Christmas at Claridge's (54 page)

A huge debt is owed, as ever, to Amanda Preston, my long-suffering, chic, indomitable agent; to Jenny Geras for steering me so expertly into these deep, calm waters; to Caroline Hogg for taking
the helm, and Jeremy Trevathan, Natasha Harding, Wayne Brookes, Katie James and the rest of the team at Pan for their unstinting support.

But as ever, I’m saving the tears for my family. I’d like to thank my parents for the selfless support they gave me last year; my sister (even though she steals my clothes and
teaches the children rude jokes); my children, who grow funnier, more delectable and – God help me, hungrier! – by the day, and last, but the opposite of least, my husband Anders, the
best man I ever met.

1) What inspired you to write
Christmas at Claridge’s
?

Each book usually evolves in one way or another from the one preceding it, and in this instance, I wanted to write about a character who was everything that Laura, from
The Perfect Present
, wasn’t. Laura was an emotionally vulnerable character looking for safety in mediocrity and her journey was about finding the courage to embrace life again. This
time round, I wanted to write about the girl who has it all – the charisma, the looks, the lifestyle, the background. Everybody loves her, but we quickly learn she’s vulnerable too. The
difference is, her pain is her own fault. Her secret is a very dark one – almost unforgivable really – and the challenge for me was to try to ease the reader past the golden-girl image
and encourage them to find a sympathy and understanding for her actions. It’s a book about forgiveness.

2) Is the character of Clem based on anyone you know?

No, but out of all my characters, she is the girl I would most like to be myself (her wardrobe, not her life). I really had her worked out in my head very early on. With
some characters, it takes almost an entire book before I feel I know them – Laura in
The Perfect Present
for example, really only came together for me as I wrote the closing scenes
– but I saw and understood Clem by the end of the first chapter. She pretty much came to me fully formed.

3) What are your top tips for shopping at Portobello market?

Always go on Fridays as that’s when the best stalls are up; carry cash; wear clothes you can change out of easily (most of the stalls share changing facilities that
consist of little more than a woman shielding you with a coat!), and try to keep your hands free for rifling through the rails, so preferably carry a bag with a long strap that you can sling over
your body.

4) Was there a particular reason for setting part of this book in Italy?

Well, partly I loved the fact that they are iconic locations, evocative the world over, and I know from the emails I get that my readers love being taken on journeys to
glamorous places. But the main inspiration was that I started out loving the echo of the names: Portobello–Portofino. They sound so similar and yet are poles apart in terms of lifestyle and
aesthetics: Portobello is gritty, urban, cool and young; Portofino is luxurious, sophisticated, European, old-world glamour. I kept thinking about how different the women would be from each place
(a train-of-thought hangover from
Christmas at Tiffany’s
) and before I knew it, I was trying to come up with a character who could somehow belong to both.

5) How did you become an author?

Mainly due to persuasion, from people who know better than me, to have a go at writing stories! I was a journalist beforehand and had studied English at University, so I
suppose becoming an author was a fairly predictable outcome, but it took me a long time to really believe I could think up stories, plots and characters that people would care about. Nothing
thrills me more than when readers tell me I made them laugh or cry. It means they believed in the world I gave them on the page.

6) Describe your typical working day

It starts with the school run for my three children, then a walk in the forest with my two dogs, where I really let my mind wander into a lucid, free-thinking state.
I’m not always trying to think about the book but that’s invariably where my mind ends up – focusing on plot niggles or what scene I have to write that day. I try to be sitting
down and writing by 9.30 a.m. – fine, 10 a.m., then – but I’m up again at eleven for my first coffee of the day. I always get up and put the kettle on if I become stuck on
something – moving around seems to help physically dislodge ideas that are stuck in my subconscious. I have to collect my daughter from school at 3 p.m.; the school is only a ten-minute drive
away, but often I’ll be working until 2.49 p.m., desperate to get down just one more word. From then on, I’m just Mummy again until 9.30 a.m. the next morning. OK, 10 a.m., then.
Whatever.

7) Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

Plenty! If you want to write a book, don’t talk about it, just do it. Don’t wait for inspiration to strike – it never does – the best ideas usually
come whilst you’re writing something else, so force yourself to sit down and stare at the screen or page until something comes to you; it will, eventually. If an idea surprises you, explore
it, go with it – if you’re surprised, your readers most likely will be, too. Finally, edit to the point of OCD and ask someone you can trust to be brutally honest, to read it. Kindness
is no friend to an author.

8) What do you hope readers will take away from your novels?

Laughter, hope, and the feeling of having been in the company of good friends. All my characters feel like friends to me. I so wish they were real.

9) What does Christmas mean to you?

An obscenely early start, thanks to my over-excited children, cooking the turkey overnight in the Aga, my children wriggling around in the giant stockings I made for each
of them for their first Christmas, and a smelly donkey being walked down the nave for the Christingle service on Christmas Eve. This year’s was particularly thrilling because, for the first
time, the donkey properly lost its temper. No one listened to a word the poor vicar said about baby Jesus. The donkey was the star.

10) Can you tell us a little bit about the book you will be writing next?

It’s a summer book based around a group of strangers in a house-share in the Hamptons. My main character has a ‘family media’ company, cataloguing other
peoples’ DVDs into short films, their photos into beautiful photo books and so on. Through this, she becomes intimately acquainted with the lives of people who remain strangers to her on the
street. One family in particular draws her fascination, and as she trawls through their digital archives, she uncovers a private tragedy. Weaving around that will be a mix of glamour, romance and
friendships set to backdrops of beach barbecues, polo parties and tennis tournaments.

An extract from
The Perfect Present
follows . . .

Laura looked at the shoes in her hand and knew before the assistant had come back with her size that she would buy them, even if they didn’t fit. They were red, and
that’s all they needed to be. She was almost famous for them around here, and Jack always teased her about it – ‘You know what they say – red shoes, no knickers.’ Of
course, he knew full well she’d be the last person to go knickerless. Maybe that was why he found it so funny. Anyway, she preferred him saying that to his other response, which was to roll
his eyes. ‘You’ve got almost fifty pairs!’ he’d cried last time before he’d caught sight of her expression and quickly crossed the kitchen to apologize, saying he
secretly quite liked that she had a ‘signature’.

The shop assistant came back, shaking her head apologetically.

‘All I’ve got left is a thirty-six,’ she shrugged. ‘We’re completely out of thirty-eights, even in the other colour-ways.’

Laura bit her lip and stalled for a moment as the assistant moved to return the shoe to the display shelf. ‘Well . . . I’ll take them anyway,’ she muttered, looking away as she
reached into her bag for her credit card. ‘They’re such a good price now. There’ll be someone I can give them to . . .’

‘Okay.’ The assistant hesitated, casting a glance at Laura’s red patent slip-ons, which she’d polished so hard at the breakfast table that morning that their eyes met in
the reflection.

A minute later, she savoured the jangle of the bell on the door as it closed behind her and stood for a moment on the pavement, adjusting to the brightness outside and the change of pace. The
day was already limbered up and elastic, the late-November sun pulsing softly in the sky with no real power behind it, local businessmen rushing past with coffees-to-go slopping over the plastic
covers and pensioners pushing their shopping carts between the grocer’s and the butcher’s, tutting over the price of brisket; a few mothers with prams were congregating around the
bakery windows, talking each other into jam doughnuts and strong coffee to commiserate over their broken nights.

Laura turned her back on them all – glad their problems weren’t hers – and started walking down the street in the opposite direction, swinging the carrier bag in her hand so
that it matched the sway of her long, light brown hair across her narrow back. Her studio was in a converted keep, just beyond the old yacht yard, eight minutes away. People tended to have a
romantic notion of what it must be like when she told them where she worked, but it wasn’t remotely pretty to look at. Tall and ungainly on its stilts, it towered over all the
corrugated-panel workshops and dilapidated boat huts on the banks, and her square studio-room atop them looked like it had been bolted on by an architect who’d trained with Lego. The wood was
thoroughly rotted, although you wouldn’t know to look at it, as it had been freshly painted two summers previously by a student at the sailing club who was after extra cash. She loved it. It
felt like home.