Character Showcase: Anne Follyot

            Anne is a young woman who has, for many years, managed everything for her family— when they will let her. But now her beloved father is dead and the plan for Anne to safely spend her future looking after him in his dotage is scuppered. Now somewhere must be found to put Anne.

            Her elder brother, Wilfred, is disdainful of his sister's worth and thinks her more than a little "addled" for talking to make-believe friends, dancing in the rain, and not knowing when to "shut up."

 

            "Her chattering tongue shows a peculiar want of humility and is most unladylike."

  

           When her no-nonsense mother was alive, Anne's wistful perusal of brighter colors on the haberdasher's shelves had always been corralled with a sharp dose of wisdom and practicality.

            "Anne, you do better in brown," her mother would say. "It doesn't show stains or make promises you can't deliver. It's steadfast, practical and doesn't try to stand out."

Her sister, Lizzie,  was only five when their mother died and Anne was ten. From that time onward Anne became her little sister's mother figure and did everything for her. But now that they are older and Lizzie newly married, their roles are awkwardly reversed. Anne is still trying to get accustomed to the change and to young bride Lizzie's amiable, but ill-equipped, attempts to "look after" her spinster elder sister.

            Anne also has several aunts and great-aunts who have made it their mission to find her a  home now that Wilfred has sold the family house. And, of course, that means finding her a husband, no matter how far into the barrel they must scrape.

            But all her family's efforts to make her resigned to the dull fate of a plain girl, fit only for brown and practical uses, are in vain. Anne has—shockingly—made up her own mind about how she wants to spend her future. She is determined to know independence as a "modern girl" of 1877.

On her own for the first time at one and twenty, she takes herself into the exciting, wicked world of London, far away from the little Oxfordshire village where she grew up (population forty-nine, and all her business, or lack of it, known to them, as theirs was to her). She has found employment—after a few false starts— as a salesgirl at Lockreedy and Velder's Universal Emporium. For her it is the perfect position, allowing her to meet new people every day and to be a part of the ever-changing, ever-moving world that, until now, has passed her by like a speeding omnibus.

 

           Of course, she has managed all this very slyly, before any aunts can organize an alternative

path for her, but she writes to them all regularly, so that they need have no fear of her being abducted by pirates or highwaymen. She makes sure her letters are entertaining enough that nobody might get it into their head that she is lonely, homesick or afraid for her future as a single woman.

            Well, perhaps she makes up a few adventures for herself in those letters, but at least they do the trick of keeping her well-meaning aunts from finding more potential suitors for her. After all, they have not got the slightest idea what sort of man she might like, anymore than they know of her yearning for a rose madder dress instead of brown. They have not even bothered to ask. They think they know what's best for her. As an aunt once explained,

 

            Now, be mindful of this, Anne. You are a serviceable creature, not afraid or unaccustomed to hard work. Keeping house for your father and siblings these past ten years you are well broken in to drudgery, and that is your main attraction— your usefulness. Remember that. A plain, mild tempered bachelor, or a steady, elderly widower, will serve you better than some handsome, charming scoundrel likely to chase after every pretty face that passes...

 

            But Anne knows, in the back of her mind -- where he has been abandoned in the land of forgotten memories -- exactly with whom she wants to spend her future. She just needs a hard nudge to remember him.

            And when she is about to lose all chance of ever knowing a kiss from his lips, Anne Follyot's  clever, vivid and determined imagination finds a way to bring them together. With the help of a little seasonal magic, a few ghosts of Christmas past, present and future, and the strength of true love, she stops a certain grumpy fellow in his tracks and diverts his course to finally collide with her own.

            Her father had always said that her lively, clever mind would be the way to a man's heart. But  he did not know how right he was.

            Anne Follyot has always taken care of everybody else. Finally, this Christmas, its time she takes care of herself and gets the very present she wants. Nothing will stand in this "modern girl's" way.

 

* * * *

 

Want to know how Anne's Christmas wish for love comes true? Pre-order your e-book copy of The Snow Angel now! Or purchase now in print!

Images used: "Study of a girl reading" by Valentine Cameron Prinsep (c. 1860-1870)
and "Decorating the Christmas Tree" by Marcel Rieder 1898.

A Snibble for the Holiday Season

As an unabashed lover of Christmas Specials -- particularly those of "Call the Midwife", "Blackadder", "Only fools and Horses" and "Still Game" - I decided this year to write a Christmas-themed novella. It is not something I ever attempted before and for a few years I have not been in a particularly Christmassy frame of mind, until its too late. But this year, in late October, I had a visit from relatives who travelled thousands of miles to see me, which put me in a festive, "larking about" mood.

Well, I should have realized that a novella was not going to fit my story. You know how I am, by now. And, unlike Charles Dickens, I am not paid by the word. Sadly.

In any case, my characters soon decided they needed more space and more attention than might be afforded by the constraints of a novella. Thus, their story developed into a short novel -- for which, I am told, there is no name. "Shnovel"? "Novort?" I'll settle for "Christmas Snibble." (You know, one of those treats that is  meant to be just a nibble, but turns into a bit more, because you can't stop eating it and -- hey, it's Christmas!)

I hope you, my readers, enjoy The Snow Angel. Out on December 5th, it is now available for pre-order  (another thing I don't often try) on Amazon.

Here is a very sneaky peek that might whet your appetite for egg nog and "Quality Street" chocolates.

 

 

(Excerpt from The Snow Angel).

 

 



"That Deverell still not here yet?" her landlady called out as she passed through the hall with the tea tray. "It's well after five, surely. Near six by now."

            Anne Follyot ceased humming mid-note and put on her most sensible, patient face, carefully holding the candle away with both hands, rather than be accused of playing fast and loose with that precious commodity. "I daresay he will come when he can, Mrs. Smith. He's a busy gentleman, I understand, and it is very good of him to make room in his plans for me at all."

            Mrs. Smith plainly thought the word "gentleman" unsuitable in this case, for as soon as those polite syllables were uttered, her lips shriveled to the size and texture of a small dried prune. "'Tis a shame your aunt could find no better, more respectable companion for your journey. And that's all I have to say in the matter."

            "I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Smith, but I'm sure it will work out very well. Mr. Deverell's private carriage is a vast improvement on the mail coach."

            She'd lived in London several months now, long enough to know that few folk there had much good to say of the Deverell family, who were disdainfully considered "new wealth" and upstarts— and those were some of the kindest epithets. But who was Anne Follyot to sneer? She wasn't even "old" wealth.

            Deverells, so the saying went, did things differently. They were filthy rich, reputedly shameless, lawless, and mostly unprincipled.

            She could not help but think it must be exhausting, not to mention logistically impossible, for a handful of males to "ruin" such a vast number of women and leave quite so much chaos in their wake.  They would never have a moment to sleep or read a good book.

            As a lover of good stories herself, she was certain a great many tales of Deverell debauchery were entirely made up to keep life interesting for those who told them.

            "You're a naive young miss," her landlady muttered. "I wish you had firmer hands to guide you, but it's not my business. I've got enough to do, and it's not my job to act as your mother. You'll end up ruined, no doubt, like many a wide-eyed chit before you. Fancy sending a Deverell for your innocent young niece. Like sending a fox to fetch a hen to market! What can your aunt be thinking?"

            "Mrs. Smith, you are a very dear lady to worry so about me. But I am not nearly as helpless as I might look. I am, after all, a woman of the modern age."

            Her landlady looked skeptical of this claim. She was not, however, the first person to think Anne a little light in the head— a consequence, perhaps, of her spirits refusing to be crushed under the weight of misfortune. They thought she must live in her own strange, fantasy world, but her feet were quite well grounded in this one. She simply made the best she could of it, which, she had sadly come to realize, made her puzzling and insufferable company to most. As if to see her happy with so little made their own fortunes decline rapidly.

            "You were raised in a one bull country village, Miss Follyot. What do you know of men like Deverells?"

            "I know that they pull their breeches on one leg at a time, just as other men do. Men like my father and brother. They have all the same parts and require all the same handling."

            The landlady huffed. "I would not be so certain of that. Not from the stories I've heard."

            "But I have familiarity with all manner of beasts. I've stared down an escaped seed ox and helped lance an abscess on the ear of a particularly peevish sow more than twice my size. Few things cast any fear in my heart."

            "You'll be soft clay in that man's claws, mark my words!"

            Before Anne could give any further words of assurance, Mrs. Smith walked into the parlor, still shaking her head, and nudging the door shut swiftly behind her to keep out the cold breeze that

blew through the hall of her narrow boarding house. The other young ladies who rented rooms there were gathered around a cheerful fire in that parlor, waiting to enjoy a hot cup of tea and some buttered crumpets. Very likely, in the anticipation of these delights, they had all forgotten about Anne. Not that she was ever very memorable.

            Now she was abandoned to whatever gruesome fate awaited her at the hands of a Deverell. The way Mrs. Smith said that name— as if it had to be got out as quickly as possible, under cover of darkness, before curious neighbors witnessed its departure— the syllables rolled together and made it sound like "Devil".

 

            Anne felt a little like the heroine in a Brontë novel, hovering on the cusp of an adventure, unfathomable in its awfulness, bursting with dire and dreadful possibilities. Perhaps something remarkable was finally about to happen to her and this time she would not have to make it up while standing at her wash bowl or peeling potatoes.

            She'd had her eye on a length of rose madder silk taffeta from Lockreedy and Velder, you see, but would feel a fraud wearing a gown made of it until she had a reason. Rose madder was not the sort of color associated with plain, ordinary, unexciting girls to whom nothing ever happened.

 

The flame of her candle went out. She caught her breath.

            A shadowy shape suddenly formed at the end of the alley and then proceeded to fill the frosty window as it drew nearer with an uneven gait. At first she thought the beast had three legs, until she realized that one of them was a cane, swung impatiently ahead of him between every step. Sometimes he slipped and then she saw the bristling fog of his breath as he exhaled a curse into the crisp winter's air.

            It could be nobody else but the man himself. The Deverell. Gentlemen visitors were not permitted at Mrs. Smith's boarding house, except on errands of urgency, and tradesmen came only in daylight. So who else could it be?

            The relief she felt at seeing him was surprisingly warm, considering she had already told herself that she wouldn't mind if he didn't come. There were, after all, crumpets to be had by way of compensation and now she would have to forgo the treat.

            But there he was.

            Before he could ring the bell, she swept the door open in anxious haste.

            "Mr. J.P. Deverell, I presume?"

            He was six foot tall and about as happy as a bull that had somehow got wind of its imminent castration. At least he had the manners to remove his hat and there were no horns visible beneath. But it was a brief gesture, clearly made under duress, and as a tight sigh oozed out of one side of his mouth, he confirmed his identity with a gruff, "Regrettably."

            It was instantly clear that there would be no apology for his lack of punctuality, for as his gaze drifted over her smoking candle wick, old brown coat, dented trunk and wicker basket, he exhaled a weary, "You're ready then." A sneer turned up the corner of his mouth. "That's something, at least." As if, because she was a woman, he'd expected much more fuss and fanfare around her departure.

            "And you're better late than never," she exclaimed cheerily. "We're doing well already, aren't we?" With that, and holding her basket in the crook of one arm, she reached down for a handle of her trunk. He had begun to turn away, so she said, "Could you be so kind as to get the other? I have not much within it that is of value and tossing it all about will do little harm, but I do hate the noise it makes when it drags along the cobbles."

            His lips parted for another plume of breath as he looked back at her. "Why do women require so much baggage?" He looked like a mythical creature, Anne thought suddenly. A dragon whose flames were temporarily dampened and reduced to puffs of smoke. Before she could respond, he bent and grabbed the other handle— so violently that it came away with a spirited crack.

            "Ah. I fear my trunk was quite unprepared for such a forceful handling," she murmured, looking at the broken, bent and now useless brass ring in Deverell's large fist. "It is generally accustomed to a more delicate grip. I just had that handle re-affixed too, alas!"

            "Apparently the job was not done well enough."

            "Take pity on my poor trunk, sir, for it is much older than I and has, I believe, traveled mostly in the service of maiden aunts, postulant nuns and missionaries' wives. I suppose you'll be quite a shock to it."

            He glowered down at her. "And vice versa." The words rumbled out of him on another cloud of mist and then he tossed the broken handle across the alley, thrust his cane at her to catch and lifted the trunk onto his shoulder, as if it weighed as much as a sack of feathers. "Why do you stand there gawping, woman? One foot before the other, if you please. If you can manage that much on your dainty stumps. I haven't all damnable night and if you imagine I might be prevailed upon to carry you too, let me disabuse you of the notion."

            Having balanced her trunk thus, he limped away toward the lamp post, his coat flapping around him like the wings of a raven, speckled with glittering snowflakes that had already begun to form a crust upon his shoulder until her trunk displaced them.

            She was very tempted to go back inside and eat crumpets. Dreadful, rude man!

            But suddenly she felt a warmer whisper of air against the back of her neck and knew that somebody had opened the parlor door, just a crack, to peek around it. They were all most curious, naturally, about the Deverell at the door. They must wonder how she, plain Miss Anne Follyot, previously of Little Marshes, Oxfordshire— population forty-nine, and all her business, or lack of it, known to them, as theirs was to her—and owner of mostly brown garments, had any connection to such a man.

            For once she was a person of interest.

            Anne recovered her breath, lifted her chin and decided that despite his surly lack of manners there was nothing else to be done, but follow the Deverell.

            For the sake of her abused and kidnapped trunk, if for no other reason.

            Besides, she wanted adventure, did she not? There was not a moment to waste if she was to get away before Lizzie arrived and ended all hope of excitement.

            Perhaps she would accomplish just a smidgen of rose madder scandal, before she was too old to have any and they buried her in brown.

* * * *

 

You can find The Snow Angel now for pre-order or on official release on December 5th!

Coming in December!

The Snow Angel

Be warned - A short Victorian novel is coming to all online bookstores in early December and just in time for the holidays this year. Something to enjoy with your eggnog and mince pies this season!

* * * *

            It's Christmas 1877 and Anne Follyot— of little beauty and no fortune, but sturdy spirit and an excess of imagination— is invited to stay with her favorite aunt in Cornwall. She's all anticipation, waiting for the man chosen to escort her on this journey. According to her aunt, she met him before, many years ago, but Anne cannot remember him and she's positive that he must long-since have forgotten her. She's never been memorable.

   

         But J.P. Deverell, Esq. is now a grown man with a dangerous reputation, of which her aunt cannot possibly be aware. And Anne means to make the most of her aunt's mistake and this adventure. She considers herself a modern, independent woman, for whom a little scandal is well overdue. If she doesn't seize this chance now, she might never have another.

            As Charles Dickens wrote, "No space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused."

 * * * *

 

            He's in no temper for eggnog and mistletoe; no mood to tolerate the painfully polite company of some plain spinster, in a carriage, for three days. It's probably a contrivance to get him home for Christmas.

            Remember Anne Follyot? He doesn't care to remember himself sixteen years ago, let alone recall the dull vicar's five year-old niece.

            He'd planned to spend his Yuletide working, alone and in peace. But a letter from his mother has guilted him into this act of begrudging chivalry, aided by the whispers of his best friend's mischievous ghost.

            "Bah, Humbug!" As Charles Dickens also wrote.

 

* * * *

 

            But this journey will not turn out quite the way either traveler expects, for when these two opposites collide, so do ghosts of the past, the present and the future.

            It will be a holiday season with all the usual fare—peril, pandemonium, family quarrels, mulled wine and bodily injury. Certainly a Christmas adventure never to be forgotten this time.

            At least, by one of them.

Get  your copy December 5th! Or pre-order now

Author's note: For those of you who read and enjoy the Deverells series, please know "The Snow Angel" includes the adventures of one member of that family. I chose not to list it as a "Deverells Book", because I did not want readers assuming they must be familiar with the series in order to pick this one up. It is possible to enjoy this Christmas story without knowing anything about the family, however, it will be a Christmas bonus for those of you who do (I hope!).

Mutinous prices!

Get your e-book here! At a special price for a short time, grab The Mutinous Contemplations of Gemma Groot, available at all good online stores.

Venetia Warboys, by most accounts, a mild-mannered, generous, church-going woman, had reached her thirty-fifth year with little out of the ordinary happening in her life. Until she decided, one evening, to rise from her neatly-laid dinner table, fetch an axe from the woodshed, chop her husband into pieces and bake his gristle into some pies.

"That's the last time he'll criticize my pastry," she said calmly when apprehended in the act of selling her grisly wares.

Although her husband had been an infamous philanderer— or as much of one as an oily, simpering blob of a man could be in a small, rural market town—nobody knew what had really happened, on that last day, to cause a deadly fissure in his wife's sanity. I was the only soul to whom she gave any clue, but the six words she once whispered into my ear left me, a girl of twelve at the time, with more questions than answers.

Suffice to say, after Venetia's axe swinging rampage in the autumn of 1882, the men of Withering Gibbet took greater care of what they said and did to their wives. We had all learned some important lessons: everybody harbors dark truths; there is no such thing as "ordinary", and never buy a savory pie at the county fair, especially when the contents are described as "revelation meat".

For many years Venetia was our town's sole claim to infamy.

And then there was me.

* * * *

So begins a story of silence and noise, secrets and lies, sisters and lovers, murder and redemption. Gemma Groot grows up in the long shadow cast by an old sin, but she is about to step out of the dark and shine the light on a few startling truths about her family. With the help of a man who falls out of the sky, she will finally discover the strength she needs to revisit the past and unleash the spirit of a wronged woman.

But will she find that some skeletons are better off left buried?

Buy Amazon US
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Halloween Sale!

Pumpymuckles is currently on sale for Halloween, so this is a good time to grab an e-copy!

 This is the peculiar story of a girl called Ever Greene, who is living where and when she shouldn't be, and a love story that proves nothing is impossible.

Happy Halloween reading!

(For those of you who have read and enjoyed the Deverell's series, please know that a member of the family pops up in this one too. They have a habit of doing that.)

Musings On A Nerdy Youth

            My love affair with books began a very long time ago. I can't say exactly when it started, but I can clearly follow the trail backward in my mind through the many stories I've read and loved over all these years.

            I suppose it started in my first year at school when one pupil in class was chosen to pick the book our teacher would read to us in the last half hour before we went home.  This was my favourite part of the entire day (compulsory warm milk through paper straws being my least favourite part). I loved sitting there, cross-legged, listening to the teacher's voice and letting the story carry me away. When it was my turn to pick a book I almost always chose "The Gingerbread Man". I can remember the teacher, Miss Papworth -- of the shining black bob haircut and white Dr. Scholl's -- groaning, "Not that one again". What can I say? I was not particularly adventurous when I was five. Learning to tell the time, tie my shoelaces and ride a bike were my most pressing concerns. The Gingerbread Man took me away from all that for a while, because the poor naïve fool had worse problems than me.

            For anybody growing up in England in the early seventies, I'm sure Ladybird books would be familiar. They were thin hardbacks for children with wonderful illustrations inside. Quite "grown-up" illustrations, now that I think of it. "The Gingerbread Man" was one of these, along with "The Elves and the Shoemaker", which I adored. After a while I graduated from those books to paperbacks, such as Michael Bond's Paddington -- still have those books now on my shelf. The very first book I can remember being sad to finish was "Olga Da Polga", also by Michael Bond -- the story of a feisty guinea pig and her adventures. The moment I'd read the last page I felt so bereft without those characters at my side that I had to pick it up and start over again. I did so very furtively, because I wasn't sure whether it was allowed. It felt naughty, since I'd read it once already and was now hogging it to myself.

            I often borrowed from my elder sisters, so I was a few steps ahead of my reading age. They introduced me to Enid Blyton, who wrote about the "Secret Seven" - a gang of mystery loving friends, who drank a lot of lemonade and ate tons of gingerbread biscuits for some reason -- and the adventures of schoolgirls at "St Clare's" and "Malory Towers". I suspect those books would seem old-fashioned now, but I remember them fondly. How I wished I was Darrell Rivers with the bright eyes, freckles and jolly hockey sticks (or was it lacrosse?), always doing the right thing and coming out on top. She was the first character -- apart from Olga the guinea pig -- that I felt close to, as if they might be real. I thought how wonderful it must be to create a character like that and take them off on adventures.

            Not every book was a winner in my opinion. I remember a little grey teacher one year solemnly and dutifully plodding her way through the first chapters of "The Wizard of Oz". We were all quite appalled. This was supposed to be a children's story? Even the teacher seemed ambivalent about picking it up to read the next chapter. But we were all saved. She abruptly left in the middle of term and we were given the gift of a wonderful young and excited substitute teacher who apparently neither knew nor cared about all that, cast the reading plan to the four winds, and brought with her a copy of Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." Now that was a story! I think the entire class exhaled a sigh of relief, although we never knew what became of our old teacher. We were heartless little monsters and I don't remember anybody asking -- perhaps we were afraid of bringing it up in case somebody remembered we were supposed to be reading "The Wizard of Oz". The substitute, who ended up taking over for the remainder of that year, also introduced us to the very funny and original "Bottersnikes and Gumbles" -- which still makes me laugh today and yes, I still have my copy.

            Whenever I had a book token to spend for my birthday or Christmas, I'd dash off to W.H. Smith or Heffers and spend several hours making my choice, haunting the rows like a lost spirit (or possibly a shoplifter -- I'm sure I must have been followed by a few store detectives in my day, because it took me so long to choose a book). Alternately there was the library, an old house with little separate rooms and creaky floors that you had to tip-toe around on, which just added to the thrill of it all. On a rainy day there was nothing better than a trip to that library. It's been replaced now, apparently, by a modern building, bigger and smarter. And carpeted. Shame, but at least there are still books in it.

            I devoured Noel Streatfeild's stories about girls who determinedly overcame the odds to find success. Whatever the story, the plot was basically the same: poor, plain, put-upon girl, possibly an orphan, works hard, steps over the nay-sayers, has a brief setback when her ego gets too big, eventually sorts everything out and gets a hug from somebody at the end -- possibly fame and fortune too, but the hug was the thing. Her stories were safe, predictable and heart-warming. I suppose that was  my needy phase when my dreams were bigger than my possibilities. In a lot of ways those stories were like Harlequin, or Mills and Boon books, but without the men. They were for little girls who needed hope and encouragement, who needed to believe "hey, that could happen.". We all need a little bit of that from time to time.

            When I was sick - measles, mumps, you name it, I was felled by it -- and stuck in bed for days, my sister read Agatha Christie murder mysteries to me. A bit adult, perhaps, for an eight year-old, but I enjoyed it very much. The company of my sister and her soothing voice must have helped the most, because I don't remember much of the actual story.

            Later came teachers who introduced me to Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy and the Brontes. While other students eyed these books with despair and slumped at their desks as if this was punishment, I lived for English class. I loved the language within those pages and the way the author could take me to another time, another world. As a glum, sulky teenager with black-painted fingernails and a self-important, Garbo-esque desire to be left alone, those books were my escape from the dreariness of the early eighties. Nobody bothers you when you're reading a book. And if they do you are perfectly within your rights to ignore them.

            It was around that time that I started writing too, rather more seriously. I'd written poems before and short horror stories, but now I began to think in chapter and book form. I wrote a new chapter in my head on the way to school every day. I kept notebooks to scribble in on my lunch break, envisioning the day when Harrison Ford or Richard Gere would play the hero in the movie version of my sci-fi masterpiece. Yes, I had grand aspirations. Blame it on the books.

            And then, one day, our English teacher set us a homework assignment to write a "lost" chapter of Wuthering Heights. I think I was the only one in that class who actually enjoyed it and was excited the next day to hand it in. I got an "A" and I can remember watching the teacher's face as she read it. I thought -- "That's what I want to do one day. I want to write books". Oh, my fevered little heart pounded away with excitement at the prospect of one day wearing fluffy, pink, kitten-heel slippers and a silk robe, to recline on a couch in the manner of a Barbara Cartland or similar. Just like that I think my stroppy teenage, "difficult" years came to an end. I had found something that I could do well and really enjoyed.

            But I had a fair distance to travel and many different routes to try along the way before I got to my happily ever after. I didn't know the first thing about how to be published and it would be quite a few years before I had a first manuscript fully in hand, fit to be viewed. Then I had to pluck up the courage to send my work out there to be judged. That's a story in itself!

            At seventeen, handing that homework assignment to my teacher, I don't know that I ever thought I would make a living as a writer; I just knew I wanted to write stories that would entertain and sweep readers away for a while to another world, as those many, many wonderful stories have carried me over the years.

   

 

So now, like a Noel Streatfeild heroine, I'm getting to do the one thing I wanted. It doesn't always come with a hug, but it makes me happy and, I'm sure, easier to live with than that anti-social teenager with a "strop" on.

Happy Reading (whatever your age)!

 

Jayne

 

What's romance got to do with it...?

            When I tell people that I write romance, I always feel it necessary to quantify the statement with a hasty, "Not that I am at all romantic myself." I suppose I'm a bit over-the-top with the apologizing, because I did choose to write in this genre, but it's true that the grandiose, traditional "romantic" gestures have always made me cringe.

            I like genuine romance, but not the red velvet, all surface and no substance kind. A floor strewn with rose petals, for instance, just makes me think of somebody having to clean all that up. Maybe if you were the first person ever to do that, I would think it special -- but where is the imagination? I would rather see an understated wedding, organized on a shoestring budget but with a treasure trove of imagination, than one of those overblown, tick-all-the-trendy-boxes, conspicuous

consumption affairs where the bridesmaids are all orange and shrouded in ten metres of hair extensions. I know a lot of people like the movie "Love Actually", but I just can't stand it. Forgive me. Maybe I am an oddity -- hey, it's been said before in many colourful ways by my own family. But my lingering trauma from watching that movie, just once, has resulted in not being able to look at a single photo of poor, innocent Keira Knightly grinning amiably without running screaming from the room and seeking sanctuary in a cool dark place. I once accidentally watched five minutes of "The Bachelor" and couldn't find enough bleach for my brain and eyeballs afterward. So, no, I'm not a "romantic" in that sense of the much-abused word.

            But, for me, "romance" is not big or flashy; it's all the little things that add up, the priceless details that don't cost money at all.

            My husband does not have a great imagination -- and he won't mind me saying that, because he's definitely the practical half in this relationship and I'm the one that comes up with the daft stories-- but he always finds quiet ways to show that he cares.

            He frequently cooks dinner for me, puts the kettle on for a cup of tea and straightens the bed sheet for me before I get in, because I can't stand pleats. Oh, the pleasure of a straight, firm, unwrinkled bed sheet! He opens jar lids for me without being asked - yay, he fetches the groceries, and, behold, if he's going out of town he leaves me with a ton of pastries and cakes (sometimes I wonder if he's trying to fatten me up for sinister motives) in the pantry. He politely puts up with my lack of motivation for housecleaning and politics (same thing surely -- no matter how often  we try to eradicate the dirt and slime, it always comes back again exactly as it was before we made an effort), my general air of lazy procrastination, my failure to ever follow a proper recipe without throwing in random ingredients (some would say I write books the same way), lurid speculation about the neighbors (what do they think they're doing driving up and down their driveway??), and my love of a gory murder mystery. I put up with his occasional ugly shirt, noisy cereal crunching, Mario Andretti-type driving, Rodney Dangerfield movies and the throwing of hapless objects at the TV when the ******* football is on.

            We don't go out a lot for romantic dinners, and even on "Date Night" we usually prefer to go with friends so that we're not staring at each other across a table and trying to find something new to talk about. Our best nights in are spent curled up on the couch with the dogs, to laugh together at old comedies and complain together about the state of the world (and the holes in my socks).

            To some of you this may not sound very spectacular, and it isn't really. But to me -- to us-- that's romance. I suppose what counts most is the "us" part.

            You can buy all the red roses and watch all the sappy movies out there, but if you're not on the same wavelength it's meaningless. For us, after more than thirty years together, romance is about accepting the differences; keeping a sense of humour; celebrating the ways -- big and small -- in which you do connect; knowing what annoys or upsets the other person, and trying to save them from the worst of it, and making a home that has room for both of you to be yourselves (however crazy that is), while also keeping in it the things that make you happy together. Love is in the details.

            All that said...yes, there are chocolates. I am not repulsed by that traditionally romantic fare.

 

 

Images used : Arrufos by Belmiro de Almeida 1887, photograph of woman accosting man on the London Eye 2016, and photograph provided by my sister of chocolates prior to their downfall 2018.