Summer on the Italian Lakes

by Lucy Coleman

  I hear Mel suck in a deep breath. ‘That’s so sad, Brie. Loving someone means when they’re hurting, you’re hurting too. Rose must have felt powerless when he was away fighting. Gosh, it’s making my eyes well up as we talk. How is Arran?’

  Another flashback. Oh no! I hope this isn’t going to be a constant thing.

  ‘He’s an interesting guy, actually, just getting over a horrendous divorce. We… um… had a few drinks and he told me all about it.’

  A little laugh travels down the line. ‘A few, you say? That’s not like you. I hope it ended well.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘If I could remember, I’d share the details. Anyway, stop it! He’s nice and I admit he is very attractive but we’re worlds apart on so many levels. Besides, once I run him through my suggested revisions he might never speak to me again.’

  ‘Well, it’s his loss if that’s the case. I know you’ll do a great job and have those love scenes leaping off the page. Hot and emotional is what you do!’

  ‘Well, surprisingly all I’m adding is the emotion, he more than had the sex scenes covered. I’d give him ten out of ten for technique.’

  We both start laughing and it’s good to hear my dear friend so happy and light hearted.

  ‘I know you’re in good hands, then,’ she adds cheekily. ‘Don’t go making assumptions. He might not be quite the staid academic you thought he was – so give him a chance.’

  If Mel only knew, her eyebrows would shoot up into her hairline.

  ‘I’m here to work and enjoy a little sightseeing, so I’m going to have to rely upon you to provide the tantalising little love updates. Anyway, it’s great chatting but I must go. Until I get this done poor Arran has to cope with the group all on his own. Enjoy those flowers!’

  ‘Oh, I will. Lilies are my absolute favourites and I have no idea how Ross knew that; he just seems to know everything. Speak soon.’

  As the line clicks I find myself staring down at my phone. This Ross better be the real deal, or he’ll have me to answer to!

  I turn my attention to Rose, trying to put myself in her shoes. How would you go about comforting the man you love when his head is full of horrific memories of the battle field? He’s stepped away for a short while, but he knows returning is inevitable. In between, somehow, they have to free themselves of the tragedy of war, so they can celebrate their love and their marriage. Even as I begin typing a tear is already running down my cheek. I want to give Arran a flavour of what he needs to add to bring this to life.

  *

  It’s lunchtime and I watch as the group wend their way up the path towards the gate, no doubt heading for La Pergola. I notice Arran is missing so I save the file and put the laptop into sleep mode to saunter downstairs. As I walk into the kitchen Arran is preparing two plates of food.

  ‘I was just about to text you. I thought you might want lunch in your room but I’m glad you’re taking a break.’

  His smile is warm and genuine. He seems relaxed.

  ‘The first session went well then?’

  He nods, finishing off the grape he just popped into his mouth. ‘Mm. Always best to get the myths out of the way, first off. A writer’s life is often a poor and a lonely one; few win the jackpot. We tackled the dreaded rollercoaster of emotions and how to keep on an even keel. I keep it fun though, for the most part, and cite a few stories of the overnight sensations who were writing for years before their books were noticed.’

  ‘Keeping it real, then.’

  ‘Yep. Can you grab that jug of orange juice and the glasses? I thought we’d wander down to the lower level and sit beneath the olive trees.’

  I follow Arran as he carries the tray and as soon as I step out onto the terrace, the glittering blue water in front of me is mesmerising. No wonder Arran loves this place and the fact that he has fond memories of his grandfather’s life here must make it hard to share with strangers. And yet he doesn’t give that impression at all.

  Settling down, we sit in silence for a short while, eating and surveying the garden. Birds swoop as Arran throws a little bread out for them and for me it’s a welcome break away from the emotional trauma of this morning.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Arran asks, as if reading my thoughts.

  ‘You’ve written a compelling story and my stomach has been in knots with the harsh reality it portrays. But I’ve been trying to get inside Rose’s head to tap into the emotional trauma and I hope you like what I’m doing.’

  ‘I always think that plumbing the emotional depths is about telling, whereas I’m best at showing. Action, I can do, but getting inside the head to understand what’s in the heart – well, I don’t have the patience for it.’

  What an odd way to put it. I can’t help but frown and Arran turns to look at me, puzzled. ‘I come from a family who don’t express their emotions. My father made no time at all for his own father. He thought my grandfather was a sentimental fool for over indulging me during my summers here. My mother, well, she worked up until just a couple of days before both my sister and I were born. She was back to work less than a month later, apparently. I once overheard her telling a friend that she didn’t have the skills, patience, or the instincts to raise young children. So, she handed us over to someone who did. It was Nanny Hope who was there to pick us both up when we fell over and dispense medicine when we were sick. But when she wasn’t around it was a cold environment, very strict and where achievement was everything.’

  He doesn’t look, or sound, resentful or hurt. He’s just telling it as it was, I suppose.

  ‘Coming from a childhood full of parental love and affection, I find that tough to hear.’

  ‘I suppose that’s why I find it hard to understand this need to analyse every little emotion. Readers have imagination. Are the love scenes in the book as much of a let-down as Carrie has indicated?’

  I stop eating, or rather, playing with an assortment of food I simply can’t eat for fear my stomach will rebel again. Which truth do I tell him first?

  ‘The passion between Arthur and Rose is clear and the physical aspects are handled well, you certainly didn’t shy away graphically. I commend you on that – it needed to be treated in the same explicit way as the harrowing war scenes. And, after all, Rose was a virgin, so it was a huge turning point in her life to give herself to a man going off to war. But as a reader, increasingly I’m left wanting more. I feel I only have one half of the picture. What was going on in Arthur’s head aside from the flashbacks you interspersed, where he was thinking about his training and wondering what was to come? How distraught was Rose when she lay in bed alone at night, thinking of him?’

  Arran sits back, folding his arms across his chest and his body language signals he’s uncomfortable.

  ‘But aren’t those private thoughts? Things people don’t share?’

  This was what I feared would happen. Why would he respect my views on his manuscript when to his mind all that matters is the telling of the story about men pitched against men in the battle for freedom?

  ‘Some internalise it, but most people turn to their family and friends. I’m sure soldiers would have had moments when they needed to talk about home. And Rose would no doubt have had a friend to confide in. But it’s the emotional aspect that makes all the difference between a sex scene and a love scene.’

  He lets out a laugh that sounds more like a snort.

  ‘Oh, come on, the scenes you write are hardly tame according to the articles I’ve read about you. Sex is sex, after all and it’s driven by the chemistry of the body.’

  You haven’t actually read any of my books; that little voice in my head is clamouring to be heard but I resist the temptation. Now I’m annoyed – very annoyed.

  ‘I write about lusty, consenting adults having fun and readers engage for the thrill; but the sex is only one small part of the story. Okay, so you’re writing about the harsh realities of war, which is your strength, but this time it’s based around a passionate love affair that laste
d for decades. Remember you are trying to appeal to a much wider audience with this semi-autobiographical story of Arthur’s life. A life that endures a war and the equally as cruel aftermath.

  ‘That first time they made love, at the beginning of the book, he was going off to war the next day. Would strategic planning really have been in his head at all that night? If it had, as you showed it flashing through his mind, I seriously doubt he would have been able to perform any sexual act that night. Somehow, he would have managed to switch off and think only of Rose and grabbing their moment together. That is what makes for a powerful scene the reader will engage with and believe.’

  His arms fall to his side and he looks suitably apologetic.

  ‘Sorry, I should know better than to let my ego get in the way. I know that I need to find my feet as I widen my genre and accept that I have to expand my comfort zone, too. I need this contract and I am grateful for your guidance. I’m sure I’ll get used to the idea of the emotional trappings of love.’

  I accept his apology and feel for him, because he isn’t doing this out of choice but necessity. And that’s down to his ex, Harriet. I need to change the subject.

  ‘The spelling of your Christian name with two r’s is unusual, how did that come about?’

  At that moment my stomach starts to complain. Loudly. I wince, putting my fork down on the table with a clatter and hopefully helping to disguise the sound.

  Arran leans forward to grab his glass of orange juice and then settles back, looking at me with a wry smile as it’s obvious I’m trying to change the subject. But I also need him to talk in case my stomach continues growling.

  ‘My grandfather was Scottish but lived in Surrey from the age of twelve. My grandmother, Eilidh, was from the wonderful Scottish Isle of Arran. My grandfather lured her away to Italy, but he took her home to die there in 1993 after she was diagnosed with cancer.’

  The sheer sadness of that makes my heart constrict and a wave of emotion passes over me. That’s a love story worth telling, right there!

  ‘How long did she live after the diagnosis?’

  ‘Two months. He was by her side every single moment of every day. She was too ill to fly with a commercial airline, so he chartered a private jet to take her home.’

  How can Arran tell me that without it touching his heart? He replaces his glass on the table and leans forward to grab a chunk of bread. When he sits back he looks unmoved, and I’m rather lost for words. I can see him thinking about something.

  ‘I’ve told you my sordid little non-love story, but what’s yours? It can’t be easy dating when your fame goes before you.’

  The comment is tongue-in-cheek and one I don’t appreciate, but he’s astute, I’ll give him that.

  ‘I don’t need a man to make me feel complete. Besides, I’m too busy for the time being to even entertain the thought of a relationship.’

  ‘I Googled you. Can’t really imagine you with a rock guitarist, if I’m being honest.’

  I can feel the heat rising up from my chest, as a sudden hot flush threatens to set my cheeks alight.

  ‘Why not?’

  He leans forward, spearing an olive and suddenly he turns around to look at me as if he’s weighing me up.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love a bit of rock music myself, but I should imagine that Paul Turner leads quite a wild life.’

  ‘I’ve had my own wild times but that’s firmly in the past now.’ How can I sit here and lie like that? I trailed around as Paul’s girlfriend for a while, watching people fawning over him and refusing to be treated like one of his starry eyed fans or to partake in some of the over indulgences on offer. It was a very pathetic attempt to prove something to myself and in the end it nearly pushed me over the edge.

  And as for my boyfriends before my insane little interlude with a rock star, well, they were all pretty decent guys. Nothing wild to report there, either. But also no one I felt any long lasting connection to and I wonder now if that was a part of my initial attraction to Paul? Were my heroes unsettling me and I felt the need to step outside my comfort zone? I find that thought rather worrying.

  ‘I did wonder why you were able to fly out here at such short notice. Obviously, I’m very grateful for that, but I’m a little surprised you don’t have a guy at home pining for you.’

  Is he being sarcastic?

  ‘Guys come and go. I haven’t yet found one worthy of keeping.’ I sound angry but it’s just the way the words come out because he’s beginning to annoy me. Again.

  ‘I had no idea it was a sensitive subject and I apologise if I’ve overstepped the mark. Really, I mean that. You were good enough to listen to my depressing story and I wondered if you needed a listening ear too.’

  There I go, jumping to conclusions. He meant well, I suppose but he lacks… diplomacy.

  ‘When you spend your days writing about heroes, it’s hard to find a man who measures up.’

  He stares at me, considering my words and then nods, a slight frown creasing his brow.

  ‘That’s one dilemma I hadn’t considered. Is that your stomach I can hear?’ he asks, shovelling another large piece of bread into his mouth.

  ‘Actually it is, and I have a little confession to make. I’m going to have to avoid the pasta or I’ll end up looking like a balloon.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you say from day one?’ And then he begins laughing, in between trying to apologise profusely for finding my gassy predicament so funny.

  *

  Having been absent again for most of the day, I think I made up for a little lost ground at tonight’s dinner. With everyone content to go to La Pergola it was quite a night. Arran fussed over me, explaining which items I might consider without detrimental effect, as he put it.

  It served to reassure me that the group are happy and seemed to have had a great day with Arran. When we arrived back at the villa he suggested we all watch a film and it was a nice way to end the day.

  An early night is just what I need to set me up for my session with the group tomorrow morning. Let’s hope I can deliver and that I don’t disappoint. Gauging people’s expectations is difficult and rather daunting – the pressure is really beginning to build now.

  17

  Taking Class

  This morning everyone is seated around the table on the terrace looking bright eyed and eager. The nerves are beginning to manifest themselves and to my abject horror I see that my hand shakes a little as I pass around some handouts.

  ‘I’d like to begin this morning’s session by saying that all views expressed are my own; people’s opinions will differ and I’m speaking from my very personal experience of writing in the contemporary women’s and romance genres.’

  This is much worse than I thought it would be. All eyes are on me and I realise that this group reflects the whole spectrum from an unpublished newbie, right through to Arran, who is a recognised name.

  ‘For the first hour we’re going to run through a few fun exercises but please feel free to ask questions at any time. We’ll begin by describing a character, in no more than thirty words, which will convey his or her age. Then everyone has a go at guessing the magic number, give or take a few years. It serves to highlight the sort of information your readers will be looking for you to give them. But the answers also serve to demonstrate the level of detail required to give them a clear picture of the person you’re describing. Often, it’s not about the number of words, but the relevance of the words you choose to use.’

  The exercise triggers a lot of very animated discussion and I’m pleased that everyone joins in with the chatter and the good natured laughter. The second exercise is about describing a famous person. Names and occupations can’t feature in the descriptions. Everyone assumes it’s going to be easy but often it’s extremely hard to do. Then the team must guess the person’s name. I’m clock watching, conscious of the time as there’s still quite a bit to cover.

  ‘If you’re a plotter, then when you sit down
to write you will already know your characters quite well. I often think that’s more of a challenge than starting with a blank page and simply writing. I’m in the latter category and what appears on the screen is really a reflection of my thought processes as they develop. So I can’t get ahead of myself because I don’t know any more than the reader does, no matter what stage I’m at. We learn about the characters together.

  ‘As a plotter you have to remember to see your characters through the eyes of the reader and the written word. You need to be very clear about what you have told them, as opposed to what you haven’t yet revealed. For instance, if you haven’t mentioned the fact that a character was married, and you start talking about their divorce, the reader could find this rather confusing. The danger is in a writer having such a clear picture of someone in their head that they forget to flesh them out in the text. One way to handle that is to have a characterisation timeline in the same way you have a plot timeline. I’m a great believer in keeping things simple and it’s easy to run the two alongside each other.’

  There’s a lot of note taking going on and then I read out a few examples from some of the most famous authors of all time. Most of the second half of the session is spent looking at a character’s backstory. We discuss different ways of revealing that, covering everything from the use of a prologue, to flashback scenes and timeslip.

  ‘I have one final exercise you might find interesting before I bring this session to a close. But before we tackle that are there any other aspects of characterisation anyone would like to discuss?’

  Kris catches my eye. ‘I had a closed bedroom door policy when I wrote my first manuscript and because edits haven’t started yet, I don’t know if my editor will want me to spice it up a bit. That thought scares me a little because I’m writing about glamorous people and I know I’ve been avoiding the issue. I’m a bit worried about crossing a line too. You write about sex with ease and it never seems out of place, but I’m not sure I can do that.’ Her cheeks are colouring a little and I understand her nervousness. I was like that when I first began.