When Fanny Blake Ran Away...

Today I'm launching A Cornish Affair in Dubai and it seemed appropriate to save one last running away story to mark the Dubai launch. 

Here's Fanny's story...

I’ve always been told running away from your problems is the wrong thing to do. But for me, it worked.

Being made redundant from a much-loved job in publishing one Christmas was tough. The cheque was little consolation for being made to feel so humiliated and useless. I was driving everyone, including myself, mad as I moped around the house, with next to no motivation to find another job, convinced I would never work again.

A friend suggested I escaped by going away. But my kids were at school and my husband was working. There was no possibility of their taking the time off. How miserable I would be lying on a beach on my own, going over what had gone wrong. She insisted it didn’t have to be like that.  A friend of hers had just come back from trekking in Bhutan. Why didn’t I do something similar? By the end of that afternoon, I was booked on a flight to Thailand.

My husband manfully agreed to take on the brunt of looking after our three boys and off I ran to the Far East for three weeks to forget what had happened. It was the best thing I could have done.

I met with a band of travelling companions in Bangkok, and together we caught an overnight train north before travelling down the Mekong river to Laos. Being with strangers who knew nothing about me, and had no expectations, was liberating.

While I missed my family, I forgot the repercussions of the redundancy. Instead, I visited temples and palaces, wandered round markets, ate local delicacies, stayed in modest guesthouses, bicycled in the countryside and explored the towns of Luang Phabang, Vientianne and Savannakhet before driving on into Vietnam.

However, my subconscious must have been working away. Eventually a lightbulb moment came when I was least expecting it, sitting alone in front of the cascading Kuang Si Falls. I realised I would never work for one employer again. I would try to put together some kind of portfolio career, to avoid the same thing repeating itself, and to allow me to spend more time with my family.

I hadn’t expected it, but running away from what had gone wrong freed me from the constraints that had prevented me thinking clearly about my future. I returned home a changed person, with different priorities. I did work for another publisher, but I also began to write journalism, then non-fiction, and finally I wrote the first of my three novels. I’ve got running away to thank for that.

Rose waits for her family to arrive at their villa in Tuscany when a casual glance at her husband’s phone tips her world upside down. The text reads simply: ‘Miss you. Love you. Come back soon’. 
 
Fanny's latest book will be out on the 4th of July and you can pre-order it  here.

As the family gathers for the summer break, Rose’s faith in Daniel is shaken. How well does she really know him? She fears that, after decades of marriage and children, the man who lies beside her at night is lying in other ways too. Then events take a tragic turn.
 
Wise, wry and richly entertaining, The Secrets Women Keep celebrates the passionate, emotional lives women lead as wives, mothers and grandmothers. 

You can find out more about Fanny and her books here.

When Judy Astley Ran Away

Here's Judy's story...

I ran away the day the headmistress laughed and told me I was “Flying a bit high” when I asked if it would be OK to apply to Oxford university.  Humiliated, I stormed out of school at midday, raced home to change out and went up to the corner where the road heads for the M4 to start hitching a lift to visit my friend David at Magdalen college, Oxford for tea and sympathy.

We all hitch-hiked in the days before central locking meant no escape from the axe murderer.  Drivers were kind to a girl alone and I had a rule about lorries – not to get in. Today though, cars stopped but none were going more than a couple of miles.  So when the truck pulled up I thought, oh just this once - it’ll be fine. 

The driver was cheerful and friendly.  He gave me a telling off and said that he wouldn’t want a daughter of his risking her life by hitching so he’d take me all the way to Magdalen bridge, just to be sure I was safe.

Except – suddenly he was turning off the M4 at Slough This was NOT the way to Oxford.

He drove into a bleak industrial estate, parked outside the massive Mars confectionary warehouse and climbed out. I considered making a run for it but I found he’d locked the doors. I was going to be found naked and strangled in a ditch.  My poor mum.

Then he was back telling me to hop out and get in the car parked alongside. He’d finished his shift, was heading for home and he handed me a big box, saying, ‘Here, a souvenir.’ It was full of Mars bars, Milky Ways and Galaxy bars. I thanked him and the journey continued but I’d be lying if I said I relaxed.

 David and I munched our way through the box’s contents and he offered me his bed for the night.  I thought about it but… back then he risked being sent down for having a girl in his room. And it was freezing and the loo was down two flights of stairs and across a dark, wind-blown quadrangle. I started thinking a more modern university would have comfort-advantages…  So I said thanks but no.  And for once, I went home by train.

My 18^th novel,‘In The Summertime’ will to be published in hardback by Bantam in early July.  The paperback will follow in June 2014.  It’s a return to the characters from my first book, Just For the Summer and has Miranda, twenty years on from when she was a teenager at her family’s holiday home in Chapel Creek in Cornwall, revisiting the village with her mother Clare and children Silva and Bo, to scatter the ashes of her step-father Jack on the estuary he’d loved.  She doesn’t expect to find there are still so many connections from the past in the place and is particularly surprised to find one in particular – someone she’s thought about many times over the years.

Coming July 4th Judy's nest book....and it's set in Cornwall!

It's twenty years since Miranda, then sixteen, holidayed in Cornwall and her life changed forever. Now she's back again - with her mother Clare and the ashes of her stepfather Jack, whose wish was to be scattered on the sea overlooked by their one-time holiday home.

The picturesque cove seems just the same as ever, but the people are different - more smart incomers,fewer locals, more luxury yachts in the harbour. But Miranda and Clare both find some strangely familiar faces, and revisit the emotions they both thought had disappeared.

You can find more about Judy and her books here.

When Lesley Lokko Ran Away...

Here's Lesley's story...

Running away, when you live in West Africa, is a tricky business. If, like me, you read a lot of Enid Blyton as a child, it was made even trickier. The Famous Five only had to pack a sandwich or two and hop in a boat and they were invariably back by teatime, anyway. For us, it was an awful lot harder. To begin with, the heat made it impossible to run, so you had to walk away. Not very dramatic or effective. ‘I’ve had enough! I’m walking away!’ Then there were the snakes. Back in the day, when Accra was a lot less crowded than it is now, there were huge swathes of ‘bush’ everywhere. Our house backed onto one such swathe and it was crawling with snakes. Dangerous ones, too. There are no grass snakes in West Africa, only mambas. Fifteen minutes is all you’ve got between bite and death which makes it pretty much instant. And if that weren’t enough, there were the grown-ups. In West Africa, all adults are in loco parentis – even complete strangers – and as such, are fully authorised to step in at any point and deliver a slap or a sermon if they feel you’re up to no good. The sight of three children determinedly marching away from the house with sticks (with which to beat a snake) and a bottle of water (to pour over your head in case of sunstroke) is a clear indication of ‘no good’. And so it came to pass . . .

At the age of nine, after an argument with my father (not that you could actually argue with him. Ghanaian children do not, I repeat, do not talk back. You just listen.), I stomped (slunk) off to my room, determined to run away. I had no idea where I’d run to, just that I’d run away. George was always running away: why not me? I packed a bag: pair of knickers, a clean T-shirt, a book (Enid’s, of course) and, incongruously, a box of aspirin – I’ve no idea why. I begged the cook for a fried egg sandwich (at 5pm? Why?) and I left. But before I reached the gate, my two younger sisters begged to be allowed to come along too. I had to wait for half an hour for them to pack the same: three pairs of knickers, three T-shirts, three books and three boxes of aspirin. We’d run out of eggs so they had jam sarnies instead.

However, the sun sets in the tropics at 6pm on the dot and by 5:45pm it was already getting dark. Suddenly running (or even walking) away didn’t seem like such a good idea. We made it as far as the first corner. A rustle in the undergrowth sent us shrieking back to the gate. We decided to eat our sandwiches in the garage (don’t ask me why). It was usually cool and dark in there and quite Famous Five-ish, in a petrol-smelling, secretive kind of way. We dragged open the doors, determined to make the most of our adventure and Make A Point . . . and then we froze. Curled up in the middle of the floor, seeking a warm spot of concrete where the heat of the tires had seeped, was a snake. I don’t actually remember what sort of snake – green, black, blue, orange? –  we fled, screaming, dropping the aspirins, knickers, T-shirts and sandwiches en route (but not the books). Jabbering like idiots, we burst into the living room where my father was having a nap.

‘What’s the matter?’ he roared, annoyed at having been woken from his precious pre-dinner snooze.

‘A snake! A snake!’ My two sisters shouted, pointing to the garage.

‘What were you doing in the garage?’

‘Running away!’ they shouted in chorus.

‘Hmph.’ My father looked at me, frowning exasperatedly. ‘Is this another one of your silly ideas?’

‘No. Yes. Sort of.’

He sucked his teeth in that way that only Jamaican mothers and African fathers can do. A sort of ‘tshchew’ sound that combines exasperation, irritation, disappointment and forbearance in equal measure. It’s the ultimate, gentle-but-effective put down. ‘Next time, tell the driver to drop you.’

I never ran away again.

Here's Lesley's latest book...

In a gorgeous beachfront mansion in Martha’s Vineyard, Annick and Rebecca have left their young children in the care of their life-long friend Tash. Tash has made millions from her fashion business and treating her friends to a luxury holiday makes all the hard work worthwhile. But by the end of the afternoon, one of the children will have vanished . . .

As the daughter of an iconic actress and an assassinated president, Annick has spent a lifetime running from the truth of her family’s wealth. For her, Rebecca and Tash have always felt more like family than friends. But can she truly trust them with the secret of her past?

You can find out more about Lesley and her books here.

When Carole Matthews Ran Away...

Here's Carole's story...

This is a story of achieving a dream and decorating aversion. Next week Lovely Kev is painting our hall and, at Matthews’ Towers, our hall takes in three floors. It’s a job not to be undertaken lightly. I’m not a big decorating fan, or any kind of DIY, come to that matter. I can wield a paintbrush well enough, but tend to leave mayhem and chaos in my wake. I have been known to drop, from the top of a ladder, the occasional five-litre tin of emulsion onto the dining room floor. I also have a weird reaction to fresh paint in that it gives me the most vivid nightmares. Really bad, being chased by an axe man nightmares. And gloss nightmares are much worse than emulsion ones.

       So, in lieu of all this impending terror in my home, I’m running away. I’m leaving Lovely Kev with a list of instructions and several large cans of Dulux Almond White and am hightailing it out of the Costa del Keynes as fast as I can. As my decorating avoidance technique, I’ve booked on a canal boat for a week and that’s where the dream part comes in. For many more years than I care to recall, I’ve commuted up and down the line from the Keynes to London Euston. In fact, I went so far as to set a book on the line - Let’s Meet on Platform 8. As you travel into London, the Grand Union canal meanders gently from one side of the railway track to the other, offering tantalising glimpses of its many delights. I always wondered what it would be like to travel the entire stretch from London back to my home. And now I’m about to find out.

       I’ve taken the precaution of going on a hotel boat where I’ll have two gentlemen to cook, drive and do complicated things with locks. On my part, I’m armed with lots of books, my walking boots, some knitting and a bottle of gin. That sounds like my kind of running away.

Here's Carole's latest book...

Grace has been best friends with Ella and Flick forever. The late-night chats, shared heartaches and good times have created a bond that has stood the test of time.

When Ella invites them to stay for a week in her cottage in South Wales, Grace jumps at the chance to see her old friends. She also hopes that the change of scenery will help her reconnect with her distant husband.

Then Flick arrives; loveable, bubbly, incorrigible Flick, accompanied by the handsome and charming Noah.

This is going to be one week which will change all their lives forever... 

You can find out more about Carole and her books here.