‘Er—’ Amy stuttered. ‘Well. It’s research.’
Then she decided to be honest. ‘Actually, itispretty good. It’s the latest from an author called Philippa Fotheringham– I’m meeting with her tomorrow.’
Amy could tell her cheeks were flaming. She felt an odd sort of shame at having been caught enjoying this book– partly because she’d spent years railing against romance in all its guises, but also because she’d previously considered herself far too smart to be sucked in by a story whose ending she could predict from page one. As it turned out, matters weren’t quite so simple.
‘Ah,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve read a few of hers. Entertaining, well-written romps with just enough racy bits, I find.’
Amy felt her eyes grow wide. She was no prude, but she had zero desire to begin a discussion on fictional sex with her seventy-four-year-old grandmother. Slightly at a loss for words, she nodded and said, ‘That seems a fair assessment.’
Grinning at Amy’s embarrassment, Grace rolled her eyes and left the room.
In fairness, it probably shouldn’t have surprised Amy that Gran had read some of Philippa’s books. This week’s research had already proved beyond doubt that she was wildly popular, and that signing her would be very much the coup Carolyn had claimed it would be. Via self-publishing and then through book deals with several small houses, Philippa had sold more than a million copies of her works. These comprised around twenty full-length novels as well as several short stories and compilations, all of which were available digitally, with some in paperback.
Meanwhile, @Philippa_Writes had in excess of 20,000 Twitter followers, over 17,000 Facebook fans and a not too shabby Instagram following of 4,759. These were the kind of numbers anyone on Amy’s old literary list might only ever have dreamt of. There was no question that Philippa Fotheringham had a loyal and expanding army of readers, even if– perhaps to her discredit as a publishing professional– Amy had never heard of her until recently.
From the author blogs and photos published on PhilippaFotheringham.com, Amy had gleaned that the woman herself was both self-assured and formidable– an impression that tallied with the scant information Carolyn had shared, and which Amy felt was well worth having before they got together in person. Philippa beamed warmly at website visitors from a professional-looking portrait, but her posture was ramrod straight and there was a keen intelligence in her eyes that reminded Amy of her boss. She might not dress as sharply as Carolyn– there was a lot of lilac and more than one waterfall cardigan in Philippa’s wardrobe, based on the evidence Amy had seen so far– but it seemed likely that whatever relationship existed between the two women was built on a foundation of shared intelligence and business acumen.
When Grace returned to the sitting room with just one mug of Yorkshire Gold, Amy frowned. She took the proffered tea and placed it on a coaster just next to her, then asked, ‘Are you not having one?’
‘No,’ Grace replied. ‘I’m off out for coffee at the garden centre with a friend.’
‘Afriend?’ Amy said, frowning again and noticing her grandmother’s fresh lipstick. ‘Does this friend have a history of handing out detentions for late coursework? Is it someone who’s permanently dressed like a well-to-do TV historian and– inexplicably, in my view– actuallylikescoffee cake?’
Now it was Grace’s turn to blush. ‘Yes, if you must know.’
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Amy leapt up to answer it and found Mr Bradley on the other side, looking as neat and dignified as ever in a pressed shirt, jacket, tie and matching pocket square. Amy felt a sudden swell of warmth for him even though he was ridiculously dressed up for a stroll around displays of shrubs and bedding plants. He’d made a special effort to look nice for Grace, which signalled sincere affection for her.
‘Come on in, Mr Bradley,’ Amy said.
‘Oh dear, please call me Ken,’ he said, smiling.
‘Ken. Sorry.’
‘Don’t bother, Ken!’ Gran called from further inside. ‘I’m ready– on my way to you now.’
The moment she stepped across the threshold of the cottage to greet him, he gently kissed her cheek and arranged himself so she could take his arm. Although they were only walking as far as his car, Amy’s heart gave another little squeeze at her former teacher’s reflexive consideration for Grace. Everything about his conduct was old-fashioned and fussy, and it should have made Amy roll her eyes– but it didn’t.
Something inside her suddenly twinged with fresh consciousness of howinconsiderate Hugh had sometimes been. She cringed at her own stupidity: why hadn’t she seen it at the time? He’d lavished attention on her, taken her to nice restaurants and spent inordinate amounts of money on holidays– but everything had been on his terms, and she’d been too dazzled to notice until he confronted her with an engagement ring.
She sighed and flopped back onto the sofa, reaching for her tea mug with one hand and her Kindle with the other. She might as well finish Philippa Fotheringham’s book now she’d started it– and itwaswork, after all.
The following afternoon, seated on the train to Birmingham, Amy tried not to think about how badly she needed her lunch with Philippa to go well. It was rare for Amy to woo an author with such a strong history of successful publishing, and despite all the reading and research she’d done over the past few weeks she still felt like a traveller in a foreign land. Romantic fiction, it turned out, wasn’t all the same: it was a rich and complex field in which you could become expert, and Amy was barely proficient. What’s more, the stakes were high today: Carolyn wanted Amy to bring Philippa in for H-K and wouldnotbe impressed if she messed this up.
Determined to present what felt like inexperience as the ‘fresh pair of eyes’ Philippa Fotheringham’s work could benefit from, Amy had booked a table at a classy-looking place with a Michelin star and a tasting menu that sounded both appealing and unfussy. She’d got the sense from Philippa’s agent that she wouldn’t take kindly to fish-flavoured foams, desserts dressed up as breakfasts or main courses served in smoke-filled silver domes. Within moments of arriving at the restaurant, Amy felt an intense rush of relief that she’d followed this instinct.
Philippa was already waiting for her, resplendent in a salmon-pink silk shirt. Its deep V-neck showed off Philippa’s high shelf of a bosom, which Amy couldn’t help thinking would not have been out of place in one of her Regency bodice-rippers. She had a mane of thick, glossy, professionally blow-dried hair that Amy could tell was expensively highlighted. Strands of white and silver mingled with cool blonde streaks, which enhanced rather than covered up Philippa’s greys. She was a very attractive woman in a take-no-prisoners sort of way: the curvy, pastel-shaded, ultra-feminine antithesis of Carolyn in looks, yet possessed of a very similar vibe.
‘Amy!’ Philippa boomed, in a gloriously broad Birmingham accent. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. This place is all right, isn’t it?’ Like the voices of all proper Brummies, Philippa’s had a melodic, sing-song quality. Almost every word was pronounced as though it had somehow acquired extra vowels.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ Amy said, smiling. ‘The menu looks great.’
‘It does. None of the nonsense with liquid nitrogen that you often find in such establishments. I mean, what’s that all about? I went somewhere last year where they were dishing out freeze-dried popcorn for pudding and calling it art. Honest to God, I’d rather have had a Mr Whippy with a flake.’
Amy laughed. ‘I think we’re safe here. And if you’d prefer a 99 for afters, just let me know– I’m pretty sure I saw an ice cream van on the way from the station. I’ll even shell out for strawberry sauce.’
‘Now you’re talking my language, bab.’
Bab.Wow. Amy couldn’t remember the last time she’d been called that– her grandad had been the family’s Digbeth native and he’d been dead for twenty-five years.
