To my left, two best friends tell me they’ve travelled from Lincoln, are both celebrating their sixtieth birthdays and, as avid readers, it seemed like the perfect celebration. Next to them, at the head of the table, is a twenty-something woman from Inverness who dreams of living in Paris and becoming a writer.
‘Hi, I’m Jo,’ smiles the next woman at the table with a good-natured face and a comfortable body. ‘And this is my husband, Frazer.’ Frazer, a tall, balding man, offers a wave. ‘We’re celebrating our silver wedding anniversary – I’m a book lover, Frazer’s a train enthusiast, so it seemed like a fitting choice.’
‘Lovely. Welcome, and congratulations,’ I say before moving my attention to the next pair of women, two sisters from Wales who are besotted with romance novels.
‘And you are?’ I ask the woman sitting next to the sisters.
‘Virginia, Ginny for short,’ she says, playing with the watchstrap on her elegant wrist.
Sensing that Ginny isn’t keen to offer anything more, I move to the last group of women at the table, three ‘golf widows’ in their sixties from Florida.
‘So,’ I say on an outward breath, literally rolling up my sleeves. ‘You’re here to learn how to write a strong romantic hero. Let’s begin.’
As I open my jotter, everyone else round the table does the same.
‘The first thing to know is that there is no one right place to start. In the past I’ve built romantic leads starting with a picture, someone I know, or someone I’ve read about, but you could start anywhere – a characteristic, a physical attribute, a profession, anything really. What’s important is where you end up, not where you start. With that in mind, take a moment to conjure up a glimpse of your romantic lead.’
A glance round the table tells me that most of my ‘workshoppers’ are paralysed with fear of getting this wrong, so I give them an example: ‘When I close my eyes and think of something I find attractive in a person – an attribute or something physical – my mind takes me to a “thirst for life”. So that’s my starting point, my romantic hero has a passion for life. I’ll write that down.’
As the participants close their eyes, look at their notepads or gaze out of the window, the North Sea sparkling in the morning sun, I take a moment to consider what my next question will be, and as I do I find my mind wandering to Alistair, and the moment wefirst met, sitting at the base of a statue, outside Notre-Dame.
‘What are you reading?’ he asks, his lean body turned slightly towards mine.
I show him the spine.
‘What else!’ he laughs, his eyes sparkling.
I shrug, a little embarrassed at being so predictable.
‘You like it?’ he asks, almost suggestively.
‘Too early to tell,’ I say, a hint of tease in my voice. ‘Have you read it?’
He nods.
‘What did you think?’
‘That might give away the ending,’ he flirts, and I smile, the shine of my eyes reflected in his.
I watch him discreetly as he bends forward to remove something from his bag on the ground. His basic white T rises sufficiently to expose a hint of his strong, wide back, above the waist of his faded blue jeans.
‘What brings you to Paris?’ he asks, an anthology of poetry now in his large hand.
‘The wind,’ I say, not wanting to delve into the story of Mum. ‘How about you?’
‘Work,’ he answers, and I realise the bag at his feet is a camera bag. ‘I’m headed further on, one-way. This is just a stopover to meet a journalist.’
‘You’re a photographer?’
He nods. ‘You?’
‘Editorial assistant.’
‘In London?’
I nod.
‘It’s just your accent . . .?’ he says, in a lame Scottish accent, and I laugh.
