For ten years Jemma had sat in this office, typing, dreaming, sometimes cursing when writer’s block took hold, often struggling financially even though her mortgage was not that large. For the first two years she had also worked in her local supermarket to help pay the bills, but as royalties from her book sales came rolling in and reached a regular sum that was ample to meet all her needs and then some, she gave up the supermarket job to write full time.
Now her life had changed more than she could ever have imagined. With twenty steamy, historical romance novels emblazoned with her name, and a deal to adapt them all – and more – into a TV series, Jemma had fame and fortune. She would never have to worry again about how she would pay the mortgage. She no longer had one. Not only had she paid it off, her flat was on the market and a move to somewhere better was on the cards.
But that wasn’t why she was leaving it right now. The TV deal had brought her more than fame and fortune; it had brought her constant attention.
She was worn out from all the interviews, book signings, and social media postings. Even people who had walked right past her on the street now recognised her as the author of ‘those sexy, historical romance novels’, thanks to the TV series, and stopped to say hello, or to have a selfie taken with her.
She loved meeting fans, but a few months ago, someone had leaked her address on social media, and now not a single week went by without somebody ringing her doorbell, or attempting to peek through a window.
At first she was thrilled by all the adulation, but one or two of her ‘visitors’ had made her feel uneasy, and a few posts on social media had given her cause for concern.
Not everyone was happy about her so called ‘overnight’ success. Some people were clearly jealous, and some were simply nasty. A few were a little frightening. She lived alone in a ground floor flat, after all, the only security being the burglar alarm and the locks on the windows and doors. Hence her decision to put her flat on the market, and move.
But that was for another day. Today she was leaving to spend a month in the tiny village of Betancourt Bay, where, thanks to Clarice, Jemma had got exactly what she wanted. An idyllic cottage near the sea where she could hide from all the attention, and write her next book in peace and quiet. A book for which there was a looming deadline.
‘I need it asap, Jem,’ Clarice had said, two weeks before. ‘We want it to hit the shelves in time for the start of season two of the TV series, so the clock’s ticking.’
Season two was scheduled for next summer, and although that seemed a long way off, it would arrive before Jemma knew it. The next book was the last in the series, and the final bookfor what would, hopefully, be season three of the TV series, scheduled for the year after next. Her publishers wanted to garner all the publicity and pre-orders they could.
‘I’ll definitely get it to you by the end of June,’ Jemma had agreed, having already requested an extension from the end of May.
With continued interruptions, she had found it difficult to write and if she didn’t get some peace and quiet to enable her to concentrate, she would have to ask for another extension.
Which was why she had mentioned to Clarice that she was planning to scour the internet for a little hideaway from all the madness fame brought with it. Preferably, an idyllic cottage by the sea, with somewhere tranquil nearby where she could walk. But her search had not been fruitful. And then, by some miracle, Clarice had come up trumps, with Oak View Cottage.
Better yet, the cottage had been a real bargain. Not that Jemma needed to worry about the cost. Money was the one thing Jemma would never need to worry about again. She loved her growing bank balance; the increasing attention … not so much.
Jemma now smiled at Esme’s photo. She blew it a kiss and placed it carefully in the outer pocket of her laptop bag. Both the bag and the laptop were newly purchased for this getaway, as were several beautiful notebooks, and an eye-wateringly expensive, but exceedingly gorgeous fountain pen, all of which were going with her to the cottage.
She had also purchased some new clothes and was particularly pleased with a wide-brimmed purple and white hat. She had never owned a hat – at least, not one like this. She did have a couple of bobble hats for the winter, but a hat for summertime was something she had not realised she might need, until the sales assistant had suggested it.
When Jemma sat outside to read, or while away an hour with a morning coffee, an afternoon tea, or an early evening cocktailor glass of wine, she had a parasol that slotted into the hole in the centre of her patio table, shielding her completely from the glaring rays in her small, south-facing suntrap of a back garden. Not that there had been much sunshine so far this year.
But Jemma was hopeful that ‘flaming June’ would live up to its name, and her new hat would be perfect for shading her eyes as she sat on the beach in Betancourt Bay, writing in one of her beautiful new notebooks, or typing on her brand-new laptop.
Esme would be so proud of her if she could see Jemma now. And of her work ethic. Esme was the one who had encouraged Jemma to write her stories down, and to never give up on her dreams. Jemma’s only regret was that her gran hadn’t lived long enough to see her fulfil those dreams. Jemma missed her every day, but Esme wouldn’t want her to be sad.
‘Life is for living,’ she had told Jemma during her final days. ‘Don’t be sad when I’m gone. I’ll still be with you in your heart, and I’ll be watching over you, you can count on that. You should sell this cottage and buy something closer to town. Surround yourself with people instead of hiding away out here. I know you’ll be a huge success one day and I’m so proud of you, my darling. Name a character after me.’ She had giggled. ‘A saucy one who always gets up to mischief.’
Jemma had done precisely that, and the proud and superior, yet lovable, Lady Esmeralda Fitzglover, the matriarch of the Fitzglover family had been based on her gran, Esme Granger.
Lady Fitzglover had quickly become a favourite with Jemma’s readers, and now also with the viewers of the TV series. Esmeralda, like Esme herself, was a force to be reckoned with, but she had a fun side too, and her witty and often cutting one-liners had been turned into memes on social media. Jemma was certain her gran would have loved that.
Jemma often heard Esme’s voice in her head when she was typing Esmeralda’s dialogue, and it made her feel that they were sitting side by side as they’d done when her gran was alive.
The sitting room in Esme’s cottage had been tiny but in addition to the small sofa and single armchair either side of the fireplace, they had squeezed in a little table and chair in front of the window, where Jemma had sat and written her stories, while Esme napped in the armchair by the fire.
Would the cottage Jemma was renting feel similar to the cottage she had lived in with her gran? Would it bring back wonderful memories? Or would it make her miss Esme even more than she did each and every day?
Jemma had seen photos of Oak View Cottage, but it was difficult to get a feel for it from those. It did look as if it was trapped in the past – a good thing as far as Jemma was concerned. It appeared to be clean and tidy and well furnished, but it seemed to lack character somehow. From the photos, it looked more like a museum-piece than a home someone had loved, and Jemma wondered what the former owner had been like.
‘I inherited it from my grandmother,’ Molly, the young woman who now owned the cottage had said, her tone devoid of emotion when Jemma had called her to rent it. ‘I’m renting it out until I decide what to do with it, although I think I’ll probably sell it. I just need some time.’ Other than that, Molly hadn’t mentioned her late grandmother.
‘Of course,’ said Jemma knowing how it felt to lose a beloved gran. ‘I understand completely. I was devastated when my gran died, even though I’d known for several months that it was coming. It’s still such a shock, isn’t it? But you’ll always have your happy memories. And I promise to take good care of the cottage during my stay.’
She had been surprised by Molly’s strangled laugh. ‘Happy memories? I don’t think so. But yes. It was certainly a shock. I’ll meet you at the cottage to hand over the keys. Give me a call when you turn off the motorway at the junction for Folkestone. You’ll see the signpost for Betancourt Bay and it’s just a few minutes from there. I live in Folkestone and it’ll take me about the same amount of time to get from my home to the cottage, so neither of us will have to hang around for long. There’ll be a welcome pack with necessities like tea, coffee, bread, butter, and milk. Oh, and a bottle of wine. But you’ll need to go to Folkestone for the nearest supermarket, or bring what else you need, with you. Do you prefer red or white wine?’
‘Oh. I like both. That’s very kind.’
