‘Frances’s career spans three decades during which she has written twenty-five novels, many of which have topped the bestseller charts. Translated into over twenty languages and having sold in excess of two and a half million books worldwide, she really is at the forefront of contemporary romance fiction.
‘It is my absolute privilege to introduce to you, Frances Henderson.’
It feels as if I’m a boxer being buoyed into the ring: the over-enthusiastic announcer; the crowd cheering; the referee, in the form of Ginny, waiting to raise my arm.
‘Thank you,’ I say modestly, unable to hide a smile, taking a seat next to Ginny on the small stage as the audience’s applause abates.
‘Frances, welcome,’ Ginny begins, sounding perfectly serene, her notes sitting neatly on her lap. I scan the audience for faces I know and find Carly sitting side-by-side with Nicolas, and Elsa, sitting with Frank and Marleen, looking keenly on. ‘Tell me, given all the romance titles you’ve written, why is it that none of them have been set here in Paris?’
I laugh at Ginny’s question, and so do the audience, immediately breaking the ice.
‘Who’s to say Paris won’t be the setting for the next one,’ I answer, to which an ‘ooh’ spreads quietly round the room.
‘Sounds as if it might be a popular idea,’ she laughs, and I make a mental note that it has readers’ approval.
We spend the next forty-five minutes talking about various aspects of my writing process and whether my stage of life impacts my work.
‘And tell me, as a final question, where do you see your own work heading in the next few years?’
‘Well,’ I begin, aware of the conversations we’ve had around the subject privately. ‘As I mature it seems only sensible that my work should too, that I might pull away from more youthful romance to focus on love stories for people around my own age and older.
‘Romance is the biggest-selling genre in the world at the moment, and I have no desire to step away from it, but a side-step into book club fiction may fit well. Love is, after all, what makes the world go round.’
‘I couldn’t have said it better myself,’ says Ginny. ‘And perhaps an excellent place to open questions to the floor.’
I look out to the audience, hoping that someone will raise their hand.
‘Yes, the lady in white,’ says Ginny, pointing to one of the ladies who attended the workshop on the train.
‘I’ve been a fan of your work ever since your first book and I’m excited about your next. Can you tell us something about it?’
‘That’s a good question . . .’ I stall, hoping my racing heart can’t be heard on the microphone clipped to my chest.
Just then, as I’m trying to figure out how to fully answer the question, I notice Alistair enter the room. He gives a little wave, and a fond smile, and I can’t help thinking of Robin and his warm, handsome smile that’s lit up my world for so long.
I remember the breadth of his smile the moment Carly was born, after we’d rushed to the hospital in our beaten-up old car, only just making it in time. Exhausted and elated, we’d driven home, me in the back with Carly, Robin driving at twenty miles per hour all the way back through the city. Robin had been so proud of her, he kept her in the shop almost every hour of the day, while trying to grow the business, telling anyone who would listen how perfect she was.
Inspired by the memory, the idea I’ve been mulling over these last few days rapidly takes a fuller shape. ‘It features a book,’ I begin, feeling my way, ‘that turns up in a bookshop, with lots of tokens from a trip – apostcard, a ticket, a bookmark – that take the main character on a journey of self-discovery, from a flailing marriage to a long-lost love, and the discovery of what a real romantic hero truly looks like.’
‘It sounds marvellous,’ smiles Ginny. ‘I think I speak for all of us here when I say we’ll look forward to reading it.’
A look around the room at lots of approving nods tells me Ginny might be right, and I hope inwardly that it will find a publisher.
‘If I may?’ comes a voice from the audience.
‘Of course,’ says Ginny, and Nicolas stands up.
‘You talk about your new book, and I wonder: why such a long gap since your last one? Were you blocked? Did you lose confidence in your writing? Or perhaps romance doesn’t interest you any more?’ I notice his voice, previously so charming, has taken on a steelier tone.
It takes me, and the audience, a while to absorb this question, and when I do it’s as if the room has slowed, that I’m the boxer in the ring again but this time I’ve just received a knock-out blow. I struggle for a moment, spot Carly shrinking away from Nicolas, as I try to make sense of what’s happened.
‘Quite the opposite,’ I say shakily, the mention of my block and loss of confidence like a punch to my gut, but also aware of a new sense of balance within me. ‘Romance gets people reading in a world where many struggle to read more than a brief post on social media. Romance offers enjoyment, escapism, some love and peace in a world consumed by individualismand self-promotion. In my opinion, romance makes the world a little sweeter.’
‘That may be so, but what of the gap, and the quality? Surely as a writer you are concerned by the dumbing down of writing, and you would wish to see the craft survive.’
‘Writers aren’t machines. The act of living informs our work. I simply needed some time to be, rather than to do. And the craft of writing isn’t going anywhere,’ I answer, a renewed sense of purpose rising victoriously within me. ‘Yes, there may be more “lighter” work on the market, but equally there is more literary work too – and book club fiction, which combines the two, is thriving. If anything, the income generated by romance aids publishing houses to afford more literary work which historically doesn’t sell as well. And if you’re struggling for any reason to find the beautifully crafted work you desire, then that’s what good booksellers are for.’ Carly, next to him, sits a little taller. ‘And I will always support and champion independent neighbourhood bookshops.’
I breathe a long sigh of satisfaction, glad to have held my own.
