Thread of Life - Chapter One

I have the start of a new novel. It's early days so there is a very long way and lots of editing to do but the idea is taking some shape. The current working title is Thread of Life. This is chapter one - what do you think?

Chapter One

Evie watched them clump around her house. She wanted them to leave, could hear the scream rattle round her head but she couldn't force the sounds out. Who they hell did they think they were? She needed Nick to come home. Tell them they were idiots, throw them out and make them swear never to scare his wife again.

'Mrs Wright, can I make you a cup of sweet tea? Call someone to come over?'

Evie stared past her, looked out the window, and wished Nick would hurry up. He promised her he would be home early.

Left alone, Evie could hear the woman opening and closing cupboard doors in her kitchen, the sounds of water running. Every day noises in a world of chaos.

Beeping noises sounded in her hallway; they'd given up on getting through to her. Evie wondered which lucky person would get the call. She was surprised when she heard him speak. 'I'm calling on behalf of Mrs Wright. My name is PC Griffin. Am I speaking to Mrs Wright's mother?' His voice was high-pitched. Somehow she expected it to be deep and sombre. It made it all seem even more ridiculous. 'I'm afraid we've delivered some bad news to your daughter. Her husband was killed in a road traffic accident this morning.'

Evie could guess how her mother is fussing, asking how her daughter is and promising to get there straight away.

He didn't look at her when he came back into the lounge. Kept his head high and his eyes straight ahead as he walked past her into the kitchen.

Evie could hear hushed voices, whispering. Bet he's complaining about having to wait with me. The voices stop and she's the first to return. Stupid woman. Doesn't she know that's Nick's cup and he hates tea. He's a black coffee man and nothing else will do. She tried to force the mug into Evie's hand. He hovered near the door and Evie noticed how soft and unblemished his skin was. It occurred to her she might be his first. First road death, first time to comfort the widow, first time to screw up and identify the wrong person because there was no way Nick would leave her, especially not now.

'Here's a nice cup of sweet tea, you need to take a drink. We've called your mum and she'll be here soon.'

Evie didn't reply but inside her head the voice still screamed, GET OUT.

*

 

Watching the dust motes float through a chink of light, Evie lay curled on her bed, arms wrapped around her stomach, recalling the moment when she had told Nick the news. Had that really only been the night before? It seemed impossible that her life could have changed so much in such a short space of time. She remembered the stillness as he digested the news, the moment reality hit and he ran towards her, scooping her into his arms before setting her down and placing a hand on her stomach. How he questioned her over and over. Was she really sure? She'd had to retrieve all three of the little, plastic sticks from the bathroom, each one proclaiming PREGNANT, to convince him they had succeeded at last. He wanted to tell everyone straight away but she begged him not to. Just in case. It could be their secret, at least until the twelve week scan. All they had to do was hide it for six weeks.

A quiet rap on the bedroom door broke her thoughts. She pulled the duvet up to her neck and hugged it to her, as her mother came into the room.

'Evie, I've brought you a wee cup of tea.'

Evie rolled over, turning away from the proffered cup.

'C'mon now dear. I know this is hard but a cup of tea and a piece of toast won't do you any harm and...well, there are arrangements to make. Things we can't decide without you.'

The sound of heels clacked on the wooden staircase and Evie pulled the duvet over her head.

The door squeaked, like it always did when it was pushed open too far. Nick kept saying he'd take a look at that hinge, but he never did find the time to sort it.

'Mum, leave it on the bedside table. She'll have it when she's ready,' Zoe said, sitting on the edge of the bed. 'I've left some tea and cake out on the coffee table for you and dad.'

Evie heard the exhale, the plate and cup being set on the table. Another squeak as the door was closed. Then a hand on her shoulder, the mattress shifting as her sister climbed onto the bed behind her and lay down behind her. Zoe pulled the duvet down, tucked strands of hair behind Evie's ear and rubbed her shoulder. 'I'm sorry Sis. Wish I could say something that would make it better but I don't even know where to start.'

What could anyone say?

One To Watch

My manuscript, The Glass House, has been chosen by the Authonomy Editors at the Harper Collins Authonomy website as this week's One to Watch. I'm so thrilled that it was chosen and at the comments they left on their blog about it.

If I didn't already have an incentive to get back to something I love, this has provided the nudge I needed.

I've been saying I feel like framing it...

And if that wasn't shameless enough, here's a link to the full blog post.

Flash Fiction

I love the challenge of Flash Fiction. I posted this story on SkyPen, meeting the challenge of a story on any topic, in any genre, in 99 words.

Writing.ie

I live in a rural area and, combined with my family circumstances, it's difficult to find a writing group. Instead I turned to the internet and sought out writing communities, joining two writing forums, each providing peer review and beneficial in their own way. One in particular has a critique group for women's fiction, which I've found invaluable.

Through the chasm of Twitter I discovered writing.ie and joined their emerging writers programme. It's already proving to be a useful resource and way to meet other writers. Thanks to a link on it for Cornerstones I discovered Write A Blockbuster And Get It Published. This is one of the more pragmatic and easy to follow writing guides I've purchased, dealing with not only writing but the submission process. 

http://www.writing.ie/member-emerging-writers/lesa-clarke/
Cornerstones: Write a Blockbuster

Snow Ball: Short Story

Snow Ball

Lying on the bed, my back resisting the cold, thin mattress I stare at the ceiling. The paint is flaking and the vibrancy of the white is reduced to a dull cream, as dirt and neglect have collected on it.

I can't help but wonder what sort of view I could be focusing on if only I'd followed my own instincts. I should've ignored the demands and expectations of others. Maybe we'd have passed each other by, our lives never intertwining. I doubt it.

My father was the first to insist I attend that event. As an equity and managing partner of the law firm, he'd insisted their newest qualified solicitor, his pride and joy, eldest child should be there to represent the future of the firm and the family name. I was harder to convince.

'Daddy, I agreed to go Susie's gig months ago. What's she going to think of me if I back out now?' I said, pacing the length of his mahogany desk, waving my arms in protest.

'I'd be more concerned about what your employers and your father thought, if I was you,' he replied, leaning back in the chair, the hard, new leather squeaking as he did so.

'I doubt the partners would notice one meagre employee not attending their Snow Ball but Susie's going to be pretty pissed and disappointed if her best friend doesn't show up for her first concert.'

'She's a big girl and it's about time she learnt to cope without you. I pulled a lot of strings to get you that position and you will be at the ball.'

'But...'

'Unless you want to assist me with this Brief for Counsel, this conversation is over.'

He might have bullied me into a job pouring over legalese Monday to Friday but he wasn't getting my weekends too.

'I'm meeting Susie and I better go give her the bad news.'

His head buried in his work, he didn't even manage a grunt or a wave when I turned to leave.

I glanced around the circular table at the other new solicitors, all enjoying their food and wine. They'd qualified six months before me, after training together in the firm. They'd been groomed for their positions within departments. Me, I was the outsider. The one whose father had used his position to get her a role. The girl opposite me smiled, when she caught my look, but turned away to chat to the man next to her. Two men flanked me but, after saying hello and acknowledging my existence, they became engrossed in their food or those on the other side of them.

I heard my phone ring in the silver clutch that lay on the polished, wooden floor. I tried grabbing for it but the stupid thing rang off before I could answer it. Checking the missed calls I found Susie's number. Talking to her was preferable to the cold-shoulder.

The chair scraped as I pushed it back and stood. I was going to make my excuses but no-one looked up so why bother.

I squeezed out through the tables, mostly filled with animated people, the talk flowing in ratio to the wine. I saw a sign indicating the toilets and followed it, finding a quiet hallway.

'Hi Suse, how's it going?

'God Ash, I'm sick as hell.'

'Really sick or nervous sick?'

'About to throw up all over the stage sick.'

'It's just nerves,' I said. Throwing my clutch on the floor and slumping against the wall. 'You'll be fine when you get up there and start singing.'

'I don't think I can do it. What if I can't even get my voice out, never mind sing in tune.'

'Listen to me. You're amazing and all those people turned up because they loved your You Tube channel. If you could put yourself out on the internet, you can do this.'

'That was different. It was just me and a camera. I couldn't see all those faces.'

'Then just forget about them and pretend you're looking at a camera.'

I heard a puff of breath.

'I wish you were here,' she said, her voice quieter, timid. Not my Susie.

'Believe me, so do I.'

'Is it that bad?'

'Dad's watching me like a hawk to make sure I behave and the whole table is ignoring me,' I said, wincing. 'They all hate me.'

'They just don't know you.

'And they don't want to.'

'Did you wear that silver dress?'

'Yep,' I said, smoothing the shimmering fabric over my stomach before pulling on the short hem. 'But it's not working its magic tonight.'

'Give it time.'

I nodded. 'Sure. You okay now?'

'As good as I will be. I better get going, I'm due on stage in a few minutes.'

'Good luck and ring me when you've finished.'

I was still leaning against the wall, scrolling through my social media feeds, when the double doors swished open. A guy I hadn't met before walked into the hallway. Like every other man at the ball he was dressed in a tux but his accented a toned body. The stark, white shirt in contrast to his tousled black hair.

'Hiding?' he asked.

'No, just answering a call,' I said, straightening up and waving my phone.

'You're Michael's daughter, aren't you?' He leant against the wall, next to me.

'How did you guess?'

'Probably from the fact every woman at my table has been talking about you.'

'Let me guess. Bitching about the little girl whose daddy had to get her a job.'

'Wishing they could wear that dress,' he said, his eyes focusing on the garment.

'It seemed like a good choice earlier.' I crossed one stiletto covered foot over the other. As if that would help hide my embarrassment.

'I'm Patrick,' he said, holding out his hand. 'I'm one of the Commercial Litigation team leads.'

'Oh right. Lucky you. One of dad's right-hand men.'

'He's a good boss, taught me a lot.'

I raised an eyebrow, all too aware of how much attention my dad gave his job. I picked up my bag and dropped the phone back into it. 'Guess I better get back to my table.'

'They're clearing them away, making room for dancing.'

'Great,' I said, rolling the r and emphasising the t.

'The bar's open. Can I buy you a drink?'

I wasn't getting any other offers and even if he did come across as a slick charmer, at least he was speaking to me.

At the end of the night, I was deciding how to answer his last question, as I drained the last of my glass. He took his hand of my leg and sat backwards, gesturing over my shoulder. 'Someone's looking for you.'

I swivelled round to find my father striding towards me, unlike Patrick, his shirt was still done-up to the last button, his bow-tie pristine.

'Patrick,' he said when he reached us. 'I noticed you've been looking out for Ashleigh this evening.'

'She's been gracious enough to put up with me monopolising her.'

'Yes, well, the hotel have to close the bar in here now. I'm going to join a few of the other partners for a drink in the residents bar. Would you like to join us?'

'I'm pretty tired, Dad. If you don't mind I'm going to head up to my room.'

'You'll join us, won't you?' He directed the question at Patrick and it was obvious he expected him to say yes.

'Look, I'll leave you both to it,' I said. 'Night Dad.' I kissed him on the cheek. 'And thank you, Patrick.' He stood and I leant my upper body against his in a brief hug. Thanks to the low-backed dress I could feel the warmth and pressure of his hand rest against my skin.

I didn't look back. I knew the view he was getting as I walked away.

I found reasons to visit commercial litigation. Seeing my father for one, showing him I was making an effort to get-to-know the new solicitor who had joined his department; the woman from the table, turned out her name was Caroline. She'd smiled and I took that as an invitation to talk to her. The first time I'd made an excuse to speak to dad, I stopped at her desk on the way by, asked her if she'd enjoyed the ball, suggested we meet for coffee. Hovering round her booth gave me the chance to look for Patrick. I spotted the dark head behind a wall of glass, bent over a desk, his hand embedded in his hair. I glanced over at him again as I left the department, this time his head was raised and he smiled over at me. Maybe I should go in, say hello. Answer that last question he'd asked me. My hand rested on the exit as I considered my choices but in the brief moment that I hesitated a blonde woman, perhaps a few years older than me, entered his office. She dropped papers on his desk and as she did so, placed a hand on his shoulder. His attention distracted.

He never sought me out in the office but each time I visited his department, I glanced his way. He was always busy, always surrounded by others, that woman never far from his side. I found out she was the assistant solicitor in his team. Her name was Karen and she was married. I didn't warm to her.

As a friendship grew with Caroline, the other new solicitors began to accept me. I worked hard, proved my worth but I hated every minute of it and, even though some had thawed towards me, my own department was like a freezer. Forced together, the contents cold and resistant to me.

I was supposed to meet Caroline after work that Friday night but my team lead found an urgent job, only I could undertake. I was alone in the department when Patrick came in and reminded me about that unanswered question.

We were always cautious at work. We didn't want the gossip, the eyes watching us and I didn't need anymore reason for people to hate me or think I was using anything other than my brain to garner favour. I introduced Susie to him, just the once.

After a month I started leaving small items at his flat; a toothbrush, a change of underwear, a hairbrush, some make-up, then a pair of jeans and a clean top. A few more things each weekend. I had to. The more time I spent there, the more things I needed. One Friday I brought a suit to work, I left it in the car so no-one would see it and since dad let me move into the London flat, it's not like anyone was keeping a track of me.

'What's that?' Patrick asked when I threw the suit bag over the back of his sofa.

'It's a suit for Monday morning, so we can have the whole weekend together.'

He pulled me into his arms, unbuttoning my shirt as he kissed and nipped my lips, my neck. He pushed the jacket and shirt from my arms, unhooking my bra and throwing the clothes to the floor.

'Let's talk about that later,' he said, lowering me onto the sofa.

Turned out he'd agreed to play rugby on Sunday morning, so I packed the spare suit back into my car and took it home with me.

I suppose I should've become suspicious when he became busier on Friday nights. I blame dad. I'd been so used to him working the same long hours in that department, I thought it was part of the course. I didn't mind waiting until Saturday night to meet-up. Gave me more time to catch-up with Susie and I could join Caroline and the others again for the Friday night after work drinks. If I hadn't done that I'd probably never have found out.

'Come on, Caroline, you must've noticed something,' Paul was saying when I returned to the table.

'Noticed something about what?' I asked.

'Paul's been chasing after one of the paralegals in his department. Turns out she's friends with a secretary in my department and she reckons Patrick and Karen are an item.'

'But she's married,' I said, trying to control my voice.

'Oh yeah and no-one married ever had an affair,' Paul said, lifting his pint and knocking it back. 'Gotta love ya and leave ya ladies. Hot date waiting for me.'

I made my excuses after that. Rang dad and found out he was still at work but on his own and finishing up. I tried Patrick's phone but it went to voicemail. There was only one thing left to do.

The coffee shop opposite his building was still open. I bought a creamy, frothy latte and found a comfy armchair by the window. I like to soak up the smell of the freshly filled cup but I couldn't concentrate on it that night, the milk moustache was wiped away without the hint of a smile. The light was on in his bedroom.

I rang his phone again but he still didn't answer. An hour and three cups of coffee later she walked out the front door. Smoothing that blonde hair down and buttoning up her coat.

I couldn't answer the phone when it rang. I listened to his message.

'Sorry I missed your calls. Had to turn the phone off to concentrate on the job. On my way home now. Come over after your drinks.'

It started so easily. Checking his phone to see if they were texting each other but I guess she was too protective of her secret for that. Seems he liked to keep his call and text history clear as well, deleting everything. I realised he didn't even have my number saved under my name. I kept my visits to his department as regular as before but I watched her. She was good. An odd glance, maybe standing a little too close to each other but never anything obvious. For a while I even began to believe it was over. He wanted me again on Friday nights but then the text came. He had to cancel our plans, some urgent work he couldn't avoid. Told me to go out with my friends and he'd meet me later.

I waited in the car park. Watched her leave first, an hour after most staff had fled for the weekend. He rang me from the office phone to ask where I was and after I'd replied, saying I was home, he followed her out.

I parked round the corner from the coffee shop and found that armchair with the view. The lights in the windows of his flat betrayed him.

She left after an hour again. Fifteen minutes later he rang me.

I tried to wait thirty minutes but after twenty my patience wore out.

I'm sick of the travelling now. Glad to have reached this island. I'm adjusting to the heat, the humidity, even the bugs but the loneliness is killing me. I can't sleep. I think about how everything snowballed that night. Keep seeing the knife, his blood dripping from it as I pulled it out of his leg. I failed my biology A-level, you know. If I'd passed it maybe he'd still be alive; I'd have known about that femoral artery. The blood ran quicker than I could clean the knife and put it in my bag. I was glad I'd only left a few things in his flat. It didn't take me long to pack them up. I wanted to kiss him before I left, say I was sorry, I didn't mean it. His eyes were so black and the lids were half-closed, like he was going to sleep. I couldn't do it.

I guess Patrick never told Karen about me. After dad helped me get on the plane, he stayed in touch. Said the police found out about the office gossip and questioned her. They suspected a woman was the killer and she'd been the prime suspect. They took her fingerprints and DNA and matched them to what they found in his flat; the indignity of being revealed by a used condom, fished from a bin. The firm took care of her. It was all too circumstantial. They still haven't arrested anyone and my name hasn't been mentioned.

It's getting cooler now and my little lizard friend is coming in off the porch to say hello. He visits me every day; even if I leave the bottom half of the shutters closed, he climbs over the top of them. He finds his way into my life, whether I want him to or not.

I get up off the bed and stretch, the white linen dress falling back into place, the hem skimming my knees. It's creased and I decide to change it.

Opting for a clean dress, I slip on a pair of sandals and fill a glass with cold water, from a bottle in the fridge. Sipping it I lean against the porch railings. The sweet, heady smell of the pink flowers that trail along it is overpowering.

I pick-up the binoculars from the rusting, iron table and train them on the house down the hill. An old banyan tree obscures most of it. Yesterday there was a lot of commotion around that previously empty colonial building and today I thought I glimpsed a man on the balcony. I wonder if he's alone like me. I'll take a stroll down there in a minute. Everyone needs a friendly neighbour. Right?

Vanity Case Books: New Review Site

On joining one online writing community I discovered an active chick-lit circle and five talented writers; Natalie, Caroline, Janny, Gemma and Jo. Between them they've written a cross-section of the women's fiction genre and I've seen each of them provide constructive and honest, but fair, reviews.

Today they launch a new website, Vanity Case Books, in which they will review women's fiction books, with a particular emphasis on self-published authors. They'll also have a fan of the month who will be pictured with their favourite book.

So, if you're looking for something new to read, check out their comments at:
Vanity Case Books

You can also follow them on twitter - as a group and individually:
@vanitycasebooks 
@vcbcaroline 
@vcbgemma 
@vcbnat
@vcbjo 
@vcbjanny

The Glass House: Chapter One

I've been playing around with the chapter order to decide where best the open The Glass House. In the end I opted to keep the first chapter as originally drafted but I've edited it further.

I've tried to give a sense of place in this story, both within the landscape and buildings but also within the people and culture of their lives. I felt it was important to give a taste of the relationship between the sisters from the offset but I hope the editing also starts to show more of the family and their Northern Irish roots.

Am I getting there?

Chapter One

Caitlin sighed as she looked at the gardening manuals spread across the island worktop in her sister's kitchen. The sound of her exasperation muffled by the grinding of ice as Niamh refilled a glass with cold water.

'Sure you don't want one?'

'We live in the West of Northern Ireland and it's January. Freezing cold water isn't going to warm my bones.'

'More fool you for choosing a career that leaves you outside most of the day.'

Caitlin rifled through the pages, finding the next one, marked with a sticky note.

'Look, just tell me what you think about these.' She gestured towards the page. 'What about the clematis montana, this honeysuckle, maybe the winter flowering jasmine and an evergreen cistus?'

'I've no idea what any of those are. You choose.'

'Won't you at least look at the pictures?'

'As long as you get rid of what's out there and plant something new I couldn't care less what it is. Besides, I trust you.'

'Sometimes I despair of you,' Caitlin said, pushing a stray blonde hair back into her pony-tail. 'I'm never going to convince you gardening is good for the soul, am I?'

'You inherited those genes,' Niamh replied, holding up one hand, the sparkling, well-tended talons on display. 'I much prefer nail extensions to green fingers, thank you very much.'

Setting the glass down on the gleaming surface, Niamh pushed the gardening manuals closer to her sister. Caitlin accepted them revealing stubby finger nails. The skin on her hands coarser than Niamh's and indelibly stained from the green and brown of plants and soil, the tools of her trade.

'Lucky you found a rich man to marry then.' Caitlin tucked her hands between her jean clad legs, shifting on the uncomfortable bar stool, watching her younger sister bristle as she grabbed the edge of the granite.

'Don't knock my man, it's his generosity paying for your gardening services.'

Caitlin opened her mouth to reply that he hadn't paid for anything yet but the noise of the phone ringing stole Niamh's attention.

Opening the glass door of the stove, Caitlin rubbed her hands in the heat that emanated from the fire, the strong peat and charcoal aroma of the coal and turf escaping into the room around her.

The two dogs unfolded their long limbs and stood, shaking their mahogany coats before moving to her side, pushing their soft, brown noses closer to the warmth.

'Don't get too close you pair,' she said, ruffling their long, floppy ears. 'Don't think Niamh would appreciate singed setter hair.'

She rotated, warming herself all round and closed the door again. 'Where did she get to anyway? That has to be the longest phone call in history,' she muttered at the dogs. Roise lifted her large paw to rest it against Caitlin's leg. 'I know you want a bit of attention but I'll have to go soon.' Caitlin pulled the dog beds closer to the stove and went in search of her sister.

Standing in the doorway, between the kitchen and the hall, Caitlin could hear Niamh's voice drift from the drawing room. Following it, intending to indicate she'd call back later, she stalled as Niamh's voice rose.

'I don't bloody care. I'm sick of you trying to manipulate us and if I had my way your life would be a lot less comfortable. I will tell him you rang, this time, but you're getting nothing more out of us.'

Caitlin heard the sound of the phone clatter onto a table. She padded quietly on the wooden hall floor, her thick woollen socks muffling the sound as she retraced her steps back to the kitchen.

By the time Niamh returned to the kitchen Caitlin was sitting by the granite island. Niamh set the phone down on the gleaming worktop. 'Sorry about that. Mum called to remind me that Tom and I promised to have dinner with her and dad tomorrow night but you know what she's like. Couldn't get her off the phone.'

'Mum? Surprised she didn't want to speak to me.'

'Like I said, it was hard enough getting her off the phone.'

'Suppose I should call round and see her later. I must be due another lecture on coming to my senses and moving back in with her and dad.'

'She worries about you. Can't blame her for that and you must see why we all do. Living like that can't be healthy.'

'Don't start.'

Sounds from the hall that lead to the rear door, stopped the conversation.

'Hello. What are you two plotting? Tom Whitley asked, his leather soled shoes, clipping on the white travertine tiles, as he crossed the kitchen to join his wife.

Niamh turned to him, pointing at his feet. 'Thought I told you to leave those shoes by the door. Look at the black marks they're leaving all over the floor.'

'I'm only gonna be a minute,' Tom said, reaching across the island to draw a manual towards him, while pushing away the transparent, crystal vase and the five white lilies it contained. 'Wish you'd stop buying those damn things. Hate the stench of them. Remind me of funerals.'

'Some inspiration for the garden,' Caitlin said, watching him leaf through her book, its corners worn from folding, notes scribbled alongside the photographs and fluorescent colours highlighting the black print.

'Nothing wrong with it the way it is,' Tom said, flipping the manual closed. 'No need to spend any money on it.'

'It's the last reminder of your ex-wife in this property and I want it gone,' Niamh said, prodding his shoulder.

'That's not playing fair,' Tom said, pulling her into his arms. 'You know I can deny you nothing.' He kissed her glossed lips. 'If you insist on changing it, I'm sure Caitlin will be offering me family rates.'

Caitlin, immune to Tom's placating smile, remained silent. Having no intention of offering him anything she retrieved her book, flicking back to the pages she'd been trying to show Niamh.

'Anyway, I don't have time for this right now,' Tom said, releasing Niamh. 'Just popped home to pick up my passport, had a great tip about a property in Marbella that would be prime a-list rental. Rushing out to see it before the family of the recently deceased little old dear sell it to someone else for a song.'

'Wait a minute.' Niamh pushed her hands under his open blazer, holding the shirt, tucked into his jeans. 'You're going to Marbella, now?'

'That's what I said, isn't it?' Tom muttered, side-stepping her to rifle through a kitchen drawer and retrieve his dog-eared passport.

'You're not going without me. Give me an hour to get ready.'

'Be serious pet, the flight leaves at four and you know it'll take me two hours to get to Belfast. I wish I could, but I don't have time to wait for you.'

'All I have to do is pack a bag, change my clothes and freshen my make up.'

'And we all know how long that takes,' Caitlin said, forcing a mocking smile onto her face, when Niamh narrowed her black-lined eyelids, obscuring her blue eyes as she cast a withering look at her sister.

'Look, if you've got time to pack, then so have I,' Niamh said, turning her back to Caitlin.

'Not packing,' Tom said. 'I'll pick up a few things at the airport. Besides, I haven't booked you a seat,' Tom continued, 'and, even if I could get you one, you'd be bored whilst we try to get a good deal out of the family.''

'We. Who's we?'

'Just a business contact who's interested in investing in this property with me.'

'Male or female business contact?'

'Would it matter?' Tom said, glancing over his shoulder at her, while pulling out the next drawer. 'We're still newly-weds after all and you know I only have eyes for you.'

'You better have.'

Clutching the passport, Tom reached around Niamh, tucking his hands into the rear pockets of the jeans that clung to her slim legs, pulling her close and swivelling her around, resting their hips against the island.

'Why would I need to look elsewhere when I have my gorgeous wife waiting here to welcome me home?'

Niamh stroked the lapels of Tom's jacket and cradled into his embrace. When Caitlin saw her stick out her lower lip, a gesture she'd developed as a child and used to great effect on everyone ever since, Caitlin smirked. Tom's escape was about to become conditional and she was glad his condescension was about to be parried.

'You better make sure you bring me home something expensive and dazzling.'

'As always. I'll call you later.'

Caitlin was relieved to see him break the embrace and turn to leave the room. The man repelled her and she couldn't imagine how Niamh could bear his touch.

'Wait a minute,' Niamh said. 'I need to speak to you about...'

'Can't. Tell me tonight.' He ruffled the ears of the two Irish Setters as he spoke, before striding to the back door. When he slammed it behind him, Caitlin realised he'd side-stepped the issue of who he was travelling with.

'How can you stand him talking to you like that?' she asked.

'Oh don't be such a feminist. Your attitude is the reason why I'm happily married and you're alone.'

'I'm alone because I have standards and anyway, I'd rather have no-one than an old man groping me and talking down to me like some brainless doll.'

'Tom's not old. He's only fifty.'

'Exactly. He's twice your age.'

'He looks after himself and he's fitter than some of the men I know in their twenties. Sometimes I think you're jealous. I have a loving husband and two beautiful homes whilst you dig around in the dirt every day, just to pay for a scruffy van and that crumbling house. Tom says if you knocked it to the ground and sold the plot you could make a fortune.'

'He would, but how can you be so soulless? You know how much I love that house and I happen to like digging around in the dirt. It's more honest than digging for gold.'

Gathering the catalogues, and heading for the door, Caitlin found her muddy wellies.

'That's typical, throw insults at me and then run away,' Niamh said.

'Goodbye, Niamh,' Caitlin called, not looking around and letting the door slam behind her.

*

The headlights of Caitlin's van picked out the change from wild to neat, curving hedgerow that marked the entrance to her parents home. Turning off the tarmac road onto the concrete driveway she could see lights shine from the rear side of the house. The kitchen window illuminated, her mother would be preparing dinner.

The 1950's farmhouse didn't offer the luxury of a utility room or the convenience of the scullery that older properties provided. Instead, when Caitlin opened the backdoor with the accustomed shove of the hip, she walked straight into the kitchen.

'Ah Cate, I didn't hear you drive up. You near made me cut my finger off barging through the door like that,' her mother said, brandishing a small, serrated knife.

'Not a bit of wonder. You've that tv up so loud a bomb could go off in the yard and you wouldn't hear it.'

'Well, turn it down then and pull up a chair. I'll stick the kettle on.'

Forcing one foot against the heel of the other, Caitlin shook off her boots and sat in a wooden chair by the old cream Aga, its lids scratched and worn from decades of use. 'Want a hand with that,' she asked, watching her mother enact the daily ritual of peeling the potatoes and throwing them into the pot of boiling water. For more than half of its life the thirty year-old range had been fuelled by coal and Caitlin's head swam with delightful memories of her father sticking his feet on the edge of the fire to warm his toes, her mother scolding him for yet another pair of charred socks to be darned. Now oil-fired, the coal and the darning needles had long ago been discarded.

'No, it's grand. Almost done. Thought you were going round to Niamh's?'

'I was,' she answered, pulling out another chair and putting her woollen sock-covered feet on it. 'Didn't she tell you I was there when you rang?'

'I didn't ring. Popped over to see her last night. Such a gorgeous house.' Mary Maguire said, covering the pot of plumping potatoes with a lid. 'She's so lucky but Tom works so hard for the pair of them. He was holed up in that study of his most of the time I was there. Did you see him?' she asked, turning to Caitlin.

'Briefly,' Caitlin answered, shrugging.

'He looks after our Niamh so well but I thought he looked tired. Hope he's taking care of himself.' She flicked Caitlin's feet from the chair, sitting down on it. 'I wish you could find someone like that.'

'I don't want to be looked after and certainly not by someone like Tom.'

'Why do you have to be so hard on him?'

'Aside from the fact that he is a misogynistic dinosaur?'

'That's nonsense. He's good to your sister and she's more than happy to be looked after, so who are they hurting?'

Caitlin stared at her mother wishing she could answer, almost speaking the words which boiled in her head. If only she could be sure of what she saw the night of Niamh's wedding. She wished yet again that she'd gotten a better look at the man, then maybe she could voice her suspicions. She knew Tom was from a world she wanted no part of and she hated the way Niamh had succumbed to his cash, however he'd earned it. Instead she hung her head, knowing her mother would assume she was sulking.

'Anyway, were you able to help her out with the garden?'

'Sort of,' Caitlin said, drawing out the words.

'What does that mean?'

'I made some suggestions but we had a bit of a disagreement before I left.'

'You two don't know how to have a bit of a disagreement; blazing row would be more like it. I've never met two sisters who fight as much as you two do.'

'That's not fair, Mum. All siblings squabble.'

'I remember that day we brought Niamh home from the hospital. You were four years old and kept telling us how excited you were to be getting a sister, then you looked at her and you both burst out crying.'

'We're very different people,' Caitlin said, standing to lift the lid on the pot, relieving the pressure, as the cloudy water forced against it. A plume of steam rose, carrying the starchy smell into the kitchen.

'Niamh was always more like me, I'd love to have had the advantages she has, but you're so like your father and your grandmother. Never happier than when you're up to your elbows in muck.'

'Speaking of which, I better get back to work.' Caitlin scraped the chair legs on the tiled floor as she slid it back under the table. Pushing her hands into her pockets she wondered if she'd ever gain her mother's approval in the way Niamh managed.

'Aren't you staying for dinner? I've done enough spuds for you and your dad.'

Eager to leave the conversation, but equally keen not to look any more of a petulant child than she already felt, Caitlin acquiesced, thankful that her father would be home soon and she could update him on the glass house.

Next Big Thing - Blog Hop

A fellow blogger and member of Authonomy, Audrey Bennett, has invited me to join in The Next Big Thing blog tour. The idea is to hop from blog to blog to discover exciting authors and their books we might not have heard about or that are still Works in Progress (WIP).  This is Week  23.

The hop rules require me to answer questions, and then at the bottom of my post, to list links to authors who will answer the same questions on their blogs next week. 

So, the Q&A part:

1) What is the working title of your book?

My latest manuscript is called The Glass House.

2) Where did the idea come from for your book?

I love gardening and inherited a glass house from my grandmother. I write women's fiction and I wanted to write a story about judging people on first impressions and the dangers of doing so. I took inspiration from the old phrase, 'People In Glass Houses Shouldn't Throw Stones.' That gave me the idea to make my main character a gardener and from that the story revolved around a Victorian Glass House that she discovers and restores.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

Women's Fiction with a hint of crime/thriller.

4) Which actors would you choose to play in your movie rendition?

As the story is set in Northern Ireland, preferably natives of Northern Ireland or at least someone who can do a plausible Norn Iron accent. Three women and three man are pivotal to the plot so there are a few roles to fill. I recently watched a film called Cherrybomb, set in Belfast. Rupert Grint plays a lead role and I was pleasantly surprised at his Northern Irish accent. Robert Sheehan is also in it and, although from Co Laois, he can also do a good accent. He would make a great Stuart. Homegrown talent in that movie is in the form of James Nesbitt and I could see him in the role of Tom.

5) What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

A sanctuary. A Workplace. When a blackmailer finds a use for it, what secrets will the glass house cultivate?

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I hope it sits well within the realm of women's fiction. It has a surface plot of romance, deception and blackmail. The underlying issue of judging people on impressions develops throughout the story so I hope it will have commercial appeal. I intend to submit it to agents and see what sort of reaction it gets. So far the feedback, on the sample chapters, on two writing sites has been positive and encouraging.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I started the story and wrote the first few chapters about a year ago. Then I turned my efforts to editing my first MS, Twisted Truth. Feeling that I've done all I can with it, for now, I returned to The Glass House and wrote the rest of the first draft within two months.

8) What other books would you compare this story to?

I read a lot of chick-lit and women's fiction but can't think of another one that combines gardening and blackmail in this manner, or that is set in Northern Ireland. Hopefully that all makes up for a unique selling point.

9) Who or what inspired you to write the book?

This answer mirrors that to question two. My own love of gardening and the phrase, 'People in Glass Houses.' One of the characters in the story is too quick to judge people on first impressions. Combine that with a stubborn mind and it's a recipe for trouble.

10) What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

I hope the Northern Irish setting will appeal. I've used my blog to try and highlight this corner of the world and I hope the book could do the same. Caitlin gets a role presenting a gardening show which takes her around Ireland. The glass house is near the village of Sion Mills, which has some very unique architecture and parts of the story are set in Belfast, which provided an opportunity to show the changes and development but also reflects our history and ongoing problems.

Next Wednesday, you can visit the blogs of friends listed below to read the answers on their 'Next Big Thing.'

Melanie Jones - Melanie's debut novel will be released next year and you can also follow her on Facebook.
SJ McClanahan - a husband and wife team who write together and can also be found on Facebook.
Gail Cleare - Gail writes women's fiction and runs a critique group on Authonomy for those who write in the genre.

Synopsis Hell

Time to have a go at drafting a synopsis for The Glass House. I detest writing these things; distilling an entire story into one page, especially when this one has three female leads.

I've had a few attempts at it but this is what I've got so far:

The Glass House: Synopsis

Set in contemporary Northern Ireland, The Glass House has a surface plot involving...but the underlying theme considers the dangers of judging others.

When Stuart needs a gardener to present a day-time programme, he hires Caitlin Maguire. The eldest of two siblings from the Co. Tyrone village of Sion Mills, she's reluctant to leave the safety of her restored Victorian Glass House, but her dwindling finances force her to accept.

Younger sister, Niamh is married to Tom Whitley, a fifty year-old property developer with a scorned ex-wife and an eighteen year old daughter. Expelled from her boarding school for drugs offences she denies and sent to live with her father and Niamh, Ellie is given work experience on a costume drama. She hopes her mother will stop forcing her into academics she hates, letting her follow the career she wants, but Angie isn't a women who gives up without a fight.

Filming and her developing relationship with Stuart see Caitlin temporarily move to Belfast. When Ellie shows a talent for gardening, Caitlin employs her and Ellie gets closer to local man, Jack.

...Ellie is threatened with the exposure of... Ellie has no memory of it and she's afraid her family will lose all trust in her. She agrees to the blackmailer's demands, taking delivery of...

Sorry for the ellipsis but I can't give the whole story away or give you the rest of the synopsis. I'll fill those blanks in for those I submit the MS to.

Descriptions

As I edit and tweak, one of the things I've been looking at it is the description applied to certain scenes. I have reworked the opening to chapter two (previously posted a version), to include some of the wider setting for Caitlin's home and glass house. So, here's the latest draft:

    A deep, satisfying warmth filled Caitlin, once again safe in her sanctuary. Her glass house. This one, no ordinary, domestic greenhouse of glass and aluminium. At almost five metres long it dwarfed the contemporary structures she'd grown up with. A perfect piece of Victorian architecture and engineering, it sat outside a walled garden, in a property once owned by Caitlin's grandparents, near the village of Sion Mills. Nestled in the County Tyrone countryside it was surrounded by low hills, that were home to farms worked by generations of local families. Patched hedgerows, their holes manipulated by the sheep they attempted to contain, bounded the roads and the network of fields. Hawthorne, ash, beech and sycamore trees dotted their lines and prickly, yellow gorse bushes spread from the nearby Sperrin Mountains. Around Caitlin's home the trees were dense enough, when in full leaf, to obscure her view of the mountains.

    Since the death of her grandmother two years ago and the passing of her grandfather a year later, their home had passed to her. Now in her care, the glass house looked stunning, with its dwarf brick walls, sparkling glass and the white, cast-iron frame, topped with a ridge of fleur-de-lis. It had been a very different picture when she'd inherited it. Caitlin’s heart had swelled with sympathy the first time she'd glimpsed the rusted framework, most of the glass broken and what little remained so black with dirt it was unrecognisable. Crumbling brickwork, overgrown with nettles, and layers of mud, so thick they could have sent a geologist to heaven.

    Her grandparents had spent years caring for and developing the garden apart from one corner, which they'd never tackled. Always leaving it wild, to bring in the welcome, pollinating bees and butterflies. It was whilst clearing that overgrown corner to gain access to a crumbling wall, requiring repair, that Caitlin discovered the doorway in the wall. Its paint flaking and its hinges rusted and seized, Caitlin had needed to unscrew it from its warped frame to get to the other side of the wall but when she did she made her greatest discovery.

The Editing Begins

The Glass House has been under the microscope of a book-club-type review group for the last two weeks. I was nervous, especially given I'd put a first draft in front of them. If they hated it there was a chance it would knock my enthusiasm for the story.

I'm pleased that none of the reviews were negative and excited that those who read the whole first draft were particularly positive, saying they saw commercial viability, lots going on in the plot and with the characters. They enjoyed it and picked up on the themes and twists, some offering to read it again when the edits are complete. It needs some work, as you'd expect with a first draft, but the editing process starts in earnest now.

Perhaps this post should be a challenge to myself? Get it tightened up and start submitting to agents in the new year. An early New Year's Resolution?

A Good Feeling

Over 76,000 words, 240 double-line spaced pages and 40 chapters, the first draft of The Glass House is complete. It's the second manuscript I've finished and I feel very satisfied having written that final word.

It's taken me by surprise. My first pitch for it suggested the main character would be Caitlin and the story would centre around her relationship with her sister, Niamh. I had a third female character planned, Chloe. Her name has changed to Ellie and she's gone from a minor character who created a situation Niamh and Caitlin needed to get out off, into a central character who helps drive the plot. I'm going to need a new pitch.

Caitlin's Glass House

Following on from the post about the walled garden at Crom I thought I'd share some extracts from the new manuscript I'm working on, The Glass House, where the reader is first introduced to Caitlin's glass house.

A deep, satisfying warmth filled Caitlin, once again safe in her sanctuary. Her glass house. No ordinary structure of glass and aluminium, but a perfect piece of Victorian architecture and engineering, sitting at the edge of a walled garden, in a property once owned by Caitlin's grandparents. Now in her ownership and care, it looked stunning, with its dwarf brick walls, sparkling glass and white, cast iron frame, topped with a ridge of fleur-de-lis, but it was a very different picture when she first inherited it. Caitlin’s heart had swelled with sympathy when she first glimpsed the rusted framework, most of the glass broken and what little remained so black with dirt it was unrecognisable, crumbling brickwork, overgrown with nettles and layers of mud so thick they could have sent a geologist to heaven. Her grandparents had spent years caring for and developing the garden apart from one corner which they had left wild to bring in the welcome, pollinating bees and butterflies, and it was whilst pruning and shaping that corner that Caitlin discovered the doorway in the wall leading to the glass house.

A rap on the glass and the scraping of the door being opened, interrupted Caitlin's solitude.

'Thought I might find you in here.' Jack announced as he stepped into the entrance porch of the glass house.

'Where else? I hope you haven't called round for money?' Caitlin asked, without looking up, recognising his voice.

'No, we're all settled up. Just wanted to see how my baby is holding up?'

'She's fabulous, but she's a high maintenance girl.'

'Just the way I like them.'

'My finances would appreciate it if she wasn't.'

'She'll pay you back for all the love you've given her one day.'

Love is the most appropriate phrase Jack could have chosen, nothing but that amount of dedication could have saved the glass house from its almost complete destruction. Restoring it had been a labour of love, and often torture, for Caitlin, but it was also in homage to her much loved and missed grandparents.

'Do you remember the first day you saw her?' Caitlin asked.

'I remember walking round that garden for fifteen minutes trying to find you and then wondering what I'd stumbled into when that mud monster materialised through the wall.'

'I was a bit of a sight wasn't I? That mud was so thick, I still don't know how I landed face down in it. If it wasn't for your help I'd still be digging it out.'

'I've never seen anyone so excited at discovering soil and stones.'

'How dare you,' Caitlin laughed. 'You know fine rightly they were more than soil and stones; flower beds, bordered with that gorgeous brickwork.' She pointed to the beds, now filled with an abundance of plants in various stages of growth, framed by intricately twisted deep red bricks.

Caitlin suspected Jack stayed longer that first day than he had intended to, and perhaps the next, and the next. The problem was, every time they made one discovery it led to another. After the beds, came the pipes running through them. Then he was there for the water tank that had to be scooped and drained clean of algae ridden, foul smelling, stagnant water; he offered his home and internet access to research how the pipes, tank and stove should connect to operate as irrigation and heating systems; he provided an extra pair of eyes and arms for the many hours in salvage yards and the heavy replacement materials; he helped free the winches for the ventilation windows from rust before finally restoring all the glass, which had required meticulous measuring and cutting.

He'd helped restore the glass house to its former glory and now it provided a flexible and perfect growing environment for the plants Caitlin cultivated for both her own enjoyment and her burgeoning gardening business.

The Glass House - extracts

A few snippets from the work in progress.


From Chapter Two:

        A deep, satisfying warmth filled Caitlin, once again safe in her sanctuary. Her glass house. No ordinary structure of glass and aluminium, but a perfect piece of Victorian architecture and engineering, sitting at the edge of a walled garden, in a property once owned by Caitlin's grandparents. Now in her ownership and care, it looked stunning, with its dwarf brick walls, sparkling glass and white, cast iron frame, topped with a ridge of fleur-de-lis, but it was a very different picture when she first inherited it. Caitlin’s heart had swelled with sympathy when she first glimpsed the rusted framework, most of the glass broken and what little remained so black with dirt it was unrecognisable, crumbling brickwork, overgrown with nettles and layers of mud so thick they could have sent a geologist to heaven.

From Chapter Twelve (a little steamier and names removed to protect the identities of those involved - you'll have to wait unit some fabulous publisher decides it's brilliant - or at least until I put these chapters up on Authonomy - to find out who they are):

         She had a moment to take in the walls of glass, overlooking Queen's Island before the pair fell to the leather sofa. Kisses bruised lips, hands brushed over clothing. He shrugged off his suit jacket. She sought the buttons on his shirt and opened them, pulling it free from his trousers and pushing it off his arms. She unbuckled his belt and opened his trousers. His legs pressed hard against hers, his weight pushing her against the leather which warmed and moulded to them. His hands found the edge of her dress and raised it over her thighs, revealing the line of fine lace that edged that day's most thought about purchase. His fingers traced the line, his weight shifted sideways, as he followed it across her thigh and between her legs. As his knuckle grazed her she lifted her hips and parted her legs. His hands moved up, over the delicate black lace shorts, pushing the dress higher, over her waist.

        'I want to see the rest of this,' he said, continuing to reveal the matching bustier.

She sat up, turning round so he could unzip the dress and remove it. Keeping her back against him, he kissed her shoulder, her neck, he traced circles around her nipple. Slipping the bustier straps off her shoulders, he began to unhook it, freeing her breasts to his touch.

        

        Standing in front of her, he pushed his trousers and underwear to the floor. She took him in her hand, teasing him first with her tongue and then her mouth, only stopping when he pulled away from her and brought her to her feet. 

        The lace shorts skimmed down her thighs and over her knees. She began to remove the shoe but his hand held her ankle. 'Keep them on.' 

        She halted and he eased the shorts over one foot, then the other. Discarding them he kissed her ankle, the inside of her knee, then her thigh. His fingers began to tease and probe until she brought him back to the sofa and he once again pressed against her, her hips answered his movements, while he held the heels of those twinkling shoes.

From Chapter Thirteen (during a tour of Titanic Belfast):

        In complete quiet, Caitlin watched as the camera relayed video of the broken ship and Dr Ballard's voice discussed the finds. Recalling the splendour they'd witnessed throughout the tour, the hopes the ship had generated, the effort taken to build her and the pride so many people of Belfast had felt in her, their devastation at the loss of her and so many lives, she began to see what the new building symbolised. More than just a tourist attraction, a sign of the still fragile peace that claimed the country but an acknowledgement of the city's role, the possibility that it could reclaim what it had once been, have pride in it's accomplishments and itself again.

....and that's all...for now.