‘Right, not from round here,’ I say, glancing up at the huge tower as the bells strike.
‘You have no intention of telling me where you’re from, do you?’ he asks, a smile pulling on his pale lips.
‘None whatsoever,’ I say, enjoying the game, and he watches me, his gaze deep. It feels as if he can read my every thought.
I allow my gaze to drift from his and on to my book, and he does the same, though I’m conscious that his eyes shift from the page to me, to the place, and watching the tourists pass by.
We fall into a comfortable quiet, until I need to change my position. I press my foot into my inner thigh, and push my chest forward to relieve the discomfort in my back.
‘You dance?’ he asks, correctly observing my flexible joints.
‘Not so much now, but I did, all through my childhood and into university.’
‘It’s a beautiful thing . . .’
‘What is?’ I ask when he tails off.
‘Being able to express yourself without words.’
‘Mmm,’ I breathe, thinking of my mother’s paintings and my father’s illustrations, and Bill’s pottery and Elsa’s tapestries, all of which colour the house – a home full of thought and emotion, and yet so little of it expressed in language.
‘I guess that’s the skill of a photographer too.’
‘One picture is worth a thousand words,’ he muses.
‘So true,’ I say, and I have to restrain myself from reaching out, taking his hand and not letting go of it for a very long time.
The motion of the train pulls me back from my memories and I find several sets of eyes on mine.
‘Now that you have that piece of information, let’s bind it to something else. In my case, my guy is eager to experience life. Alternatively, he could be an older character who’s missed out on life, someone middle-aged having a bit of a crisis, but for me he’s a young guy and he’s travelling. What can you add to what you have?’
Again, there are a few worried looks round the table.
‘Let’s delve into a few of yours. Who’d like to share?’
Katie, one of the Welsh mums, puts her hand up and says, ‘My guy has a scar on his arm.’
‘Brilliant, that raises lots of questions – how did he get the scar and when? And what happened to cause the injury, and why? Does that help? If you keep asking how, what, when, why and where, then you’ll rapidly build up a picture of who the person is.
‘Maybe you’ve got enough now to give them a name, but don’t rush this. Naming a character needs to be led by their backstory. Who were their parents and grandparents? Don’t give your character an upper-class name if he was raised in poverty or, if you do, make sure the backstory supports that choice.’
While the group writes, I sit back for a moment and gaze out of the window as the train carries on down the rugged east coast. It occurs to me that I know very little of Alistair’s backstory. We agreed at some point not to give away any identifying details; looking back, I can’t remember why. Was it me being young and uncertain, worrying that he might not be exactly what he seemed to be, or was it him, toying with me, keeping me atarm’s length? And if so, why? Whatever the reason, the outcome was the same: the mystery created a binding chemistry between us. I know that he loved art, music, literature and photography, but I know nothing of where that love came from, and likewise, he had no idea that my love of the arts grew out of sharing a home with four artists.
‘Think hard about what gives your character motivation in life,’ I say, having thought often about what gave Alistair his thirst for travel and photography, where and with whom he grew up. ‘Perhaps they came from a stable background with all the love and support they needed, perhaps they came from the opposite. Really think about what has happened in their life that has brought them to this particular point and how that will colour their journey in love and life.
‘Because what makes a romance interesting isn’t the perfections, it’s the imperfections, the hang-ups and bang-ups of life that really make the characters who they are,’ I say, my mind diverting to Robin. ‘What is it that makes your romantic hero vulnerable, what does he need to overcome, and how will your heroine aid him in that, or hinder him? Whatever that might be, know your romantic lead intimately.’
A glance round the table tells me that the group members have pages full of ideas, and that I do too. It’s just that my pages are full of thoughts of Alistair, not Robin, causing a wave of guilt to flood over me.
9.
ELSA
I can’t recall the last time I was somewhere without Bill, other than running a neighbourhood errand. Watching Berwick pass by through the train window makes me aware of how small my world has become, going between the flat and the local amenities of Stockbridge, but very little beyond. Not that our lives as artists were ever big, other than in our mid-life when we travelled more, and particularly not in the last two decades: the odd trip within Scotland for inspiration or to meet a gallery owner, an exhibition opening, or a friend’s talk – small, cultural things beyond the neighbourhood. Nor can I recall the last time I sat anywhere alone without either knowing that Bill might call on me at any moment, or that I had to be conscious of the time to get back to him.
Sitting in the opulence of the bar carriage, the wood panels perfectly polished, every seat cushion effortlessly plump, I feel my body sink into the chair, and every ounce of tension I didn’t know I was carrying,drain out of me. The sensation of deep relaxation is heavenly, but one that is tethered with guilt.
It took me a couple of days to decide to come on the trip. The three of us, Bill and Aleks and I, had discussed it between us. I felt it might offer me a much-needed change in perspective; Bill, in moments of lucidity, said he was happy for me to take a break, even encouraged me to do so. The decision made, Aleks put plans in place for Bill to spend three nights at the care home. But when the taxi arrived, Bill had become agitated, confused about what was happening. At the home, Aleks had told me to leave without saying goodbye, to avoid unnecessary distress, that she would stay with him for as long as it took to settle him. I cried all the way home.
