‘I’ll bite back my disappointment,’ I said.
‘Sarky. And of course we have Marnie Miller first. We will be stimulated, pissed, educated, be able to fold towels into unusual shapes and have dancers’ thighs. You couldn’t ask for more really, could you?’
‘I suppose not,’ I agreed, as I mopped up the garlic-butter sauce with my remaining bread.
‘Right, shall we go and have a nightcap? My round?’ India said with a grin as she pushed her cleared plate away from her.
‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘What did happen at Laura’s party? You can tell me – I won’t mind.’
‘Oh, leave it!’
Chapter Six
Absolutely Fabulous
Vodka, Cranberry Juice, Champagne
The following morning we woke late and had a leisurely breakfast of fresh fruit and plain yogurt in the food court. While we congratulated ourselves on our discipline and what India had heard was now called ‘considered eating’, it was a bit forgettable even if the strawberries were cut into cunning fans. We added a spoonful of some grain thing. It looked like something I might have fed to a budgie and tasted of burnt biscuits. It also killed any chances of conversation as we munched through it, jaws aching. We had decaffeinated coffee with skimmed milk and without sugar. It was thoroughly unsatisfying, I thought, but I didn’t say anything in case India was feeling happy with getting back on that healthy track.
We then had a brisk walk on the promenade deck that went around the ship, with encouraging notices telling us how far we had walked. Apparently three laps of the deck equalled one kilometre. Did that make me feel better? No, not really.
There were loads of people taking it very seriously though, who were striding out, chests like bellows, arms swinging. One man even shouted at his flagging wife as we passed them: ‘Come on, Tessa, keep up. Another two circuits and you can have that doughnut.’ It seemed a little harsh, as she was at least eighty by the look of her. If it had been me I would have waited until he strode ahead round a corner and sneaked off to get one without him, and had a hot chocolate too.
*
At eleven o’clock we made our way to the Ocean Theatre where Marnie Miller was giving her talk. There were already ten full rows of people waiting for it to start and Marnie herself was standing at the back of the room having what looked like a very quiet argument with her miserable assistant. On the stage a man in a high-vis jacket was plugging various cables into different sockets and looking doubtfully at the projection screen behind him.
We went and sat on the eleventh row and others joined us. Marnie – famous, successful and charming – was quite a draw. Most of the attendees were women but there were a few determined-looking men too, flicking biros with their thumbs and ruffling through impressive piles of paper. Some were dragging laptops out of smart bags; others had notebooks and pencil cases. A couple, sitting like the class swots at the front, were clutching what looked like full manuscripts. Were they hoping to give them to Marnie to read?
At exactly one minute to eleven Marnie swept centre stage, closely followed by the miserable-looking assistant who was carrying everything: a laptop bag, bottle of mineral water, glass, box of tissues and a cushion.
After a few minutes the screen flicked into life and the high-vis man blew an audible sigh of relief. Marnie turned to the audience, her megawatt smile flashed on and her miserable assistant took the opportunity to scarper stage left. The theatre dimmed a little and someone turned on the spotlights, placing Marnie in an attractive circle of light, her red hair glossy and glowing. She was wearing artfully ripped jeans and a tiny Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. It looked a bit odd actually, like a child dressing up in its mother’s clothes.
She sat down in the spotlight with a loud sigh, as though she had been doing housework all morning and her back was killing her. By the look of her immaculate hair and make-up I was guessing she had spent a tiring couple of hours in the spa.
‘Ladies! And gentlemen – how nice to see you too! Welcome, all of you writers, to our first little get-together, which as you can see is called Write for Love.’ She waved a hand towards the screen. ‘Well, now, do we have any writers in the house?’
There was a bit of shuffling around at this point and some uneasy laughter as several keen types put their hands up.
Marnie smiled. ‘I can reassure you; you are all writers. Every single one of you is a writer. There’s no doubt about it. Yes, come in, come in. Yes, you are a little late but no matter. You write stories, maybe diaries or memoirs, letters, postcards, birthday cards, your kids’ homework?’
More laughter.
‘A few of you will have written a book: sixty, seventy, eighty thousand words. Others won’t have picked up a pen since high school. But you are all writers.’
There was a noticeable straightening of shoulders at this point as people enjoyed the scent of success already, imagining themselves posing with their bestseller or signing autographs in the bookshop.
‘The question we need to ask is: are you good writers? Do you Write for Love? For the love of writing? Yes, do come in, sit down, there are plenty of seats. Yes, yes, over there are a few spare seats. If you want to write solely for yourself it doesn’t matter quite so much. But if you want to see your book next to mine in Barnes & Noble or Waterstones, you need to be a great writer.’
Marnie carried on in this vein for some time and then started telling us about how she was first published. You could almost feel the atmosphere charging with optimism. I’ve no idea how she did it. She’d even made me think I could write a bestseller by the time she’d finished her introduction. Was it her personality? The vivacious way she darted across the stage, making each of us, sitting there in the gloom with our laptops, notebooks and chewed pencils, feel we were the most important person there?
To try and get into the spirit I had bought a rather cute notebook decorated with embroidered seagulls and starfish in one of the shops on board the ship, and I opened it and started doodling. I’d bought a very stylish pen too, and some propelling pencils decorated with pictures of shells just to keep the nautical theme going. Perhaps in future years these would become precious artefacts? I could just imagine it.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the very notebook in which Alexa Fisher began her writing career on board the Reine de France. I have several commission bids and there has been interest from around the world, including the Bodleian Library and the Smithsonian. I shall start at twenty-five thousand pounds …’
I wrote my name in my best handwriting inside the cover and then doodled a flower underneath it. Perhaps this would become my trademark? Maybe there would be a flower on the cover of each book, hidden somewhere for my devoted readers to discover?
She told us about her search for success, how many times she had been disappointed, and then the breakthrough of Falling into Leaves, the fifth book she had written while still working full-time in a Worcester building society.
She had been signed by the most successful agent of the day, who had organised a bidding war and a six-figure advance. We could almost feel the stardust falling on us as we sat there. Then she told us about her wonderful husband, Leo – at this point she put up a picture of them on their wedding day, a golden couple under an arch of white roses in a haze of glamour, and a lot of the ladies cooed and sighed with pleasure. I smiled as well. I’d forgotten Marnie was married; of course she was, and to that golden-haired, blue-eyed paragon of gorgeousness … Gabriel was just a friend then, which meant he was ‘available’, as Mum would say.
Oh, stop it, just stop being so pathetic.
I tried to pay attention again and stop remembering Gabriel’s dazzling eyes.
This could be you, Marnie seemed to be saying when I tuned back in. You too could be successful, size six and beautifully groomed, with a perfect manicure and a husband with a faultless profile, flashing Osmond teeth and cornflower-blue eyes. Just write that bestselling book and everything will fall into your lap.
/> ‘I could do this, I know I could,’ India sighed.
‘What would you write about?’
‘Me, my life,’ she said.
Up on the stage Marnie was in full flow.
‘But here’s my first warning: people’s lives can be quite similar sometimes. School, marriage, jobs, the occasional holiday, kids, house decorating; there are a lot of dull days in an average person’s life. Even I sometimes have to take a break, sit back and draw breath. I am not just a successful life coach and speaker; I am also a brand. Do you see the difference? I travel thousands of miles a year promoting my work, researching, spreading joy in ordinary people’s lives. My readers don’t want to read about the days when I’m decluttering my wardrobe. Or meditating on my balcony overlooking the lake. They don’t want to know how I look when I’m slouching in my cashmere joggers! They want to escape through my work to somewhere different. Somewhere exciting and new.’
‘That’s telling you,’ I muttered, ‘’cos your life is really boring and pointless.’
‘Oh, shush!’ India hissed.
Marnie held up a notebook and pen. ‘These two are the best friends of any successful author. Whether you are writing a memoir, a cookery book or a book on Christmas crafts. Now mine just happen to be Aspinal and Mont Blanc but you can jot your ideas down on anything. You might have a notepad from the supermarket. The blank pages in a diary. The back of an envelope.’
‘Or I could just scrape in the mud with a stick,’ I muttered, earning myself another dig from my sister.
‘So how do we find ideas? Where do they come from? That’s the question I get asked a lot. Where do I get my ideas? Well, the idea for Falling into Leaves came from one day when I was walking to work …’
Marnie then gave us a précis of all the places where she had stumbled upon ideas: cafés, supermarkets, trains, overheard conversations. All I could think was she went to far more stimulating places than I ever did and overheard a very superior sort of gossip.
Still, perhaps she had a finely tuned ear for that sort of thing?
Then she started speaking about how she had turned into a world-famous self-help guru because so many people wanted to know the secret of her success.
Someone in the front row put a hand up and Marnie faltered for a second.
‘Yes, gentleman with the unusual sweater? Do you have a question for me?’
One of the manuscript clutchers next to the stage stood up and gave a rambling description of his own book, engagingly entitled My Life in Plastics. He wanted to know if she would take a look. Several people tutted disapprovingly. One of the veterans told him to sit down and there was a sudden heated spat between them that almost threatened to degenerate into name-calling.
Marnie dealt with him kindly but firmly and then got back into the swing.
‘You must be able to capture the attention of an agent or publisher or reader in very few words. I know when I wrote Buying Time, my fourth book, my agent described it as the best …’
I zoned out again and drew another flower and a house.
‘I thought she was supposed to be teaching,’ I whispered, ‘not just showing off?’
Next to me India was writing down practically every word Marnie uttered. I reached across and drew a smiley face on her paper and she brushed me away with an irritated hand.
Perhaps I could write a story about a woman who sells her infuriating sister into slavery?
‘… that was when Angelina Jolie discussed buying the film rights to Good Woman, Great Life, all because the pitch was so accurate. My publisher said that Marnie’s Party Pieces was the easiest book she ever had to place because I made it sound so easy.’
I thought about putting my head down on the table and having a little nap, but I knew if I did India might put her hand up and snitch on me. Heaven knew she’d done it often enough in the past.
‘Miss, Miss, Alexa said she forgot her gym kit but she didn’t – she stuffed it behind the radiator in the cloakroom.’
I drew a chimney on my house and then a cat with fangs. Perhaps I would write about a vampire cat and create the bestselling children’s book of the twenty-first century, and then JK Rowling and I would be best friends and we really would go on holiday together to Necker Island. No, if I thought about it, that was very unlikely. Some of the audience might have the talent for writing books, but I wasn’t one of them.
I realised that Marnie was bringing the session to a close and, next to me, India was underlining something in red. I leaned over to see and I swear India tried to cover it up with her hand. Honestly, how old is she?
At the end Marnie tempted us with the sorts of wonderful things we could achieve if we went to her second talk, Spring-Clean Your Life, and offered to meet people in the cocktail bar before lunch for further informal chat.
As we filed out of the theatre I hesitated and looked back. Striding briskly out on to the stage to speak to Marnie was Gabriel Frost. India nearly fell over me.
‘What’s the matter? Why have you stopped?’
‘It’s him: Gabriel.’
We watched as he handed Marnie a couple of sheets of paper. She scanned through them and looked up at him. From her expression it was clear all was not well.
She gave a little cry and raised a hand to him in anguish. Gabriel shook his head. His dark hair gleamed under the stage lights and threw his cheekbones into sharp relief.
Marnie turned away and pressed her hands to her face.
‘She’s not happy,’ India said.
‘Perhaps she’s broken a nail?’ I said. ‘Or her nanny has given in her notice?’
‘Has she got children? She didn’t say.’
I looked for a moment as Marnie stood, staring at the floor, deep in thought. One hand was clenching and unclenching against her side.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but somehow I doubt it.’
*
We wandered along to the cocktail bar and found about twenty of our number waiting for Marnie to put in her appearance.
‘So where is she then?’
‘She did say here, didn’t she?’
Unexpectedly Gabriel Frost walked in, his face showing nothing of his feelings. He smiled in a smooth, professional manner and tilted his head to one side sympathetically.
‘I’m so sorry, but Miss Miller won’t be available as she wished. She sends her apologies and looks forward to talking more with you, perhaps later on? She will try and be in the cocktail lounge before dinner this evening, all being well. Thank you so much.’
The others turned away, muttering, disappointed.
‘Well, I suppose we might as well grab a fizzy water while we’re here,’ India said. ‘I’m just going to the loo first if I can find one within a five-mile radius. Wait here. Actually, go and bag that table. I won’t be a mo.’
As she left my side Gabriel caught my eye.
‘Hello there, Alexa, I wondered if you might be here.’
Blimey O’Reilly! He’d been thinking about me? Really?
‘Marnie’s not well?’ I said, hoping to encourage him to spill the beans.
‘Oh, she’s fine. Just … well, something unexpected. Can I get you a drink?’
Oooh, hello!
‘That would be lovely.’ I looked at the cocktail menu. ‘A Crimson Crush, please.’
Well, it’s got pink grapefruit and pomegranate seeds so that’s healthy, isn’t it? I mean grapefruit is loaded with vitamin C and pomegranate is a superfood or something.
He went over to the bar to order and I sat at the window table India had pointed out, watching him. The way he moved, how his hands played with a paper drinks mat as he waited. Tall, long legs. He really was rather gorgeous. Lucky Marnie; even if he wasn’t her significant other, she got to spend time with him while she and the unfeasibly handsome Leo were apart.
When he joined me at the table we looked out at the sea. It was smooth and a delicious shade of blue, reflecting the brilliance of the sky. Far out on the horizon
I could see a boat. A trawler maybe. Nice to think there were other people on the ocean with us.
‘I’m sorry if I seemed out of sorts the other day,’ he said at last, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Had he? I hadn’t noticed. Which time though – the first day I’d met him, on the balcony, or a few days ago, when he’d paid for our lunch? So I decided it was best to stay quiet and see where he went with it.
‘Newport is a nice place. Not as good as Maine obviously. In my opinion anyway. I would have spent more time there but I had to shoot off. Marnie was … well, she needed me.’
I bet she bloody did, I found myself thinking rather unkindly.
‘It’s fine,’ I said, taking a sip of my Crimson Crush and choking a little. Hmm, vodka. Gabriel passed me a paper napkin and I wiped my eyes. ‘But thanks for lunch. That was unexpected. And very kind.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
‘So is she okay?’
‘Marnie? Oh, I don’t know. We’ll see.’
It was difficult to tell what that meant. Was he bothered? He didn’t seem to be. Was that a bit callous? Seeing as they were supposed to be such great friends.
‘It was a good talk, I think,’ I said, changing the subject and wondering just what Gabriel Frost was doing sitting here with me when Marnie was supposed to be upset about something.
‘Was it? Yes, I expect it was. She does these things so well, getting people all fired up. Making them believe their lives can be better if they take her advice. Persuading them that it’s easy. It’s not, but then nothing worth having is.’ Gabriel frowned and sipped his drink.
‘So you’re a writer too?’ I said.
‘I write, yes,’ he said.
There was a pause while I waited for him to elaborate, but nothing happened.
Blimey, come on, play ball here, stop making this so difficult.
‘Marnie’s very … um –’ what was the word? Lucky? ‘– entertaining.’
‘Yes, I suppose she is. Will you go along to Spring-Clean Your Life?’ he said.
Come Away With Me Page 7