winter. They would play out a lot, she supposes, something they rarely did when they lived at 24 Barkers Terrace because Trevor couldn’t stand it. The noise of the neighbouring kids drove him barmy and, as the small gardens were open-plan, to confine them to their own was impossible.
It is almost too far-fetched to hope for, but if, by some miracle, Magdalene is accepted, she might just make enough money to be able to buy an old banger that would make living here bearable. The poor wages paid by the Burleston mean she will qualify for family credit, but if life becomes too hard she’ll just go on the dole until she can find a job that pays better.
‘There’s more than fifty bungalows permanently occupied,’ Mrs Gilcrest explains in between pointing out the charms of the well-designed, practical caravan. ‘But it can feel lonely here in the winter. And the weather does tend to be wet most of the time.’
I can tolerate this, thinks Kirsty. I can tolerate anything so long as I’m not constantly on edge, trying to please and failing, steeling myself for the next blow, the next humiliation, the next shock.
So long as I’ve got Magdalene .
‘This is all very nice. It’s fine.’
‘I will give you first option then,’ says Mrs Gilcrest, swinging her keys in a businesslike manner, ‘but I hope you understand that these homes are at a premium round here, being as cheap as they are. And I’ll need a month’s rent in full before you get the keys.’
Back in the bustling capital city, stuck like a battery hen high up in her air-conditioned cubicle at the offices of Coburn and Watts, Candice Love’s coffee cup pauses at her lips. What’s this?
She re-reads page one of the well-presented manuscript and moves on to page two quickly. This author has been lucky, her padded envelope, which arrived last week, has made its way to the top of the pile because of a slip of fate, or, more correctly, a slip made by Linda, Candice’s secretary, when she was heaving the pile from the main office to Candice’s room and one high heel gave way, badly twisting her ankle.
Damn. And she’s got a date for lunch. An author she doesn’t much care for has come up to London for a free spaghetti and an opportunity to nag Candice about the miserable offer for her latest effort.
Damn. And yet she’s got to read on. This one is looking astonishingly promising and she certainly doesn’t want anyone else picking up the manuscript while she’s gone. There is only one thing for it. She will have to take it with her and read it this afternoon.
All through lunch with her distressed author it’s murder for Candice to concentrate and she finds herself touching her briefcase as if to reassure herself that her ‘find’ is still close.
‘The thing is,’ she says abstractedly over the checked cloth, ‘there is less and less of a market these days for your kind of historical romance.’
‘It might have been helpful if you’d warned me of that before I started on another,’ grumbles her author over the stench of Parmesan cheese.
‘All advances are down these days,’ Candice continues, not hungry and picking at old candle-wax, ‘it’s not just you. Nearly all my authors have been forced to accept considerably less than they did before.’
‘But they promised me my next book would be the one that made me!’
Candice shakes her well-groomed head. Why oh why do authors continue to believe in publishers’ hype? Are they too blinded by their own importance, too mentally frail, to accept that publishers rarely say what they mean?
‘“This is your year,” they keep telling me; they say it on every Christmas card.’
‘Well, I know and I’m sorry,’ comforts Candice. What is she expected to say? Perhaps she should make no bones about it, maybe she should come straight out with the truth, that it had taken all Candice’s skills to persuade a reluctant editor to accept her client’s book at all.
Dammit, the woman insists on a
It is almost too far-fetched to hope for, but if, by some miracle, Magdalene is accepted, she might just make enough money to be able to buy an old banger that would make living here bearable. The poor wages paid by the Burleston mean she will qualify for family credit, but if life becomes too hard she’ll just go on the dole until she can find a job that pays better.
‘There’s more than fifty bungalows permanently occupied,’ Mrs Gilcrest explains in between pointing out the charms of the well-designed, practical caravan. ‘But it can feel lonely here in the winter. And the weather does tend to be wet most of the time.’
I can tolerate this, thinks Kirsty. I can tolerate anything so long as I’m not constantly on edge, trying to please and failing, steeling myself for the next blow, the next humiliation, the next shock.
So long as I’ve got Magdalene .
‘This is all very nice. It’s fine.’
‘I will give you first option then,’ says Mrs Gilcrest, swinging her keys in a businesslike manner, ‘but I hope you understand that these homes are at a premium round here, being as cheap as they are. And I’ll need a month’s rent in full before you get the keys.’
Back in the bustling capital city, stuck like a battery hen high up in her air-conditioned cubicle at the offices of Coburn and Watts, Candice Love’s coffee cup pauses at her lips. What’s this?
She re-reads page one of the well-presented manuscript and moves on to page two quickly. This author has been lucky, her padded envelope, which arrived last week, has made its way to the top of the pile because of a slip of fate, or, more correctly, a slip made by Linda, Candice’s secretary, when she was heaving the pile from the main office to Candice’s room and one high heel gave way, badly twisting her ankle.
Damn. And she’s got a date for lunch. An author she doesn’t much care for has come up to London for a free spaghetti and an opportunity to nag Candice about the miserable offer for her latest effort.
Damn. And yet she’s got to read on. This one is looking astonishingly promising and she certainly doesn’t want anyone else picking up the manuscript while she’s gone. There is only one thing for it. She will have to take it with her and read it this afternoon.
All through lunch with her distressed author it’s murder for Candice to concentrate and she finds herself touching her briefcase as if to reassure herself that her ‘find’ is still close.
‘The thing is,’ she says abstractedly over the checked cloth, ‘there is less and less of a market these days for your kind of historical romance.’
‘It might have been helpful if you’d warned me of that before I started on another,’ grumbles her author over the stench of Parmesan cheese.
‘All advances are down these days,’ Candice continues, not hungry and picking at old candle-wax, ‘it’s not just you. Nearly all my authors have been forced to accept considerably less than they did before.’
‘But they promised me my next book would be the one that made me!’
Candice shakes her well-groomed head. Why oh why do authors continue to believe in publishers’ hype? Are they too blinded by their own importance, too mentally frail, to accept that publishers rarely say what they mean?
‘“This is your year,” they keep telling me; they say it on every Christmas card.’
‘Well, I know and I’m sorry,’ comforts Candice. What is she expected to say? Perhaps she should make no bones about it, maybe she should come straight out with the truth, that it had taken all Candice’s skills to persuade a reluctant editor to accept her client’s book at all.
Dammit, the woman insists on a
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