult to give a workshop to a dozen amateurs.’
‘You’d think, right?’ I laugh. ‘I presumed as a younger woman that confidence was something that grew throughout life rather than diminishing.’
‘That I can relate to,’ she says, placing her drink back on the tablecloth, rotating the fine glass infinitesimally. ‘I’ve been in the industry for twenty years; it should be effortless by now but, one way or another, it feels as if I’m barely treading water.’
‘I don’t know how you keep up,’ I tell her. ‘I write a novel a year and even that’s a stretch. How you juggle multiple projects at a time is beyond me.’
‘When I started my career, I worked on four titles a year, tops. Now the market demands three or four times that amount; it’s a lot, but worth it for voices like yours.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ I say, receiving my hot smoked salmon salad, which looks heavenly in an elegant, wide-rimmed bowl. ‘Truth be told, I’m completely blocked. I have no idea if I’ve another book in me, and even if I do, will it find readers?’
Ginny rests her wrists on the table, her fork poised over her salad bowl. ‘Perhaps it’s time for something different,’ she offers gently.
‘How do you mean?’
‘The industry has changed wildly since you started writing and, like you, your readers are no longer in their twenties and thirties. They are more than likely in their forties and fifties now, if not older.’
‘I’m not following—’
‘I just wonder, rather than writing “new love”, with characters in their twenties and thirties, why not consider writing love stories for an older market, book club fiction, perhaps? Something for those who have experienced a little more of life, who know what real love is all about, and who want to read something that’s engaging, thought-provoking and well written. ’
I sit back for a moment, taking a mouthful of salmon, considering her idea. ‘I do know more about real love than new love,’ I laugh, tiredly, thinking of Robin.
‘So, you know the old adage – write what you know.’
Ginny quietly eats her salad while I mull over her suggestion.
‘My daughter thinks the trip might throw up an idea – that if I stop thinking about it for a while, a seed might grow.’
‘She might be right. Has anything come up so far?’
‘Only one about a love interest from my past,’ I say tentatively, feeling slightly guilty about giving credence to my thoughts of Alistair.
I tell her about the book turning up in the bookshop.
‘I found myself thinking about him in the workshop and wondered if I should write about it – a search for the one you let go, if you will.’
‘It’s a good potential hook,’ she says. ‘Editors want a strong hook – an idea that can be sold in a sentence. Perhaps you can think about how to develop it further – what carries the momentum of the plot forward?’
I’m about to bounce some ideas off Ginny when Flynn approaches us.
‘Ginny,’ he says, his voice strained. ‘I’m sorry to disturb your lunch, but there’s a problem with Christopher.’
‘What sort of problem?’ asks Ginny, the grip on her fork tightening.
‘The train is delayed, which means we won’t make it on time to meet him from the plane.’
Ginny inhales slowly, closing her eyes.
‘Can’t he be met by a driver who can take him to the hotel?’ I ask, wondering why both of them seem so anxious.
‘His rider specifies that he’s to be met by me directly off the plane,’ says Ginny, a tiny bead of sweat forming on her philtrum.
‘Surely you can send your assistant,’ I say. ‘He’d understand if another member of the editorial team is there instead.’
Ginny and Flynn exchange a knowing look that suggests this is not the case.
‘We need to find a way of getting me there,’ says Ginny, ‘or else the rest of the trip won’t be worth being on.’
With lunch eaten and Ginny off with Flynn, I choose to sit at the table for a while to further consider Ginny’s suggestions. Looking for inspiration, I pull from my bag The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, and as I do, something slips from behind the dust jacket.
‘It can’t be,’ I whisper, carefully removing the four-by-six postcard of the Moulin Rouge, which I thought had been lost to time.
My breath catches as I turn the postcard in my trembling hand and discover Alistair’s hastily written address, the blue ink as bright as the day it was written.
16C Cleaver Square
Kennington
London
SE11 4DW