“Yes. He’s the one I told you about this morning. He was the one who thought I was stalking him, as if I—”
Jen laughed and rubbed her face.
“What?”
Jen rolled her eyes dramatically. “That man, my dear Margaret...” She giggled again. “That man, the one you have just kicked out of your shop, is Graham Connelly. The Graham Connelly. The world-renowned Graham Connelly. Science fiction author. Reality television star? Everyone knows who he is. You even have one or two of his books here. Only those with happy endings, of course, but at least we do have a few of his books.”
Margaret groaned and sat down in the nearest chair. She swore. Jen inhaled sharply.
“Did you just use a bad word?” Jen gasped dramatically.
Margaret swore again. “Yes, and I know I never do, but that man...” She got up and paced restlessly through the shop. “I was rude, but I had a reason to be. He is...he is...impossible.”
“Impossible? You’re the writer, surely you can come up with a more descriptive word?” Jen laughed. “But I can see you’re really angry, not something I’ve seen before. Your eyes are stormy, you are breathing heavily, your cheeks are red, and you have been swearing. And all because of a man. Does any of this sound familiar to you?”
“What do you mean?”
Jen only smiled. “You should read your own books. Any first chapter of any of your books. What we have here, Margaret dear, is a first chapter in one of your romances. The ‘meet-cute’, if I’m not mistaken.” And still smiling, she turned to a customer who had entered the shop.
Margaret escaped to her office and stood staring out of the window. Meet-cute? Ridiculous. The man evoked many emotions in her but none of those could be construed as romantic. He definitely wouldn’t fit into her fairy tale. However, Jen was right about one thing. She was reacting strongly to this man, to Graham Connelly.
She rolled his name over her tongue. She remembered reading one or two of his books a while back, and even though they were not really her cup of tea, she had recognized his brilliance. He knew how to tell a story. And he was gorgeous. Drop-dead, I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off kind of gorgeous. And she was not dead.
Margaret sat down in front of her laptop. She could never be attracted to such a man. One so full of himself, he thought she was stalking him. His face was the part of him she found interesting. It was a beautiful face, hence her reaction. He was not her hero. She was an author and was going to use his face, that was all. And his voice. Like liquid, dark chocolate. He’d mostly shouted or growled during their encounters, but still, his voice was memorable.
She sat down quickly and pulled her laptop closer. Liquid, dark chocolate—that, she could use.
***
When Graham parked his car in his apartment’s parking lot, he was still fuming. Of all the stupid things on earth he’d heard about, and he’d heard about quite a few, elevator-woman’s shop took the cake. Imagine stocking an entire bookshop with books with happy endings. Was she completely insane, delusional, or plain mad?
Last night’s vamp had changed into a demure-looking bookstore proprietor. It had taken him a minute but he eventually recognized the wild, honey-blond curls. Then vivid images of a cleavage, long legs, and sexy arms completed the picture in his head.
He got out of his car and slammed the door. And her eyes...hell. Although not as heavily made up, they were still long-lidded, inviting, sexy, staring at his chest. He could admit here, away from her, her look had aroused him, turned him inside out, in fact. If they’d been alone, he would probably have grabbed her right then and there and dragged her down to the floor. Perhaps that was why he’d overreacted and barked at her.
He walked toward the elevator. It didn’t look as if his anger and irritation got to her, though. He could still see her little chin thrust out when she showed him the door. Showed him the door. He couldn’t remember anyone doing that before. People, and bookstore owners in particular, usually fell over their feet to invite him in, pleading with him to sign books. But not little-miss-happy-ending. He was not welcome in her happy-ever-after world. What a ridiculous name for a bookshop.
And why in Kommetjie, of all places? He loved to surf there; it was a favorite spot for most serious surfers. Now she had a bookstore there. Could he ignore her? Of course he could ignore her. He didn’t know her; all he knew was she had a boyfriend who lived in his apartment building and she dressed up like a hooker at night. Still swearing and muttering, he entered the elevator.
The guy standing in the elevator looked vaguely familiar. He lifted a hand in greeting and smiled.
“Hi, I’m Josh Parker. And I’m not drunk. At least, I don’t think so. I told my sister I should know your name. We’ve seen one—”
Graham realized this was the guy who had also been in the elevator the previous evening. One part of his sentence seemed to stick in his brain. “Your sister? The girl who was in the elevator last night is your sister?”
“Yeah. She was going to crash at my place, but when I woke up this morning, it was clear she hadn’t stayed.” He smiled. “We went to a hell of a party.” He shook his head. “Vicars-and-tarts party. She doesn’t normally look like she did last night. In fact, she went as a vicar, she was covered up to her ears...”
The young man’s face suddenly cleared. “Now I know who you are. You’re that writer, Connelly, right? I told Margaret you’re famous.”
Graham smiled automatically and nodded. His brain was far too busy processing the new information to comment. The elevator stopped on his floor and with a swift wave of his hand, he left. He was trying to make sense of what he had heard moments before. Vicars-and-tarts party. That would explain her get-up last night.
Her name was Margaret. He rolled the name over his tongue. An old-fashioned kind of name. It suited the girl he’d seen that morning. Margaret. Her eyes were really extraodinary. And her hair, it was so soft. He flexed his fingers, remembering the silken feel.
Smiling, he unlocked his door and stopped in his tracks. Why the hell was he smiling? Because damn it, he was relieved. Ridiculous to feel relieved because Josh was only her brother. Relieved because she’d been at a fancy-dress party: she didn’t normally dress like a call girl. Bloody ridiculous to be thinking about the woman’s name. He didn’t know her from Adam. Plain crazy to be thinking about her at all. Full stop.
A drink. He needed a drink. And then... The drink already forgotten, he sat down in front of his laptop. He’d been writing most of the previous night, and now his story was about to take a really interesting turn.
Chapter 3
Graham was late. Extremely late. Peter had phoned five times already. He scowled, ignored the elevator, and took the stairs. He needed the exercise. He had been writing non-stop since Saturday. The words simply kept coming. One of the characters he’d created, the alien called Mags, kept changing his story. She was supposed to be a marginal character, but somehow she insisted on intruding and seemed to be constantly on the protagonist’s mind.
By the time he realized what he was doing, he’d already spent four pages describing her face and hadn’t even started on her body. Every detail about her face was lovingly portrayed. He’d used adverbs and adjectives, something he loathed, something he warned would-be writers not to do, but this was like an out-of-body experience he had no control over. He had actually deleted about four pages, also something he rarely did with a first draft, but about two hours later, he had rewritten the same four pages, almost word for word.
And then somewhere in the middle of describing Mags, he was stunned to realize he was actually describing Margaret. The girl from the elevator. Muttering and swearing, he reached the top of the stairs. Peter rushed toward him.
“I knew it. Did I not ask you nicely? Did I not warn you? What happened? You went surfing, I am sure of it. You know—”
“I’ve been writing.”
Peter’s face cleared immediately. He smiled. “Well, in that case, you’re forgive
n. But please hurry. We can slip in at the back of the room. Another author is busy talking to them. She was going to talk after you, but when you were late, she began. Anyway, come and listen. I thought it would be boring, I mean, who wants to listen to a romance writer? But she actually has something to say. The students are hanging on to every word. She’s extremely beautiful—it helps, of course.”
Peter opened the door of a side entrance to the lecture hall. They slipped in and found chairs close by. The students were laughing. Graham looked up to where the speaker was standing and nearly fell off his chair. Margaret stood there, smiling. Stunned, Graham scanned the faces of the students around him. Many had smiles on their faces: all were obviously enthralled. Whether this was due to her looks or because of what she was saying, he didn’t know.
Her hair was pinned up and she was wearing a long, flowing printed skirt. A silky, frilly blue-grey top with lots of tiny buttons completed the outfit. Graham’s fingers itched. What would it feel like to unbutton each of those tiny, tiny little buttons?
Peter jabbed him in the ribs and he sat back in his chair. In his attempt to see Margaret clearly, he’d forgotten where he was. He tried to listen to what she was saying. Of course she’ld be a romance writer. Happy endings. He snorted loudly enough to get another jab in the ribs from Peter. The woman was completely removed from reality. Why would university students listen to this?
“No, sex and romance are not the same thing.”
Of course. Sex. Always a winner to hook students’ seriously short attention span. Who had invited her?
“I know most men think they are the same, but sex is a purely physical act, whereas romance implies emotion. That is the difference between love scenes in a romance novel and, say, an erotic thriller. In a romance novel, the love scenes involve exactly that: love. Sometimes the characters don’t yet realize what they are feeling, but...” She stopped.
“You don’t think it’s only lust?” someone asked, and everyone laughed again.
“Well, of course. There must be a spark before anything else can develop. But—”
“So you are saying they have to feel lust before they can feel love?”
Graham wasn’t quite sure what had prompted him to ask the question, but he was standing and the question was out there.
Margaret stumbled over her words and nearly dropped her notes. Her heart began to beat frantically. How was this possible? Graham Connelly in the class. She vaguely recalled Mandy saying there would be another author, but she definitely hadn’t mentioned a name, though. If she’d known Graham would be here today, there was no way she’d have agreed to come. It was quite clear from her meeting with him in her bookshop he was one of those literary snobs who looked down their long noses at romance writers.
She was completely stunned for a few seconds until she became aware the students were looking curiously from Graham to her and back.
Margaret inhaled and exhaled bit by bit to check whether she had enough oxygen. “Class, I see your other speaker has arrived. Graham Connelly, the famous science fiction author and television celebrity, I believe. And to answer your question, Mr. Connelly, yes, I think there must be a spark before a relationship can develop.”
“So, if there is a spark between two people,” he gestured quotation marks around the word spark, “you argue they will fall in love?” He didn’t even try to keep the scorn out of his voice.
Margaret looked at her watch, hoping her legs would hold until she was done. She tried to smile.
“No, that’s not what I said.” She then ignored him and looked back at the class. “Where were we?”
“Description of steamy scenes!” someone shouted.
The men hooted again; the girls giggled. Margaret wished the floor would open up: disappearing right about now sounded like a good idea. Of all the things to be talking about in front of Graham Connelly. But she couldn’t merely ignore the request. She wondered what question he would think up next. She cleared her throat.
“Well, first of all, remember love scenes should be part of the plot. What happens during a love scene should also reveal or add something important to the development of the characters.”
Margaret took another deep breath and focused on a spot above the heads of the students. Much safer. “Making love is sensuous. Or at least, it should be. So you should use the characters’ senses to create the right effect. They touch one another, but their other senses are also heightened. Describe what her hair smells like when he bends over her, or the sound of the sigh he hears when he finally kisses her, describe what she tastes like.”
There was more snorting and laughter. Margaret looked straight in front of her, willing herself not to blush. She dared not look in Graham’s direction. She vividly remembered his musky male scent, the sound of his hiss when they’d been in the elevator. For a moment, she was worried she’d actually said the words out loud. Finishing this talk gracefully was the only thing preventing her from simply bolting from the room... Notes. She had notes. She looked down and tried to focus.
“The best tools I have to describe a love scene are words, the right words. Whatever word you use, should evoke the emotion involved in the scene.”
“Example?” one of the students asked.
Margaret swallowed. Although Graham had sat down after his question, she was overwhelmingly aware of his presence. An example, an example...
“Well, you could say, ‘he touched her arm,’ but use ‘stroke’ instead of ‘touch’ and you have the emotion right there. You could use a metaphor to describe the whole scene, perhaps poetry or music, or even something as simple as water.” Oh hell, she did not just say that, did she? From the grins on the faces in front of her it was clear the students had all made the connection water was wet and wet...oh dear.
Heat rose in her cheeks.
Time to withdraw with as much dignity as was possible under the circumstances.
Graham realized he was sitting again. He couldn’t remember when he’d done so. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her lips curled up at the ends when she smiled. Her tongue flickered nervously over her bottom lip. He’d snickered with the rest of the men when she spoke about using the characters’ senses, but clearly recalled her perfume, the catch in her breath, the softness of her skin. When she used the word ‘stroke,’ images of his hand stroking her body, her hair, sent his blood surging to pool way below his waist.
The image of water nearly had him groaning out loud. A good thing he was sitting down. He’d have to start thinking of something else besides her, as he had to get up and talk to these students in a few minutes. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
What the hell was wrong with him? She was a romance writer, she had a bookshop called Happy Ever After, she talked about love, romance, senses. And managed to turn him on with only a sigh. He swore under his breath. Bloody ridiculous woman. He couldn’t be attracted to someone so wholesome: the best word he could think of. And of course, she was completely removed from reality. He really should try dating again.
“Well, my time is nearly up. Any more questions?”
A girl sitting right in front put up her hand. Margaret groaned inwardly. She’d nearly made her escape. She plastered a smile on her face again and nodded.
“Don’t you think these romance novels are merely fairy tales and not based on any kind of reality? I think they are pure myth, they perpetuate patriarchal social norms...” she droned on.
Margaret tuned out. Oh dear. Head-girl type. They always asked the same questions.
Margaret smiled. “What type of books do you like?”
“Well...” Fluttering her eyelids, the student turned around to Graham. “I love to read science fiction books, especially those written by Graham Connelly.”
“Do you believe everything you read about in a science fiction story is real?”
“No, of course not, but it’s not the s—”
“I’m sure Mr. Connelly will agree with me science fiction relies
heavily on the suspension of disbelief. You know what you read, or see, if it’s a movie, is not real, but you’re willing to suspend disbelief, no matter how unreal the story appears to be, for the pleasure of being entertained.”
Graham’s eyes narrowed but she continued. “I think the same happens when you read a romance. Romance novels are by definition precisely that: they are about the romance, they entertain. They do not aspire to be anything else. They are about the magical period in a relationship when two people fall in love. So yes, there are fantastic elements in them, but so are there in many other genres.”
“I think some women use romances as how-to books,” the girl piped up again.
Margaret lifted an eyebrow. “Really? Would any rational person think a murder mystery is a how-to handbook?”
The girl shook her head reluctantly.
“Well, neither is a romance.”
The stubborn twist to the student’s chin showed clearly she had more to say but before she could open her mouth, the chair of the department joined Margaret.
“I’m sorry, but unfortunately we are running out of time. A final word, Ms. Parker?”
“I will be around afterward if you want to ask me more questions. To conclude, why talk about romance novels at university level? Why spend precious academic time on the type of writing academics frown upon? There is one very important reason for this: it’s a big industry with many clients.”
She glanced at Graham. “Statista offers interesting statistics and facts about the U.S. book market. Romantic fiction made the most money according to a recent study. $1.44 billion, to be precise, compared to crime and mystery, which made $728.2 million, and science fiction, which made $590.2 million.”
The students clapped and whistled. Margaret smiled fleetingly at them before grabbing her notes, escape her only thought. But Mandy caught her arm and dragged her down to sit next to her in the front row. Margaret had an overwhelming urge to wrench her arm free and flee as quickly and as far away as possible. The nearest exit was so close; she’d nearly made it. It was right opposite to where they were sitting. She would be able to slip out without anyone noticing. Mandy pulled at her arm again and with a soundless groan she tried to relax. She would have to bide her time.
Love, In Writing Page 3