Your mission for this weekend...

...should you choose to accept it. (And I strongly recommend that you do...)

• Go to a supermarket. Buy a large bar of chocolate (minimum 500g), a box of tissues, a bottle of wine/ indulgent beverage of your choice, and a copy of Abby Green’s latest book The Spaniard’s Marriage Bargain.

• Return home, thinking of a plausible story that will get you out of all domestic and social responsibilities for at least 24 hours.
  
• Unplug phone, make excuses to nearest and dearest and smuggle all purchases up to bed.
  
• Read Rowan and Isandro’s story, eat chocolate, drink wine and weep. And weep some more. And then probably read again...
  
  This is a seriously special book. And I’m honestly not just saying that because Abby Green is my friend—absolutely the opposite in fact, as I’m very fond of telling her (as publicly as possible—preferably in front of editors) that her books are completely terrible and that if she ever wants any writing advice she only has to ask. So naturally it pains me deeply to have to report that this is a cracking, whole box of tissues, edge of your seat, emotionally wrenching page-turner of a read. The characters are perfect: both of them are real and fragile, and their struggle to come to terms with past hurt and move on from it is brilliantly drawn, as is the irresistible sexual tension between them. The story itself is actually pretty breathtaking in its simplicity and emotional logic, with a twist that I just know will make you gasp out loud (and thank me for reminding you to buy the tissues.)
  
  Just don’t tell her I said so, OK?

A good spell of writing.

I love it when it's like this: when the plot fits together, the words flow and the characters don't stop talking-- even when the computer is off and the house is full of noise, distraction and plumbers. I'm even loving getting up at 5, which is most unlike me, writing faster and happily sinking deeper into the world of the book.

Usually the only things I sink happily into are large glasses of wine, and bed, so this is good. I am very ready to sink. Sinking, in this context, is an extremely positive thing.

(It is also not before time.)

This is my most cold and ruthless hero to date. As a rule I don't go much for cold and ruthless; I tend to find laid back and laconic much more sexy. I think living with the plumbers for so long has brought out my unforgiving side.

Yikes-- it's October!

Which means that my deadline really is getting horrifyingly close. I never did report back on how the ‘slow and steady’ approach was going, did I? I think that in itself probably tells you all you need to know.

Yesterday I took an hour out from panicking over my keyboard and went to the Harvest Festival at daughters #2 and 3’s school, leaving the army of plumbers who had turned up to finally take the new bath from the front room, where its been situated for the past month, and put it up in the bathroom. Felt guilty as I slipped out, clutching my box of harvest gifts, partly for palming off much of our courgette glut onto the elderly of South Cheshire, but also because I felt that I really should have invited the army of plumbers along to the event since they’ve been here so blooming long they’ve become almost part of the family (although not really in a good way.)

Anyway, enjoyed a quiet hour in church contemplating the cycle of the seasons and mentally planning my next sex scene while listening with half an ear to daughter #2 recite a poem (with some difficulty since, as of Sunday morning she has two missing front teeth) and daughter #3 say a prayer. (‘Thank you for good food—for wine, bread olive oil’. Yum...very Jamie Oliver, I thought...) However the highlight of the service was the reception children singing a fabulous song called ‘Jesus you didn’t make my sandwiches.’ I’ve noticed He doesn’t empty the dishwasher much either.

Got back feeling spiritually uplifted (and very smug about getting rid of so many courgettes in one simple stroke) to discover the beautiful new bath in situ but set at a distinctly sloping angle, so the water has no hope of ever draining out properly.

Should have taken the plumbers with me, after all.

S'not fair!

Time and events have rather run away with me, so I’m amazed to discover that it’s been two weeks since I last posted. (Why must it always be time and events that run away with me, and not Henry Cavill or James D’Arcy??) Last week I was down in London at the lovely AMBA lunch and Mills & Boon Toast to the Authors-- eagerly awaited as an oasis of civilisation in the squalor and chaos my usual life. As we are in the midst of renovating our bathroom things here are more chaotic than usual-- and considerably dustier-- so I was particularly glad to find myself sitting in the relative calm and comfort of the Virgin Express to Euston last Wednesday, my mini laptop balanced on the tiny fold out table in front of me, and a cardboard cup of surprisingly OK tea in my hand to soothe the ominous scratchiness in the back of my throat.

A trip to London wouldn’t be a fraction of the fun if I didn’t share a room with gorgeous Abby Green, and we had a great couple of days regressing to about the age of 17, and meeting up with friends old and new. Amongst the latter for me were Trish Morey and Jennie Lucas, both of whom proved as delightful as their books, and fresh, sparkly (and beautiful) new Presents signing Sabrina Phillips, whose first book is coming out next year.


At this point I'd better confess that I forgot to pack my camera, but in view of the fact that the moment I stepped off the train the scratching in my throat blossomed into the most spectacularly revolting cold that probably isn't such a bad thing. Spent the day of the AMBA lunch walking around with a scarlet nose and huge black circles under my eyes, and generally looking like an extra in some grim Channel 4 drama about the dangers of hard drugs. It is a tribute to the kindness of romance writers that people did still talk to me, however I'm horribly afraid that many of them might subsequently have regretted it. (If you're one of these people please let me know and I’ll send chocolate and lemsip by way of apology.)

Back in the north, the cold vanished as suddenly as it appeared, leaving nothing but a sore, raw nose and a lingering sense of injustice.

Blessed by the Cover Fairy

Hallelujah. After Polyester Shirt Man, and Bouffant Neanderthal Car Mechanic, at last I have some gorgeous cover totty.

My advance copies of Olivier and Bella's story arrived yesterday. I think I'm in love.

Too much information

The usual low-level stress of the school run has been cranked up a notch by the appearance, over the summer holidays, of lots of red signs along our picturesque route screaming 77 CASUALTIES IN 3 YEARS.

Suddenly taking the children to school seems positively foolhardy and irresponsible, and the ten minute journey though lovely Cheshire farmland as fraught with danger as solo circumnavigation of the globe in an inflatable dinghy.

Back to School

Have just waved off daughter 1, looking bizarrely smart in her school uniform, and almost unrecognisable from the bare-legged teenager trailing scarves and jingling ankle bracelets who has flip-flopped around for the last six weeks. Surreal. Daughters 2 and 3 don't go back until tomorrow, leaving us until 4pm today to assemble their uniforms, PE kit and pencil case contents and do something suitably celebratory for the Last Day of the Holidays. Last night was our traditional end of holiday dinner, which always consists of the children's very favourite food (gorgeous fillet steak from the farm shop down the road, and chips) consumed over an increasingly nostalgic and rose-tinted analysis of the summer. By the time we reach pudding history has been re-written, and no-one remembers the heated argument over crablines in Staithes, the squabbles in the car over space/CD choice/ having the windows open or my daily rants over unmade beds and uncleared breakfast dishes, and we're all in agreement that it's been the Best Holiday Ever.


So, today is a picnic in the woods, and cake in our favourite National Trust teashop. Tomorrow is Back to Work.