A Weekend with Mr Darcy: The perfect summer read for Austen addicts!. Victoria Connelly

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СКАЧАТЬ excuse to buy a new pair of shoes,’ Lorna said.

      ‘How well do you know your agent?’

      ‘As well as she knows me.’

      Nadia laughed. ‘I’ll see you at Purley, babes.’

      ‘Okay.’

      Lorna stood up and walked across to the window of the study which looked out over the garden. It had needed attention for some time. There were dandelions yellowing the lawn, grasses had sprouted up in the borders and there were brambles tumbling over the wall from the fields beyond. The house needed attention too because Lorna had fired the cleaner two weeks ago after she’d been caught pocketing pages of the latest manuscript. Now the desk was covered in a fine layer of dust and a pot plant was wilting quietly in the corner.

      It was always the same when a book was going well. Boring old jobs like housework and food preparation got neglected. The only thing that mattered was the flow of the story and - at the moment - the story was flowing well. Nadia was going to love this latest one and no doubt Lorna’s editor would too. Tansy Newman of Parnaby and Fox was Lorna’s biggest fan and couldn’t wait to get her hands on the latest manuscripts. Edits were usually minimal and Lorna was in the lucky position to be consulted about everything from jacket design to publication date - hardbacks were released just before Christmas and paperbacks in time for the summer holidays. Lorna was lucky; her advances were legendary and her royalties substantial. Not all writers were in such a position.

      For a moment, Lorna looked at the bookshelves that lined the study walls. They were filled to capacity with hardback editions, paperbacks, large print, audio books, and foreign editions ranging from German to Spanish and Japanese to Russian. It was an impressive collection considering that the first novel hadn’t been received at all well in the press.

      ‘Lorna Warwick is attempting to cash in on the fact that Jane Austen’s Regency is a perennial favourite,’ one critic wrote. ‘But what we have here is a cheap imitation. It’s soft porn dressed in a little fine muslin.’

      The words had stung bitterly until the book had become a bestseller in the US and was now seen as the forerunner in a very popular genre of Austenesque literature which included sequels, updates on the six classic novels, and the sort of sexy books that Lorna wrote. It was a huge and much-loved industry.

      Lorna’s fingers brushed the spines of the UK editions. Each featured a sumptuously-clad heroine. ‘All breasts and bonnets,’ another critic had declared, after which sales had rocketed. The public couldn’t get enough of the feisty young heroines and devilishly handsome heroes and, of course, the happy endings.

      Lorna loved writing. Nothing could beat the day-to-day weaving of a new story or getting to know characters that you hoped would captivate the readers’ imagination as strongly as they did their creator. But there was more to being a writer than writing and Lorna was under increased pressure to do publicity. Hence the phone call from the agent about the conference. Year to year, Lorna’s publisher had tried to persuade their favourite writer that it would be a great idea to attend.

      ‘Incognito if you must,’ they’d said, but Lorna hadn’t been at all sure about it. The public face of publication had never appealed. Writing was a private thing, wasn’t it? One didn’t need to be endlessly signing copies and giving talks. What was there to say, anyway? Surely the books spoke for themselves? But Lorna’s publisher had often spoken of how writers were now seen as celebrities.

      ‘The public has to be able to see you.’

      ‘Oh, no,’ Lorna had said. ‘I don’t want anybody to see me.’

      So what was to be done about Purley Hall? There was a part of Lorna that was desperate to go. Being a writer was a lonely job and it would be good to get out and actually talk to real live people for once. That would be fun, wouldn’t it - to get away from the study and meet people?

      ‘Katherine,’ Lorna suddenly said. Katherine was going to be there. Her letter had made it very clear that she’d love to meet her favourite author and there was a part of Lorna that wanted that very much too. Over the months, they’d become very close, sharing secrets and talking about their hopes for the future. Maybe it was the fact that they were writing letters - beautifully old-fashioned, handwritten letters that one savoured and kept. It wasn’t like receiving an e-mail which one reads and deletes. These were proper letters on quality paper which the writers took time to fill. They had crossings out and notes in the margins and funny P.S.s too. They were to be reread and treasured just like in the time of Jane Austen when letters were a vital means of staying in touch with loved ones.

      If there was one good reason for Lorna to attend the conference, it was Katherine.

      Suddenly, Lorna ran upstairs to the bedroom where a wardrobe door was quickly opened and clothes were pulled out and flung onto the bed. What to take? What should Lorna Warwick take to the Jane Austen conference? That was a question that was easy to answer because, although Lorna gave very few interviews and never gave out author photographs, it was obvious how the public perceived their beloved author. Nothing but velvets and satins would do in rich jewel colours with sequins and embroidery. Old-fashioned but with a quirky twist. A fascinator wouldn’t be completely out of place or a sparkling brooch in the shape of a peacock. Shawls, scarves, a pair of evening gloves, perhaps even a shapely hat. Shoes which were elegant but discreet. That was the kind of thing people would expect.

      But Lorna wasn’t going to wear any of these things. Velvets and satins were instantly rejected and shawls were totally inappropriate and the reason was simple. Lorna Warwick was a man.

       Chapter Three

      It would have been very unfortunate if Robyn Love had turned out to be anything other than a romantic. As it was, she fitted her name perfectly - choosing to read nothing but romances, wearing only feminine dresses and renouncing any film that didn’t have a happy ending.

      Life for her was never as good as it was in fiction. A good story beautifully told was always preferable to reality. For Robyn, nothing came close to the highs she got when reading. Her job on reception at a small college in North Yorkshire only tickled the surface for her and she could never wait to get home and stick her head in a favourite book. And, for her, the very pinnacle of literary perfection was Jane Austen.

      Some took their pleasures in the spin-offs and Regency romances told by modern authors but Robyn was a true Janeite who preferred her Austen undiluted.

      ‘If only she’d written more,’ Robyn would often say with a sigh. The big six just weren’t enough. There were the shorter stories too, of course, but they weren’t the same as the big novels, and the letters and endless biographies just didn’t give the same satisfaction; they were takeaways rather than a three-course meal - they might fill a gap but they would leave you feeling unsatisfied and wanting more.

      There was never enough. No matter how many versions of Pride and Prejudice or Persuasion there were - whether for the cinema, TV or theatre, she would devour them. Each one was different, shedding some new light onto Austen’s world and her characters. Whether it was Pride and Prejudice or Bride and Prejudice, Emma or Clueless, Robyn would unplug the house phone, turn off her mobile and tune in for her allotted slot of pure happiness.

      There were favourites, of course. Who could forget Colin Firth’s brooding Mr Darcy from the 1995 BBC version? But equally, Matthew Macfadyen striding across СКАЧАТЬ