What Would Jane Austen Do?, page 26
Maddy made a dismissive noise.
‘I beg to differ. It pains me to say it, but Joyce was right—last year the book stall was a meagre selection of tired old books that everyone had either already purchased the year before or didn’t want in the first place.’ Before Maddy could respond, Myra softened her voice as she asked, ‘I presume you haven’t heard anything yet from Luke?’
At the mention of his name, the near-permanent leaden feeling in the pit of stomach intensified. Maddy shook her head.
‘Never mind. There’s still plenty of time. We’re living in the digital age now; it’s amazing what can happen in twenty-four hours.’
Since when was Myra prone to fits of cheery optimism? Luke didn’t do surprises or second chances, no matter how often Maddy might wish it. As Jane Austen had observed, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. No, that path would only lead to disappointment.
After days of tears and self-recrimination, feeling that she had driven him away, Maddy had begun to feel a little resentful of Luke’s knee-jerk reaction and continued silence. His agent had been thrilled with the interview and so were a lot of other people, including his publisher. Even some of those people who had formerly been very critical of him were now swayed by the groundswell of public opinion, and Maddy had been surprised to see how even the merest suggestion of a coerced proposal had led to heated discussions on social media about entrapment, with several contributors protesting volubly on the absent author’s behalf.
‘So what’s next on the list?’ Myra asked, nodding at Maddy’s clipboard and dragging her attention back to more urgent matters.
‘You and Jem are making sure everything is organised in the hospitality tent, and I’m heading indoors to get the guest room ready for my friend Alice who’s arriving later today. We over-ordered on the flyers so I suggested Joyce and Sally might like to do a last-minute leaflet drop around Haxford. Although,’ she added with a wry smile, ‘they were disappointed to discover they would be travelling in the back of Leonard’s car. I don’t know why, but the two of them were somehow expecting a trip in a low-flying aircraft.’
A look of horror flashed across Myra’s features. ‘Oh good lord, can you imagine that!’
Maddy chuckled. ‘I can see the headlines now: Haxford’s pedestrian area strafed by over-enthusiastic pensioner.’
‘Definitely not the sort of publicity we are after,’ agreed Myra. ‘Although you have to hand it to Joyce, since you got her started on social media, she’s opened up a whole new world of opportunities for herself—apparently she’s now following a huge number of people including dozens of celebrities and famous authors.’
‘I’m pleased for her.’
‘She’s also planning some live tweets from the festival tomorrow.’
‘Welcome to the digital age indeed,’ marvelled Maddy.
‘It’s not the only change around here—I don’t mind admitting you’ve injected new blood into this festival and whatever happens tomorrow, I just want to say that Nigel would have been very proud of you and what you’ve achieved.’
An unexpected swell of emotion rose within her as tears formed in the corner of her eyes, and Maddy wished more than ever that she had met this man, who was part of her family and who had entrusted her with continuing his vision.
Maddy smiled as she patted away the tears with her fingers. ‘Thank you, Myra. I think tomorrow Nigel might have one last surprise for you too.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it.
George Knightley, Emma
* * *
‘Good morning, and welcome to Meadowside.’
‘Thank you, it’s lovely to see so many people here.’
‘You’re welcome—a programme of events is on sale just over there.’
Maddy was determined that her personal disappointments would not put a damper on the day, and now Alice was here, her confidence had received a much-needed boost. They had talked non-stop from the moment she had arrived yesterday, and Maddy had given her the full guided tour after dinner. This morning Alice was keen to help out, and was currently assisting Maddy with the meet and greet.
Over the last hour, with a determined – if slightly forced – cheeriness, Maddy had been greeting not only the residents of Cotlington but people from all over the county and beyond, as well as journalists and bloggers. It was becoming clear from responses that Joyce’s efforts on Twitter had not been solely directed to celebrity-watching, and many had been drawn here by her two celebrity speakers.
Sally and Joyce, resembling a pair of highlighter pens, being dressed in vibrant pink and yellow respectively, were currently busy directing cars to designated parking areas. As the committee’s appointed photographer, Leonard was busy fulfilling his brief to capture the day in pictures while overseeing book sales in the rose garden.
In spite of her resolve to stay emotionally detached from the events of the past few weeks, with each new influx of guests Maddy’s eyes scanned the crowd for that familiar face, that pair of piercing dark eyes, even though they would no longer look fondly at her.
Randall Jacobson had already arrived with much fanfare and was busily being feted by a coterie of admirers led by her mother. In the interests of not becoming the unwitting subject of an arranged marriage, Maddy decided he might need rescuing.
‘Maddy, darling, how lovely to see you again!’ There was a definite look of relief on Randall’s face, one of amusement on Alice’s and rapturous expectation writ large over her mother’s. ‘I got your message; I’ll be more than happy to be your first speaker.’
Maddy had spent most of the previous evening considering various options should Luke not appear, but the only one that made any sense was to let Randall make the keynote speech instead of Luke, thus keeping everyone’s timeslots unaltered until after lunch when she would fill Randall’s original slot. Her own speaker notes and revised running order were scribbled down in her copy of the festival programme, which she was pleased to see was selling well.
Randall beamed his toothpaste smile and slipped his arm around her waist in a casual but unwelcome gesture. ‘Such a shame that Cameron Massey appears to have been delayed.’ The first three words were drawn out—presumably for effect—but Maddy didn’t detect the slightest hint of regret in his voice. Then again that was hardly surprising.
What was, was a familiar voice behind her that replied in a distinctly frosty tone, ‘I was a little delayed. The traffic this morning was appalling.’
Maddy spun round, at the same time extricating herself from Randall’s embrace. Where had he come from? Clearly not anywhere local, as rush hour in Cotlington was classed as anything more than four cars and a milk float. After weeks of silence, she desperately needed to talk to him. Preferably in private. ‘Luke! Can I get you a coffee or something before we start?’
His glance slid over to Randall still standing next to her. ‘I won’t disturb you; I can see you’re already occupied.’
‘No, I’m—’ She watched, dismayed, as Luke walked away, and tried not to scowl at Randall’s triumphant expression.
‘Let him go, Maddy darling,’ said Randall in an overly loud voice. ‘That man always causes trouble.’
Luke whirled round and marched back, his face straining with a look of barely controlled rage. ‘Oh yeah? And what sort of trouble would that be?’
‘Well, since you seem determined to air your dirty laundry, let’s start with how badly you treated my poor friend Clara.’
So that’s what it was all about—no wonder they disliked each other! Luke glared at his opponent, his eyes narrowed to hard flints, and his arm tensed as his hand curled into a tight fist. Several people had now stopped to watch the altercation, and were busy pulling out their phones. Oh God, that was all she needed—the reputation of the Cotlington Literary Festival trashed over an authorial handbags-at-dawn on the lawn, featuring her two star celebrities.
‘So what happened to poor Clara?’ asked her mother.
‘Do you want to tell her or should I?’ asked Randall, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Maddy glanced anxiously at the crowd gathering around them and then at Luke. Their eyes met for a second, sending a wave of longing through her, before Luke’s gaze returned to fix his opponent with an icy stare. He took a long, measured intake of breath that swelled his chest. ‘Randall, I don’t care what you think or what fictional pathos you want to peddle; the people who matter already know the truth.’
With that Luke strode off towards the marquee, and Randall muttered an excuse about checking on book sales.
‘Was it something I said?’ asked her mother with a puzzled expression.
‘Mrs Shaw, I think I spotted your husband in the hospitality tent. How about we go and get ourselves a cup of tea?’ Alice suggested tactfully. Maddy threw her a grateful glance; she would satisfy her mother’s curiosity later. For now, she needed to find Myra. Her calm, no-nonsense approach and years of experience were exactly what Maddy needed for the next thirty-five minutes.
‘Good morning and welcome!’ Maddy spread her arms feeling like one of those television evangelists as she smiled at her seated audience.
The previous day, as they’d lined up the chairs in rows allowing spaces for access and wheelchair attendees, she’d wondered whether they’d been ridiculously over-confident about numbers, but for the last hour, Jem had been an absolute gem, rearranging chairs and wedging in more seating at the back. The front row was reserved for committee members plus guest speakers—the majority of whom were local writers, and were now sitting nervously clutching their books and casting admiring glances at the keynote speaker in their midst.
Maddy did the same as she continued her welcome address and found it hard to drag her gaze away. ‘My name is Madeleine Shaw and I am proud to be the chair of what has become a long-held and much-loved tradition in this village—the Cotlington Literary Festival. We have a wonderful diverse programme of events for you today’—she waved her copy of the programme in the air—‘and with the exception of the Mystery Channel’s celebrity ghost hunter’—she clocked the look of disdain that flickered across Luke’s face—‘all our speakers are local authors.
‘You will find the hospitality tent has a range of refreshments available, and for those brave enough, I’ve been told there’s some home brew on offer too. All of today’s speakers will be selling signed copies of their books in the rose garden gazebo, so do go and have a chat with them during the day.’ She was thankful that Randall was already ensconced there and out of Luke’s way.
‘So, without further ado, please let me introduce our keynote speaker and everyone’s favourite crime writer, Cameron Massey, who frequently tops the bestseller lists and is two times winner of the coveted Silver Spanner Award. After his talk, there will be an opportunity for questions, and I have it on good authority that we may also be treated to an excerpt from one of his books.’
Maddy stepped away from the microphone and slipped into the seat she had reserved for herself at the side of the marquee. Her heart thumped as adrenaline whooshed through her, and she fanned her face with the programme in her hand. Just seeing him again brought back a flood of conflicting emotions, chiefly regret. If only she hadn’t tried too hard: she wasn’t an agony aunt trying to heal wounds; she was a journalist and should have stuck to the script.
Accompanied by an enthusiastic bout of clapping, Luke stepped forward, nodded at Maddy and turned to face his audience. ‘Thank you for inviting me here today. I know we have a lot of new and aspiring authors here, so first of all I’d like to tell you a bit about my journey to publication.’
She had to hand it to him, he was a brilliant speaker. This mercurial man who could be snarky and sour one minute, charming and entertaining the next, clearly knew how to hold the attention of an audience, who were now hanging on his every word. From time to time, Joyce held up her phone and took a picture, presumably tweeting live to her followers. Maddy hadn’t had much time to look at social media in the last couple of days, but tonight she’d catch up with everything. At least Luke would get plenty of publicity out of this, and she hoped his books sales would do well. She’d bet good money that Randall would be keeping tabs on their respective book piles!
‘…The unhappy truth is that many people start submitting their novel before they have honed their craft, and I was certainly no exception…’
Even after his abrupt departure and harsh, hurtful words, she couldn’t find it within herself to stay angry with him. She sighed inwardly. Was she destined to end up like Myra, settling for second best, always pining for the one that got away?
‘…write about what interests you, not what you think the current trend or fashion might be. Then get into the minds of your characters and make it real…’
Luke had his idiosyncrasies, his sometimes abrasive responses, but that wasn’t the whole person, though he clearly didn’t care if the rest of the world never got to find that out. Maddy let her mind drift through all their encounters and conversations: that initial Valentine’s Day clash of temperaments, the surprise meeting in the fields, their Entente Cordiale dinner at Il Caprice, the unexpected ending to the ghost hunting evening, that mistaken proposal, their sofa side vigil for Buster and his joyous return. As she had gradually peeled back the layers, she’d uncovered the reasons behind so much of his actions, and come to know and love the real Luke Hamilton.
‘…and I’m going to finish with something I wrote very recently.’ Luke was clearly winding up his talk but then what? She was desperate to ensure that he didn’t slip away before they had a chance to talk.
‘As you know, my books have all been crime novels. However, a while ago I was challenged to try my hand at a totally different genre, and one that I freely admit I have scoffed at and berated in the past—romance.’
Maddy stared at him. He said he’d been challenged—was she the person he was referring to?
‘It’s fair to say I found even a short story far more difficult than I was expecting, and it’s very unlikely to get published, but I admit it has been an interesting exercise in all sorts of ways.’ There was a polite ripple of laughter in the audience and Luke cleared his throat before he started speaking again. ‘So ladies and gents, for the first and definitely last time, this is an excerpt from a romance that I’ve been trying out.’
Maddy experienced a flutter of anxiety. Despite her teasing, she hadn’t seriously expected him to try, and now she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he’d written. What if it was awful? What if people laughed? Maddy had heard of spoof awards for awful romance writing. She couldn’t bear it if Luke ended up being humiliated because of something she’d said. With nerve endings jangling she watched, transfixed, as he removed a piece of folded paper from his inside jacket pocket.
An expectant silence fell inside the marquee that lasted for several seconds, broken only by a loud bark of a laugh from Luke. ‘And if you think I’m reading this aloud, think again my friends.’
Luke ignored the collective gasp and nervous laughter from the audience. ‘However, I am prepared to hold my hands up and say that writing romance is not as simple as it might at first appear. Furthermore, I’ve given some thought as to why that might be.’
This wasn’t what Maddy had expected at all, and the audience clearly felt the same if the buzz of anticipation was anything to go by.
‘Writing a crime novel—or any novel come to that—requires the author to create an interesting premise, maybe a puzzle, sometimes a whodunnit. Making sure you have a good cast of characters, and an interesting journey on which to take your readers. I can do all of that very easily, so why did I find it so difficult to construct a romance?
‘The answer, I think, lies in the added requirement of the characters’ emotional journey. I’ve seen some awful examples of what people think is real-life romance, and it isn’t all flowers and big gestures. Nor does it have to be public declarations, surprise parties or expensive gifts.
‘I started this exercise in the belief that romance books were purely about the froth, the fizz and the fireworks, and that was probably why I found it so hard to write a conclusion to this never-to-be-published story.’ Luke paused, folded up his paper and tucked it away.
‘In fact, it’s often in the quiet moments that we see someone’s true character and feelings. In real life, relationships are rarely perfect, but they are a better example for your fictional characters. Life isn’t one long series of happy ever afters, so what happens when life trips you up? When people feel wronged, how do they react? Do they run away from difficulties, or do they stay and work through the problem? What motivates them to act the way that they do?
‘It is clear to me now that the best relationships—whether fictional or real—encompass compassion as well as passion.’ He looked across at Maddy as his tone softened. ‘And loving someone is as much about saying, “Sorry I hurt you,” as it is “I love you.”’
For a few seconds he held her gaze and his lips formed the briefest of smiles. Maddy’s eyes prickled with unshed tears as she wrestled to control the maelstrom of emotions spinning inside her.
Luke turned back to his audience. ‘I know I’ll always be a crime writer, but perhaps one who now has a bit more respect for those who can pull off the perfect love story.’
Maddy was first to her feet, beaming from ear to ear, bouncing on the balls of her feet until she was almost leaping in the air, and applauding until her palms were stinging. Whatever happened now, the festival was going to be a success, and the message from Luke—because that was surely an olive branch—was received and understood. She beamed at her parents, applauding enthusiastically along with the rest of the audience. Joyce waved at her and gave her a thumbs up, and she glanced over at Myra and saw the same excitement radiating from her. However, Myra’s expression rapidly turned to wide-eyed concern as she pointed discreetly.
