Between Friends Read online

  Additionally, although the structure of a romantic novel may be formulaic, the characters and their particular transformation are not. Every story ever told is, at its core, about the transformation of the hero and any story written in the modern day is merely a retelling of past works (I believe Aristotle came up with this particular hypothesis) and with my hand on my heart (or if it makes you happier, my gut) I can assure you that a great deal more thought goes into the creation of a romantic novel than you might think. Having said that, my fiction is a reflection of my own experiences and I do not overthink my stories and the fact that I choose to give my characters happy endings is not just a publishing requirement, but also a matter of personal choice. Isabella’s readers are not looking for a book to throw against the wall with utter frustration because half the characters are dead or mutilated at the end – they want a satisfying resolution. In sum, I agree that in real life, not everyone is blessed with a happy ending, although, unless you are very unlucky, I believe life is a series of endings followed by beginnings interspersed with loss, laughter and a little bit of tragedy along the way (the length of the road is, I admit, the one variable we cannot necessarily control).

  I will leave my thoughts there. I don’t expect you will be reading any of my other books in the near future, but I am glad to have provided a little light entertainment on what, as you say, would otherwise have been for you a dreary afternoon.

  Regards,

  Agatha

  P.S. Although the gut is the place in the body where emotions are stored, a Valentine card with a picture of a twisted gut on the front (perhaps with an arrow through it and little a cherubim vomiting while mopping up human faeces) would not, I suspect, sell well. So, for the sake of aesthetics, can I ask you to acquiesce and accept the heart as the universal image of love?

  P.P.S. I cannot abide Romeo and Juliet.

  Bluey

  From: Mrs Day

  To: Polly

  Date: 4 February

  Dear, Polly

  How are you holding up, my little love?

  It’s been a difficult week here. Dad had a bit of a run-in at the shop on Wednesday. Old Mr Butterworth was buying his paper like he does every morning, and Dad had popped down for a box of biscuits because the vicar was coming around for tea (he wanted to do a pastoral visit because you’re away with the army and Dad hadn’t the heart to say no).

  Anyway, it’s a sorry tale, but the abridged version from Dad is that he overheard Mr Butterworth telling Janet about how he’d written to the Prime Minister to complain about the war – and that apparently, we’re no better than the Nazis. Dad was standing behind the bread trolley and out of eyesight but I’m sure Mr Butterworth would never had said anything if he’d known Dad was there. Dad lost his temper and said (amongst other things according to Janet - who told the vicar), ‘No one calls my daughter a Nazi, you silly old fool,’ which isn’t like Dad. Mr Butterworth got upset and had to sit down. He said he hadn’t meant to offend anyone but was entitled to his opinion. They had a blazing row during which time Dad told him he was being disloyal to the troops and then Dad had to have a sit down too. Janet called for the doctor and somehow the vicar called into the shop on his way to our house and they all had a cup of tea.

  Dad went off metal detecting for the rest of the day – in the snow, he is a silly old fool - and I sat with the vicar talking about the school. The reason I’m telling you all this is because Mr Butterworth has asked the vicar for your address. He wants to write to you. Maybe you could pop a note back to him in the post, he is ninety-two, after all, and he was in a POW camp.

  Love you,

  Mum x

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Polly

  Date: 4 February

  Dear, Polly

  Summation of week two:

  Number of words written – zero

  Number of cakes made – ten

  Number of cakes eaten – ten

  Number of hours spent beachcombing with Anya’s cat (who follows me around and freaks me out) - about forty

  Fuck-a-doodle-do!

  I tried to buckle down to a spot of (Sunday night homework) crisis writing on Wednesday, but spent three hours staring out of the window watching a boat with a red sail jib towards Skye. Eventually the sailors gave up, but credit to them, they gave it their best shot. It struck me that I’m in exactly the same situation - luffed up. No matter how much a person bangs away at something, if the wind isn’t with you, it’s best to drop your sails, go home and try again another day. So, in harmony with the sailors, I closed my laptop down, put my wellies on and went back to the beach, once again leaving my poor characters bobbing around in limbo. As I closed the laptop lid I could actually see the heroine looking up at me and saying, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ (she’s not what you might call, erudite). Some characters are so bloody needy, it’s suffocating.

  But the good news is that I still love my little cottage, although I’m rarely in it. What with walking to Morir and back a few times a week for rations (Anya gets me to cleanse her crystals in the river while I’m there) and helping out at the café every day, I haven’t got the time to feel guilty. Speaking of Anya, I hadn’t appreciated just how busy (and famous) she is. Get this … Anya (purveyor of dirty laughs and rude jokes) is also an internationally-renowned fortune teller (so I was right, she is a witch!). Who’d have thought it? Tourists flock on pilgrimage to see her (when I say flock, this is Appledart, so I mean she gets about five punters per week) but at fifty quid a pop it’s not a bad little earner. Can you imagine how lost you would have to be to come all the way to Appledart just to cross someone’s palm with silver? I’ve asked her to read my cards - she won’t. Friends are taboo, but she says I have a bright yellow aura around me, so that’s nice (at least, I hope that’s nice?).

  We’ve had a couple of days of fine weather. Anya’s two horses, Jekyll and Hyde, live in one of the fields next to my cottage. Jekyll is a Shetland pony and Hyde is a girt-big shire horse. Jekyll is the boss, which is brilliant. It’s a rare day the sides of my jeans aren’t smeared with horse dribble. They get into a shitty mood if I don’t have a little something sweet for them in my pocket whenever I wander past. My lemon drizzle goes down a treat, but it’s hilarious because I swear Hyde pulls that face when the sour of the lemon hits that spot behind the back of his jaw!

  Well, cakes to make so ta ta for now.

  Love, Aggie

  P.S. Don’t think I’m not keeping track of events in Kuwait. We don’t get newspapers here, but I do listen to the radio every day. I haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope you’re ok.

  Handwritten Letter

  From: Mr Butterworth

  To: Polly

  Date: 4 February

  Dear, Pollyanna

  I hope this letter finds you well and that you are bearing up during your spell away with the army.

  I wanted to write a short note to say that we are thinking of you. Your father and I had an altercation in the shop and I would not have you believe that Mrs Butterworth and I are not fully supportive. However, I cannot say that I am in agreement with the Prime Minister’s stance in Iraq and have written to Downing Street to state my objection to the deployment of our troops. I pray Mr Blair listens to reason and the situation does not escalate to war. I know the reality of conflict. But as horrific as our situation in 1942, at least we knew we were fighting the Hun. I feel it is easier for a soldier to put his life on the line when the enemy is clearly defined, but I’m not convinced this is not the case in Iraq. I hope I am proven wrong, but at ninety-two, I will probably not live long enough to find out. Despite my objections, please do know that we are proud of you – of all of you.

  Take good care.

  Edward and Margery Butterworth

  Bluey

  From: Gethyn

  To: Agatha

  Date: 5 February

  Dear, Agatha

  Thank you for your reply
which gave me great food for thought. I’m concerned I may have crossed a line. If so, I apologise. I’m in the habit of writing papers on medicinal matters and have become used to issuing blunt and, perhaps, detached opinions. I am enjoying our discussion, though, and was wondering if we could continue with our correspondence? War is a funny old business and the distraction is refreshing.

  In your reply you said that your writing is a reflection of your own experiences. If so, one of the books you sent to Polly is called Millionaire’s Muse, does this mean you have at some point been the muse of an eccentric millionaire? If yes, did you really pose naked in front of the Eifel Tower, or was that artistic licence?

  Yours, Gethyn.

  P.S. You are quite wild with your use of quotation marks. Is this an occupational hazard?

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Mr Day

  To: Polly

  Date: 5 February

  Dear Babe

  We had the Jehovah’s Witnesses round today. They’d heard you’ve gone to war and took it as an angle to get in. Mammy felt sorry for them and let them get a toe in the door. I couldn’t stomach it so went out with the metal detector. I went to Bickersthwaite – I swear there’s a Roman hoard buried there somewhere. As usual I didn’t notice at the time slipping away. My feet got numb in the snow and I’ve picked up a bit of a chill. Mammy says it’s gone onto my chest and wants to book me into the doctors, but there’s no point. You have to know two weeks in advance that you’re going to be ill in order to get an appointment when you need one, and you’ve got to be practically dead to get anti-biotics now-a-days, so I’ll give it a miss.

  The dog went for a shampoo and set yesterday afternoon - looks a treat and smells sweet too - although the first thing she did when she got back was to scrape out the soil for a new nest for herself in the snow under the hedge between us and next door, scruffy little bugger. Her nails had grown quite a bit so they gave them a trim. Can’t think how they could have grown considering the amount of digging she does.

  Oh, I found a lovely silver bangle at Bickersthwiate. It was under a big old English oak at the edge of a field. It’s Victorian. Wonder who it belonged to? I’ll post it out to you, it’s yours now. Luvyababe. KYHD

  Mumdad xxx.

  P.S. Meant to tell you, when I’m dead my best spade goes to you. Mammy thought it should go to Simon, but he’d just let it go to rust. It’s got a lovely handle on it. You’ll have another garden again one day, my love, and you’ll dig up your veggies with my spade and you’ll lean on it and take a moment and remember your old man who spent hours and hours walking the fields, looking for an elusive pot of gold with that very spade in his hand.

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Agatha

  To: Polly

  Date: 5 February

  Dear, Polly

  I’m in love! But don’t get your hopes up, it’s with my café, not a man. I’d forgotten the joy of meeting people and I bloody love it. And the café is such a relaxing place to be, with the wood-burner going and the music on, and what with baking cakes and nattering to the tourists, I haven’t the time to ponder. Visitors tend to fall into the café - exhausted but happy - and the ones who have a ‘bottomless coffee’ tell me all kinds of things, too (stuff you would normal confess to a priest rather than talk about to a random stranger). Anya says it’s my golden aura (I’ve progressed from yellow to gold) that lulls them in. But the recipe to success when it comes to loosening lips is the combination of rounded hips, a big bosom and cake - people simply can’t help but tell me their secrets.

  But oh, Pol, I’ve heard some upsetting stories, and it’s a rare day I’m not crying with a customer by mid-morning and laughing hysterically with the same person by mid-afternoon. I could fill a book with all the stories – several books, in fact. But I’ve adopted the café owner’s Hippocratic Oath. And anyway, real life is far too crazy and full of bizarre coincidences to be believable in fiction, so my lips are sealed. I think I’ve edged Anya out of the café a little bit, but she doesn’t mind. Anya is one of those calm beings who maintains a steady oneness with the universe. I’m sure the tides flow to her bidding, not the moon’s (although her magic muffins may be helping the rest of us to be taken under her spell). She always has a couple hidden under the counter for visitors who are in extra need of kind-heartedness, and I can’t help but polish off the crumbs!

  The less positive news is that I finally found the courage to open my inbox. Isabella Gambini emailed twice this week, and my agent three times. Thank goodness there’s no mobile phone signal here. Neither of them say it, but both have hinted towards a question mark hanging over my mental health. I haven’t emailed back. How can I? There is absolutely no point asking for an extension to the deadline because I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m all written out. In the past two weeks I’ve begun to remember what it’s like to spend a decent part of the day conversing with friends – ones who aren’t imaginary, and I like it. I have nothing to give to Isabella right now and especially not erotica. Also, if I was already suffering from a crisis of confidence, Gethyn’s email was the death nail. The thought of writing one more love story makes me feel utterly depressed. But I do wish I didn’t have their emails hanging over me, and I wish I had the moral courage to write back. But seriously, who will ever find me here? I could hide away forever, or until the money runs out, which, if I don’t keep writing, will be very soon the way my mother spends it. Hope you’re safe.

  Lots of love,

  Aggie

  Bluey

  From: Polly

  To: Aggie

  Date: 6 February

  Hi, Aggie

  Sorry I haven’t written this week. HQ has moved location, but it’s all the same shit, same sand, same people.

  We had a sandstorm yesterday (thank God I forecast it). I stepped out of HQ during the thick of the storm in the hope of finding the portaloo, which was a big mistake. I only stepped away from the tent for a moment but became completely disorientated in the storm. It was so frightening, and I did the worst thing possible: desperate for a pee, I kept walking. By absolute luck, or perhaps sixth sense, I bumped into a portaloo and managed to prise the door open against the wind and hide inside till the worst of the storm passed. Gethyn bought me an Arabian scarf when he went to an American camp in Kuwait City a couple of weeks ago. Thank God I was wearing it. Despite wrapping it around my head a few times, I had to pour water from my bottle into my eyes which were red and streaming, just to be able to see. The moral of this little story I suppose is this - it’s one thing forecasting bad weather, but another thing entirely to know how to operate in it.

  But back to something more normal, I’m sorry Gethyn annoyed you - it’s probably my fault. I told him you were desperate for an honest review and that the male perspective would be refreshing. Sorry if I’ve made things worse. He’s a good bloke – honestly.

  Love, Polly

  P.S. You’ll say, ‘Fuck off, no way,’ but I’ve met Anya, too. She read my cards when Josh and I were in Appledart. She’s proven to be incredibly accurate so far, unfortunately.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Seriously, Mamma. Don’t do this again.

  Date: 6 February

  Hi, Mamma

  I’ve phoned several times but you never pick up – why? I know you’re OK because I phoned the post office and they said you’ve been in. I know you’re upset, but just email me and tell me why you’ve gone quiet. I can feel your hostility from here and it’s putting a bad smell on my time in Appledart and I really don’t want that to happen - not this time. I’m sorry if my going away upset you but I’m having a lovely time. Please be happy for me. I love you unconditionally. Can’t you do the same for me?

  I’ll phone tonight.

  Love you,

  Agatha x

  ‘E’ Bluey

  From: Aggie

  To: Polly

  Date: 6 February

  Hell
oooo from sunny Appledart!

  Actually, it’s been sleeting all week and I’ve been in a depressed haze regarding my writing crisis. But it doesn’t matter because Anya tells me that she’s sent angelic beams of divine light to shine down on me, which is handy.

  I found a self-help book on Anya’s bathroom windowsill called Be Careful What You Wish For, and I’m certain it’s going to turn my life around. The gist of the book is this: the universe will provide me with everything I want/need/desire, all I have to do is ask for it - who knew life was so easy? If the author, Summer Santiago (hmm …) is correct in her assumptions, to find the man of my dreams all I have to do is write down his character on a piece of paper and, hey presto, he’ll appear by my side. No time scale was placed on the manifestation of my wishes because Anya says angels refuse to work to deadlines.

  But… there is a bit of a catch. When I write down my wishes, preferably on recycled paper, it has to be on the night of a full moon (there’s a surprise) and I have to bathe the paper in moonlight for at least an hour before burning the arse out of it. I suppose the plan is scuppered if it’s cloudy. Do you think using Vesta matches dilutes the magical effect of the moon? Should I use flint? I’ll admit to being a tad sceptical regarding Summer’s hypothesis. After all, I write things down for a living and none of the men in my books have materialised. But, nothing ventured nothing gained etc. I’m going to have a productive afternoon writing down all the character traits of my dream man, warts and all. Oh, shit, if the universe is listening right now, I’m just kidding about the warts (jeez, you have to be so careful with this stuff). I’m not going to be unrealistic, though. I’ll ask for a run-of-the mill, loving and kind man (who just happens to have great abs and a villa in Florence).