On Saturday I whizzed down to Chichester for the Romantic Novelists’ Association conference. Originally I’d planned to only go on the Sunday, because I was giving a workshop on pacing, but my husband had an unexpected night off so I begged the lovely organiser Jan Jones to let me come for Saturday night, too, and stay over. And she let me. (Yes, I plied her with chocolate.)
Romantic novelists en masse are wonderful. For one thing, we are strangely obsessed with shoes. For another, we think nothing of talking about heroes all night and when we are together we drink more than is humanly possible. Well, in any case, I do.
I was thrilled to see my friends and colleagues…there are far too many to name-drop about. Besides, I was far, far too drunk. (I don’t get out that often, you know.)
Brigid Coady won third place in the Elizabeth Gouge award. She rules. Nell Dixon and Anna Louise Lucia sold out of their books at the bookstall. They also rule.
I seem to remember drinking much champagne very late at night and then staggering across a field. And the next day I had a hangover of epic proportions. Fortunately Jane Wenham-Jones spoke in the morning about writers’ bottom and her hilarious body wrap experiences in Egypt and I laughed most of my headache away. I also went to Kate Walker’s talk about author websites, and Kate Hardy’s talk about using local history in your novel. Useful and fascinating, both of them. I also wheedled Kate Harrison out of her handout on “Botox for Writers”, even though I couldn’t stay for her talk.
I gave a talk about pacing which involved photographs of my closet door. And I came home with lots of lovely lovely shiny new books to read! (And a lighter purse.)
Anyway, being amongst romantic novelists is always a life-affirming experience. They are warm, friendly, talented and generous and I feel privileged to be part of the group.
Plus, man, can they drink me under the table.
I arrived at the BBC at 8 am, all aflutter with excitement, to find Melanie Hilton (writing as Louise Allen) sitting calmly in reception. She’d arrived early and was enjoying herself by watching out for famous people. I immediately co-opted her as a photographer, to take pictures of me cuddling up with one of the several Daleks in reception, as promotion for my next book, Girl from Mars.
When Catherine Jones (aka Kate Lace), Judy Astley, Phillipa Ashley, and Katie Fforde wafted in, curiously chipper after their night in the hotel celebrating, we were taken en masse through the labyrinthine corridors of the Beeb to the green room, which to my uneducated eyes looked as if it were situated in a basement loading bay. We’d been told to bring three different outfits, and we were told to lay them out on chairs, awaiting the Wardrobe Fairies. The Wardrobe Fairies would pronounce judgement on our taste, select an outfit, and press it beautifully for us to wear. They appeared as if by magic and bore away our case-crinkled clothes.
After being briefed on the show and what we would be expected to do, we were led through more corridors to a very swish communal dressing room (including those trendy sinks that are just bowls on a shelf), where our now-impeccable outfits hung awaiting us. A quick change, and another trek to makeup.
Makeup was great. We sat in comfy chairs while chattering women made us look ten years younger. Most of the conversation was about television shows that I’d never watched (I’m on a strict TV diet of CBeebies and Star Trek due to baby and book research), so I was free to let it waft over my head and enjoy being made gorgeous. One of the Eggheads, CJ, wandered in sporting a pink t-shirt and a cold and Katie cheered him up by offering him a Santa tissue. Judy and I were the first to be made up and, wandering around the set, we encountered Daphne Egghead who greeted us cheerfully.
Then it was time to be miked up and shown the set. As the Fairies had chosen a dress for me to wear, I had nothing to attach the mic pack to on my back and was whisked away to try stuffing it down my knickers. Even M&S’s best didn’t hold up to such an assault and I had to tie a cloth pouch around my waist. Television is so glamorous, darling.
The confidentiality agreement I signed back in the green room forbids me from discussing the contents of the programme before it’s broadcast, but I think I’m allowed to state some of the non-competition highlights: team captain Melanie comparing CJ with a Regency dandy; discussing sex scenes with a rather scrummy presenter Jeremy Vine; having to crowd together at the challenger table because we were too “tiny” to hide the chair backs behind us; and the women who appeared periodically to dust our noses with powder and adjust our miked-up cleavages. We were nervous beforehand, but once things got going we had a lot of fun. And the tension was unbearable for us, so it should make good telly.
I personally kept my makeup on for the rest of the day, even though it started to form fissures at about 3 pm.
See here for the official RNA account of the day. Transmission date TBC…
The RNA team, front, from left: Katie Fforde, Melanie Hilton, Catherine Jones, Julie Cohen, Judy Astley, Phillipa Ashley
Now, I am going back to my brand-new Chapter One, Version Three. I have Prince William on the first page. Hopefully he won’t mind guest starring in one of my novels.
