‘May I walk with you to the dining carriage?’ she asks, clutching her leatherbound notebook to her chest.
‘Certainly,’ I reply, intrigued by this unassuming, slender woman with auburn hair. Unlike the rest of the group, she had been quiet throughout the workshop, but there was something in the way she held herself, a composure, that suggested to me that she knew more than all the others combined. ‘It’s Ginny, yes?’
‘It is,’ she answers, and we weave our way through the observation carriage and the bar with its countless whiskies and cut-glass decanters and readers perchedon stools. The bridges of Newcastle glint in the sun as we pass over the Tyne river.
‘What brings you on the trip?’ I ask.
‘I’m here with my work hat on,’ she answers in a tone that suggests she’d rather not be.
‘How so?’
‘One of my authors is joining us in London from America. I had a meeting in Edinburgh during the week, so Flynn suggested I make the most of it, spend a couple of days in the city and then head back to London on board the Scotsman. If I’m honest, I needed the break.’
‘You’re an agent?’
‘A publisher. I’m Christopher Rose’sUKeditor.’
We’re greeted in the dining carriage by another cheerful young woman in a kilt and waistcoat. ‘How many for lunch?’ she asks.
‘Shall we eat together?’ I ask Ginny, aware that with Chris still to arrive she must be alone on the train.
‘If that doesn’t inconvenience you?’
‘Quite the opposite.’ Having seen Carly with Flynn as we walked through the train, I know she is busy, and Elsa isn’t one for a heavy lunch, so I know she won’t mind.
Agreeing, we are seated opposite each other at a linen-covered table for two with a pretty white rose and thistle flower arrangement.
‘I don’t know how they do it,’ Ginny confides, when the waitress has taken our drinks order and asked about our dietary requirements. ‘Working in a hot, tiny kitchen while travelling at speed. It’s my idea of torture.’
‘I’ve never understood the appeal of preparing food and not eating it yourself,’ I laugh.
‘Exactly, where’s the pleasure in that!’ she giggles, relaxing a little as we speed past the Angel of the North.
It comes as no surprise to me that the noise and hustle of a galley kitchen doesn’t appeal to Ginny. Despite not knowing her, it’s obvious from her perfectly ironed trousers to her rumple-free top, even down to her minimal jewellery and immaculate hair, that Ginny is a woman who likes things to be calm and orderly.
‘Your sparkling water,’ says the waitress when she returns, placing the drink in front of Ginny. ‘And your double espresso,’ she says, reaching over the table to position my cup.
‘Your workshop was excellent,’ says Ginny, recognising correctly that the espresso is to give me a much-needed energy boost.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, allowing myself to relax into the soft green padding of the dining chair, feeling a little less fraudulent now. ‘I didn’t feel prepared at all.’
Ginny raises her eyebrows at my remark. ‘Surely after all the books you’ve written, after all the success you’ve had, it’s not difficult to give a workshop to a dozen amateurs.’
‘You’d think, right?’ I laugh. ‘I presumed as a younger woman that confidence was something that grew throughout life rather than diminishing.’
‘That I can relate to,’ she says, placing her drink back on the tablecloth, rotating the fine glass infinitesimally. ‘I’ve been in the industry for twenty years; itshould be effortless by now but, one way or another, it feels as if I’m barely treading water.’
‘I don’t know how you keep up,’ I tell her. ‘I write a novel a year and even that’s a stretch. How you juggle multiple projects at a time is beyond me.’
‘When I started my career, I worked on four titles a year, tops. Now the market demands three or four times that amount; it’s a lot, but worth it for voices like yours.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ I say, receiving my hot smoked salmon salad, which looks heavenly in an elegant, wide-rimmed bowl. ‘Truth be told, I’m completely blocked. I have no idea if I’ve another book in me, and even if I do, will it find readers?’
Ginny rests her wrists on the table, her fork poised over her salad bowl. ‘Perhaps it’s time for something different,’ she offers gently.
‘How do you mean?’
‘The industry has changed wildly since you started writing and, like you, your readers are no longer in their twenties and thirties. They are more than likely in their forties and fifties now, if not older.’
