Chloe (48 page)

‘Ah well,' sighed Jasper, winking at Jocelyn, ‘the circle is now complete; the tale told; the picture perfect.'

‘Indeed,' agreed Peregrine, ‘the old girl can finally turn in her grave and go to sleep, settled and content.' He took the frame and buffed it lovingly against his cashmere pullover.

M
r Andrews unfurled a cream silk stocking up and over his leg, admiring his shapely calf muscles in the driftwood mirror as he did so. He procrastinated over which pair of calfskin shoes he would wear and, by the time his wife gave her melodious rap to his door, he had whittled it down to any of three pairs.

‘Which oh which?' he implored her, fret and worry etched persuasively across his brow.

‘The black. With the plain buckle I think.'

‘You are a doll,' he sighed, ‘but which cravat, in heaven's name?'

‘White damask,' she exclaimed as if it were a very simple question.

‘And the tricorn edged in gold?'

‘Well, what do
you
think?'

‘I want to look dandy for our girl Cadwallader. After all, it is her generosity that has seen us so comfortably ensconced in this delightful abode.'

‘And away from those bloody Latino counterparts in bloody Notting Hill,' Mrs Andrews furthered with a little shudder.

‘Language, dear,' chided her husband.

They looked around them. All was neat, tidy and comfortable. And deserted. It was nice to have the place and some peace to themselves, having arrived late the day before when nearly every chair was taken and all the muffins had gone. The silence now was welcome. Soon enough, the healthy din which had surrounded them the previous day would no doubt be upon them again; conversations in earnest, letters spoken out loud whilst being penned, poetry being recited quietly in a corner. Not that they minded, they were quite looking forward to it. Colourful. Friendly. Ambient.

Mrs Andrews straightened the lace panel on her sky-blue frock and fluffed the frill of her sleeves.

‘Oh, you look divine!' enthused her husband in a gruff voice laced with desire. ‘Come here, wench!'

They embraced tenderly, Mr Andrews bucking gently up against the skirts of his wife's dress while she wriggled daintily against him.

‘Mr Andrews,' she declared, quite breathless, ‘per-lease!'

She walked over to the driftwood mirror and straightened her straw hat before pulling it jauntily to one side. Running a finger over the oddment of tables and chairs, she held it up for her husband to inspect. It was perfectly clean.

‘Good old Chloë!'

‘Quite the house-proud hussy,' Mr Andrews declared.

‘Oh, she doesn't
live
here at Number Three,' Mrs Andrews informed him, ‘she's still in those funny digs near the beach and the artists.'

‘Not building a love nest with her potter chappie?'

‘No. Or “not yet awhile” as Chloë herself said to me yesterday. They are, however, building their love on very firm foundations. They are taking their time and luxuriating in all the various stages of finding one's true fellow.'

‘Sensible and sweet,' said Mr Andrews.

‘That's our girl,' his wife replied. She went over to the window which looked out to the small sunken garden at the back. An ivy had started to clamber up a trellis. Snowdrops peeped out here and there, and small green shoots stuck their heads above good soil to see if it was a good time to grow. It was.

‘Come, my love,' Mrs Andrews called to her husband, ‘see the magic woven by old Queen Jasper.'

‘Dinky!' rolled Mr Andrews. ‘Isn't that grand!' They admired a large, burnished terracotta urn out of which a healthy pieris was beginning to blaze.

‘Is that one of his?' asked Mr Andrews.

‘Need you ask!' his wife retorted, sweeping her arm in a wide arc to direct attention to the large consignment of William's ceramics elsewhere in the room. She sat herself down demurely in a small, comfortable sofa festooned with cushions. He stood beside her, his leg cocked, his hand in his pocket. She took a paperback book from a small, rickety table at her side and placed it in her lap.

‘From Chloë's selection here,' she explained, ‘I wanted a nice introduction to modern literature so she suggested this, it's called
Middlemarch
, by George Eliot. Rather good, actually.'

‘Never heard of 'im!'

‘Her,' Mrs Andrews corrected witheringly.

‘How you women now get up and go!' Mr Andrews marvelled. ‘Look at this place, a credit to Cadwallader, don't you think?'

‘Certainly,' enthused his wife, looking about her and noting all the details. Tables and chairs. Plants and pottery. Two hat-and-cloak stands either side of the door; one antique and in oak, the other contemporary and in steel. Etchings clamouring for space in between the bookshelves. Finally, the Andrews estate, pride of place, above the counter behind which Chloë surveyed her kingdom while pouring coffee into pixie-clad mugs.

‘She's found her feet and her home,' Mr Andrews declared, perusing the scene and nodding sagely.

‘
And
, my duck, her clitoris,' added Mrs Andrews, ‘via dear Mr Coombes.'

Mr Andrews, speechless momentarily, was about to admonish his wife's impropriety when the front door opened and the wind-chimes rang out.

‘Morning you two!' greeted Chloë, carrier bags heaving and hanging from her bicycle handlebars.

‘A very good morning to you, Cadwallader dear,' said Mr Andrews concentrating hard on his corn stooks.

‘Morning, dear,' called Mrs Andrews from her bench, winking.

‘Right!' said Chloë, unpacking cartons of milk and a clutch of books. ‘To work.'

A
s soon as I finished writing my first novel,
Sally
, I moved straight on to
Chloë
– not that I had a publishing deal in those days – but the character was vivid in my mind's eye and she had a tale to tell. Indeed, in 1994 and after three years spent writing
Sally
, all I had was a clutch of rejection slips and increasingly frustrated family and friends. I was 26 and I didn't have a ‘proper job'. However, I was happy enough temping as it gave me time to write. Being a receptionist was the best gig and I became a wizz on the old Monarch switchboard, working on my novel at the same time as putting calls through!

I am often asked if I base my characters on people I know – well, in the case of Jasper and Peregrine, they are actually based on two old geldings of whom I was particularly fond. Jocelyn herself was an amalgam of various eccentric aunts. And William was simply my composite Ideal Bloke. Readers often like to know how I pick the characters names. Cadwallader? It's simply such a fantastic word to say. Oh – and in the seventh century, he was the last Welsh king to claim lordship over all of Britain.

I was struck by the concept of a shy and unconfident girl like Chloë having an eccentric army of aged helpers giving her timely encouragement and a helpful shove in the right direction. I liked the idea of her finding her feet – and someone's heart – during a trip around the United Kingdom, aided and abetted by characters from my favourite Gainsborough painting (I have to admit, I talk to paintings too … oh, and trees!). Whereas in my first novel
Sally
, I had enjoyed having a crush on the hero Richard, whilst writing
Chloë
I truly fell in love with William. Who wouldn't want to win the heart of a stroppy young potter living on a cliff in Cornwall with a goat called Barbara?! For some time, I'd enjoyed doing pottery evening classes – now I had the chance to make them tax deductible!

I love the UK – I'm passionate about the landscape, the cities and villages, the people – for a small landmass, it's so incredibly varied and beautiful in each and every season. I can think of no better setting for my novels. In fact, Scotland is my favourite country in the world. I spent many of my childhood holidays with my beloved cousins who lived on a smallholding outside Crickhowell in South Wales. A perfect place for Chloë to start her journey. Cornwall I'd come to know through my studies in 20th century British Art and I could clearly envisage William there. But I'd never been to Northern Ireland – and I couldn't justify the expense of a research trip because, after all, I was unpublished. So the book ground to a halt with poor Chloë stuck in Wales, raring to make tracks to County Antrim. That was in the winter of 1995. Then, in January 1996 the unbelievable happened – five publishers entered a bidding war for my novels. After a week of negotiations, I staggered out of a dream and into a fairytale with a three-book deal in my hands. No one who knew me could quite believe it – least of all me – but at last I could take Chloë to Northern Ireland.

It was my first official research trip – and initially I felt self-conscious with my Dictaphone and notepad. I didn't tell the people I met about why I was there – it still sounded so implausible. Soon enough though, I was absorbed in the world of the book and felt I was following in Chloë's footsteps, rather than paving the way for her. When I arrived at the Giant's Causeway, I had this strong feeling that I'd missed her by 5 minutes. On rereading Chloë recently, I thought how different the book would be if I'd written it now – emails, texts, smart phones all taken for granted, making being away from home easy, the world small. Chloë was happy enough with snail-mail and the occasional phone call from a landline. The fact that contact was slow and not easy added to her sense of being alone in four different countries of the wider world; that she was travelling, adventuring, finding her feet and her fortune. It added to her bravery and her burgeoning self esteem.

I returned to Northern Ireland for a friend's wedding a couple of years later. I went back to the Giant's Causeway but there was no sense of Chloë being there anymore – I knew, by then, that she was happily settled in Cornwall, where I imagine she still is to this day.

Freya North

Spring 2012

Freya North is the author of 12 bestselling novels which have, in a career spanning 16 years, been translated into many languages. From teenage girls to elderly gentlemen, Freya's novels have won the hearts of legions of readers worldwide. In 2008, she won the Romantic Novel of the Year Award for
Pillow Talk
and was shortlisted for the RNA Contemporary Romantic Novel Award 2012 for
Chances
.

At school, Freya was constantly reprimanded for daydreaming – so she still can't quite believe that essentially, this is what she is now paid to do. She was born in London but lives in rural Hertfordshire with her family and other animals, where she writes from a stable in her back garden.

To connect with Freya and hear about events, unique competitions and sneak previews of what she's writing, join her at
www.facebook.com/freya.north
or log onto
www.freyanorth.com
and find out more.

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