Sally (38 page)

‘Come then.' He beckons with his head in the vague direction of her bedroom. Sally nods and kisses him twice with the gentlest of kisses; one for the tip of his nose, one for the innermost corner of his eye.

Tea for two remains untouched. Tea for two has spilt all over the carpet and the settee. To the bedroom they shuffle, Richard with his jeans around his ankles, Sally limping along at his side. Hand in hand. Still laughing. Richard sneezes.

There we shall leave them. They go to greet the climax of something started long ago. Last year in fact, Gracious Good Lord.

19 June

Highgate

Dear Ms Collins,

After careful consideration, I am afraid I really cannot take up the post as heroine in one of your stories.

Being the vampish vixen was such fun, but though I found the whole deportment so enjoyable, I must decline the role.

I did love the clothes, and I wear them still – with or without knickers, depending on my mood and the weather.

Seducing and being seduced is still, you might say, my chief leisure pursuit. Indeed, I find that I am now even more imaginative and abandoned. Please find enclosed a page of scenarios that I have enacted and can vouch for. You may use them if you wish but I would appreciate anonymity.

I have thought about this long and hard, I do assure you. (You may use ‘long and hard' if you like.) The opportunity was so tempting for a while, but I have decided to pass it up.

Please do remember me to Ms Jong and Ms Hollander.

Though I am still a leopard of sorts, I must concede that Rudyard Kipling is much more my thing.

With best wishes,

     
Sally Lomax

I
didn't much like school – and I wasn't a particularly obliging student – but a wonderful English teacher in my second year (Fanny Balcombe – thank you!) set a homework assignment to write the opening of a novel. Not only did I do it and even hand it in on time, I subsequently wrote a further 38 chapters. I entitled it
Troubled Lives
. It was dreadful – an angsty diatribe of teenage navel-gazing. I still have it hidden in my loft and no, I will never release it, not even under a pseudonym! Back then – as now – I was utterly enamoured of the process of writing: knowing the characters were waiting for me, dependent on me to tell their tale yet also providing me with this extra world into which I could dive, delve and, yes – hide.

Back in my school days, there was no further opportunity for creative writing after O-levels. Instead, I wholeheartedly embraced my studies in History of Art as an undergraduate at Manchester University and then a postgrad at the Courtauld Institute. I loved it. I was all set up to do a PhD – when I quite literally found myself writing a novel instead.

It was summer of 1991 and I was trying to figure my way around my first PC by opening files and saving them. I created a file called ‘Novel' and I wrote the opening chapter of
Sally
. The freedom to write what I wanted, how I wanted, and then concealing it in this strange crunking grey machine was a thrill that quickly became addictive. Soon enough, it was all I wanted to do. I gave up the PhD (to much ridicule and consternation from family and friends – but support from my tutor, thank you Dr Garlake!) and for the next four years I wrote. And I wrote. I made ends meet with temping jobs and freelance work as a Picture Researcher (remember the dark green Virago Modern Classics covers? Mine!). I ignored the rejection slips from publishers, I turned deaf ears to my parents imploring me to ‘get a proper job' and I brushed off my friends muttering “War and bloody Peace, eh!”. My heroine Sally Lomax wasn't going to leave me alone until I'd written down her story – and I relished the chance to skip alongside her every day.

I'd loved the novels of Mary Wesley and Jilly Cooper, of Barbara Trapido and Joanna Trollope. With
Sally
, I wrote the book that I wanted to read but couldn't then find on the shelves. A modern day romp in the vernacular of my generation – fusing a traditional larky girl-meets-boy adventure, but ripe with the vocabulary that my friends and I used, detailing the dreams and neuroses we were encountering and peppered with all the lusty fumblings and messy love affairs that defined our early twenties. It was fun to write, it was fun to read through. Sally became a pal of mine – doing the things I didn't dare do and making the mistakes I hoped never to. I was chuffed that she should reappear, albeit fleetingly in my second novel
Chloë
(1998) as well as in my 7th novel
Love Rules
(2005). It's odd, reading it recently, to find no text messaging, no emails within the book. How adventurous and imaginative she and Richard had to be! And, in retrospect, romantic too.

Funnily enough when, after four years of rejections,
Sally
was finally to be published, she didn't actually have a title. I'd been fiddling with variations on Leopards and Spots – but nothing sounded feisty enough. My editor (then and now) Lynne Drew suggested calling the novel
Sally
. Genius! Then, a month before publication, I suddenly panicked about what my grandmothers would make of my novel. My agent (then and now) Jonathan Lloyd allayed my fears. “Darling – grandmothers are generally unshockable,” he said.
Sally
was published to acclaim in November 1996 – I felt really quite overwhelmed the first time I saw her, looking all sassy on the shelves of the Primrose Hill Bookshop. I'd had her to myself for four years – now she was out there, making friends amongst readers and flirting with the press. Though I have an enduring fondness for all my characters, I don't have a favourite. But Sally Lomax and I? Well, we go way back –

Freya North

Spring 2012

Freya North is the author of 12 bestselling novels which have, in a career spanning 16 years, been translated into many languages. From teenage girls to elderly gentlemen, Freya's novels have won the hearts of legions of readers worldwide. In 2008, she won the Romantic Novel of the Year Award for
Pillow Talk
and was shortlisted for the RNA Contemporary Romantic Novel Award 2012 for
Chances
.

At school, Freya was constantly reprimanded for daydreaming – so she still can't quite believe that essentially, this is what she is now paid to do. She was born in London but lives in rural Hertfordshire with her family and other animals, where she writes from a stable in her back garden.

To connect with Freya and hear about events, unique competitions and sneak previews of what she's writing, join her at
www.facebook.com/freya.north
or log onto
www.freyanorth.com
and find out more.

‘Darkly funny and sexy – literary escapism at its very finest'

Sunday Independent

‘
Secrets
will make you smile, sigh and cheer as this story proves love can be found in the most unexpected places'

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‘… another sure-fire hit for Freya'

Heat

‘A breath of fresh air … fresh and witty'

Daily Express

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Closer

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Glamour

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Cosmopolitan

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Daily Telegraph

‘North charts the emotional turmoil with a sexy

exactitude'

Marie Claire

‘Freya North has matured to produce an emotive novel that deals with the darker side of love – these are real women, with real feelings'

She

‘A delicious creation … sparkling in every sense'

Daily Express

‘A distinctive storytelling style and credible,

loveable characters … an addictive read that encompasses the stuff life is made of: love, sex, fidelity and, above all, friendship'

Glamour

‘Plenty that's fresh to say about the age-old differences between men and women'

Marie Claire

‘An eye-poppingly sexy start leads into a family reunion laced with secrets. Tangled mother/daughter relationships unravel and tantalising family riddles keep you glued to the end'

Cosmopolitan

‘You'll laugh, cry, then laugh some more'

Company

‘Freya North manages to strike a good balance between drama, comedy and romance, and has penned another winner … touching, enjoyable'

Heat

‘An addictive read with a realistic view of home life, sisterhood and identity crisis'

Prima

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