‘Carly,’ I reply.
He smiles, holding my gaze, and I smile back, blushing despite myself, knowing instinctively that Nicolas is going to be trouble.
8.
FRAN
‘I should never have come. I don’t know what I was thinking,’ I tell Elsa, who’s having to almost peel me off the walnut-panelled walls of the sleeping cabin Flynn gave me to prepare for theWriting a Romantic Heroworkshop. ‘I’m a has-been with writer’s block. I don’t belong here amongst all these current bestsellers.’
‘Fran, you’ll give yourself a panic attack if you don’t calm down,’ says Elsa, and I know she’s right; my heart is racing and my head light.
‘I should have had another champagne, for Dutch courage.’
‘There’s no such thing,’ Elsa reprimands gently. ‘The champagne is probably what got you into this state in the first place.’
I restrain myself from reminding her about the state of my marriage, that I left without talking to Robin – over a week of him hiding in his office and me concocting stories in my head – that I’ve essentially run away from my husband.
‘If it weren’t for that book . . .’ I say, looking at the copy ofThe Hunchback of Notre-Damepoking out of the top of my handbag, my thought being that I might have been less reactive to Robin’s threat if the book hadn’t turned up. That I might now be home sorting out my marriage, our future, rather than hurtling towards my past.
‘Let’s both lie down for a moment,’ she says, climbing on to the bed and lying next to the wall. She pats the crisp white duvet cover for me to join her.
‘I need to go to the workshop.’
‘Frances,’ she says, and I’m reminded of being told off by my mother as a girl, a woman who took no nonsense from anyone, particularly a young child. ‘These people have paid a lot of money to be here. Believe me when I tell you that being five minutes late will only add to the “writerly mystique” they’re so enamoured by.’
‘Fine,’ I say, not believing a word.
I clamber on beside Elsa, feel my spine sink into the mattress and recognise how much tension I’m holding compared to Elsa’s loose form.
‘Let your feet and hands fall away,’ she says, her eyes closed. ‘Feel the sensations of where your body is in contact with the bed.’ Elsa lived and breathed the New Age movement of the seventies during her time as a student and artist in London, hence why she speaks with calm authority.
Physically I do as she asks; mentally I’m on a different page, my mind switching between confusion and panic every split second.
‘Focus on the sensations of your feet,’ she continues,my mind anywhere but my feet, but as she asks me to focus on the feelings in other parts of my body, I notice my mind does begin to settle. By the time she has me focusing on the sensations in my neck and head I can feel a noticeable difference.
‘Rest in awareness of your whole body,’ she breathes. ‘Just rest.’
She continues to guide me through a breathing exercise, of noticing my breath moving in and out, and when my mind wanders from my breath to gently acknowledge where it went and then return to my breathing.
‘Be kind to yourself,’ she smiles next to me. ‘Nurture patience, not frustration. Connect with the here and now.’
We lie there in near silence, the two of us breathing next to each other, until there is a gentle rap on the door.
‘Ms Henderson,’ calls a voice.
‘Coming,’ I call back, rising from the bed, feeling as if I’ve been asleep for hours.
Jenny, a young crew member, escorts me down the wood-panelled corridor, her kilt swishing as she walks, to the library carriage. On arrival I find an elegant space with large mahogany and glass bookcases at both ends, and smaller ones between the windows. Eleven eager faces look up from a long table for twelve.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce your host, bestselling romance author, Frances Henderson,’ says Jenny, to which everyone applauds.
‘Thank you,’ I smile, acknowledging Jenny as sheleaves, and taking the remaining seat at the middle of the table. I place my jotter and pen in front of me.
‘Good morning,’ I begin, aware that my breathing is hurried again. I look round the table, all eyes on me, and realise that I’m surrounded by readers, not writers, and that I have little reason to worry.
‘As you already know, I’m Frances Henderson,’ I smile, allowing myself to pause and breathe. ‘I’m the author of twenty-five romantic fiction novels, some of which, as Jenny said, have made the bestseller lists.
‘Let’s start by going round the table and introducing ourselves. Whatever you’re comfortable with, perhaps your name, something you enjoy, and what brought you on the trip.’
