News

LINDA GUEST BLOGS
Linda has written guest blogs for the writers' blog Author! Author! (June 12th) and the book blog Rhapsodyinbooks. (June 17th)


STAR GAZING AND EMOTIONAL GEOLOGY FILM RIGHTS SOLD
STAR GAZING and EMOTIONAL GEOLOGY have both been optioned for cinema by Capricorn Film Productions Ltd in Glasgow.


STAR GAZING SHORTLISTED FOR BOOK AWARD
Linda's third novel, STAR GAZING was shortlisted for the Romantic Novel of the Year Award 2009, presented by the Romantic Novelists' Association. For more details about the award see the RNA's website.


REVIEW COPIES FOR BOOK BLOGGERS
If you review fiction on your Blog and would like a copy of one of Linda's books, please contact her at info@lindagillard.co.uk


Work in progress... Linda's 4th novel HOUSE OF SHADOWS
Scroll down for the opening chapter of Linda's 4th novel, HOUSE OF SHADOWS, a romantic family drama.


LOST IN FICTION
Linda appeared at Glasgow's new independent bookshop, LOST IN FICTION, as part of a talent showcase featuring local writers.


SMOOTH RADIO
Linda was interviewed on Smooth Radio's Bookcase programme. She was discussing STAR GAZING with Alex Dickson.


Translation rights to STAR GAZING have been sold by Little, Brown Book Group to Germany, Portugal and Italy. The German edition was published in February and the Portuguese edition in May 2009.


STAR GAZING, Linda's third novel was published by Piatkus in May 2008.


RUNNER-UP IN PURE PASSION PROMOTION
EMOTIONAL GEOLOGY tied as runner-up in NW Libraries' PURE PASSION promotion. Readers were asked to vote for their favourite romantic read from a shortlist selected to reflect the diversity of romantic writing published in the last ten years. Many thanks to anyone who voted/canvassed for EG!


Linda was invited to appear at the first national Mental Health Arts Film and Media Festival held in Glasgow in October 2007. She appeared at Glasgow Women's Library talking about EMOTIONAL GEOLOGY. The festival explored mental health and people’s experiences of stigma and discrimination.


A LIFETIME BURNING was featured in PRIMA magazine in an article about book groups' favourite reads.


THE BOOKCROSSING UNCONVENTION
Linda appeared at The 2008 BookCrossing Unconvention in Brighton, giving a talk about her books and also teaching a writing workshop.


EMOTIONAL GEOLOGY was voted into the Top Ten Reads of 2006 by BCUK, the UK chapter of www.BookCrossing.com. EG tied in 4th place.

WRITING WORKSHOPS - FEEDBACK 

Linda taught a writing workshop at THE WRITE READ, a day for writers and readers held at Higham Hall, Cumbria, July 2007.

One of her students, Linda Hepworth of Alston, Cumbria wrote:

"Your workshop was the best and most stimulating I have been to and your notes are a wonderful aide-memoire. I have told so many people about you and your books and shall continue to do so."

Linda also taught a 2-day writing workshop, Where the Writing Begins with fellow Transita author Adrienne Dines at the Elmbridge Literature Festival, Surrey, November 2006.

16 students attended and the comments on the feedback sheets were terrific. Here's a selection...

"A great weekend. I wouldn't have missed it for anything."

"Inspiring".

"You've given me tools to get going."

"You have clearly both done a lot of preparation and achieved a spontaneity which inspires me and others too."

"I haven't stopped writing since. One of the things I took away, which has benefited me immeasurably, is the importance of maintaining the marriage to longhand. I've been over-reliant on my computer when it comes to putting words, sentences and paragraphs together, and the delete button has made my writing stilted. As you pointed out, the longhand process is much more organic and helps with natural flow – so thank you for that hot tip."

"You arrive with a blank sheet of paper and leave having filled a book!"

Favourite comment? In answer to the question "Did you find any of the workshop difficult?" one student wrote, "Holding back my excitement."



 

Work in progress... Linda Gillard's 4th novel HOUSE OF SHADOWS 

Orphaned by drink, drugs and rock n’ roll, Gwen Rowland is invited to spend Christmas at her actor boyfriend Alfie's family home - a ramshackle Tudor manor in Norfolk. She's excited about the prospect of a proper holiday with a proper family, but soon after she arrives, Gwen notices something isn't quite right. Alfie acts strangely towards his family and is reluctant to talk about the past. There's the enigma of an old family photograph and Alfie's mother, a celebrated children's author, keeps to her room, living in a twilight world between past and present, fact and fiction.

When Gwen discovers fragments of forgotten family letters sewn into an old quilt she starts to piece together the jigsaw of the past and realises there's a lot more to the family history than she's been told.

And a lot more to Alfie.



CHAPTER ONE


Gwen

I used to wonder if Alfie chose me because I was an orphan and an only child. Was that part of the attraction? I came unencumbered, with no family.

We were kindred spirits in a way. Detached, self-centred, yet both obsessed with the past. Our past. The difference was, I had no family and Alfie did. He had a family – a large one – but mostly he behaved as if he didn’t, as if he wanted no part of them, however much they might want a piece of him.
As a lonely child, then a solitary adolescent, I used to fantasise about having a family – a proper family, teeming with rowdy siblings, jolly aunts and uncles and of course doting parents. Alfie had that. But I suspect his fantasy was that they had all died, leaving him in peace as sole owner and occupier of Creake Hall.

It was a macabre joke we shared: that he lived on grim expectations. I used to chide him for his callousness and he would get angry, which was unlike him. He’d say, ‘You have no bloody idea, Gwen! You don’t know how much they expect of me.’

And it was true. I had absolutely no idea.

*

It’s Gwen. Short for Guinevere.

Don’t ask.

I was conceived, so I was told, at Glastonbury, foisted by father unknown on a semi-comatose mother. Sasha (she always insisted I call her that) must have done one line of coke too many. Sasha always said she had little recollection of my father but claimed my conception had been historic in all senses, that she had felt a deep, deep connection to the past (if not my father, whom she never saw again.)

To my eternal embarrassment, she named me Guinevere which was mercifully shortened to Gwen and sometimes, when she was having a stab at being maternal, Gwenny. But never Ginny. Ginny was the pet name (I use the term advisedly) of one of my dipsomaniac aunt’s monstrous and much-loved Persian cats. There were three: Whisky, Vodka and Gin. (Aunt Samantha had a quirky sense of humour when she was sober, which wasn’t often.)

Aunt Sam did booze, Sasha did drugs and my Uncle Frank did men - boys, if he could get them. This unholy trinity went down like ninepins in the ‘90s, martyrs to over-indulgence. All three died tragically young of, respectively, cirrhosis of the liver, a drug overdose and AIDS.

As for me, I’m allergic to alcohol and worry a lot about my pension. If she were alive, Sasha would have said this was unnatural in one so young. (Twenty-six, but people say I look older. I certainly feel older.) My mother, fond as she was of clichés, would have said, “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die!” And Sasha did. I wouldn’t describe myself as the ambitious type, but I do aim to live longer than my mother. If I make it to thirty-five, I’ll have achieved that modest goal.

So it’s Gwen, not Guinevere. That’s one of the few things my mother and I agreed about. Names are destiny. So you might be surprised to learn that, despite the name and a genetic pre-disposition to excess, my friends describe me as frighteningly sensible, not at all the sort of woman who would fall for an actor. And his home. And his family.

But Sasha would have understood. So, bless them, would Aunt Sam and Uncle Frank. They would all have cheered me on from the sidelines, for it would appear family is destiny too.

Even when you haven’t got one.

*

Alfie Donovan wasn’t my type. Given my limited experience with the opposite sex, I’m not sure I can presume to say I have a type. Male, sober, solvent and heterosexual would be at the top of my wish-list, with tall, dark and handsome not far behind. I don’t claim to be original. At five feet nine myself, I think I can be forgiven for giving short-arses a wide berth. (Uncle Frank used to claim wearily, “It’s all the same when you’re lying down, sweetheart,” but his powers of discrimination declined in later years. Or, as he liked to put it, he developed “more catholic tastes”.)

Alfie was no taller than me. He was blond and funny-looking. Literally. His face made me smile, it made me laugh. His letterbox grin made a grey day suddenly sunny. Old ladies smiled at him for no reason and babies in buggies would crane their necks and stare, fascinated. Alfie’s face was so mobile, so expressive, he could talk with it without opening his mouth. A roll of his eloquent brown eyes spoke volumes. He could crack you up with a look, hint at filthy double entendres with the hoist of an eyebrow. But handsome? No, never. His was a striking face, a memorable face, and – though I didn’t realise it at first - it was also a familiar face.

I’m talking about Alfie as if he’s dead . . . He isn’t, of course. Not exactly.

But something died. Somebody.

***

A man dressed in breeches, topcoat and elaborate cravat strode along the gravel path. He came to a halt in front of a wooden bench and addressed its occupant, a young woman in jeans and a man’s linen shirt, her head bent over a spiral-bound notebook.

‘Excuse me.’

She peered up at him, shielding her eyes against the sun, and cast a professional eye over his appearance, from carefully arranged blond curls to immaculate riding boots – only a size eight by her estimation. He was slender and pale and looked very hot. Smiling, he said, ‘You’re Wardrobe, aren’t you?’

She didn’t return the smile. ‘Well, I don’t actually have a pair of wooden doors, but thanks to an exhaustive training and a couple of years in the rag trade, I have been known to work wonders with a safety pin.’

His large brown eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Music to my ears! You see, I’ve got a problem with my breeches.’

She turned back to her notebook. ‘They’re meant to be tight. Caroline’s a stickler for authenticity - didn’t they warn you? Don’t expect to breathe and don’t even think about sitting down. If you get tired, you have to lean against the Robert Adam fireplace. Decoratively.’

‘Oh, absolutely! Understood. No, this is more serious than breathing problems. Especially from Caroline’s point of view. My breeches are falling down.’

‘What do you mean, falling down?’

‘Travelling earthwards. I think I might have lost a button—’ He flicked the cascade of lace at his throat. ‘But I can’t see past this sodding cravat. I can feel them slipping down. I know I’m not imagining it. One of the extras - who’s already shown an unhealthy interest in my arse – referred to me as “droopy drawers” when he thought I was out of earshot. One of your safety pins might just save the day. And my face. Or rather arse.’

Suppressing a smile, the girl shut her notebook, stood up and said, ‘Follow me.’ She led him away from the mêlée of actors and technicians to a secluded part of the shrubbery. Turning to face him, she said, ‘Undo your waistcoat. Please try not to destroy your cravat!’ She bent down and examined his costume. ‘Oh, I see your problem. You’ve lost a button at the waist. Have you put on weight since you were fitted for these?’

He gasped. ‘My, that was tactful! I thought you wardrobe ladies were meant to be the soul of discretion, masking the numbers on your tape measure with a carefully placed thumb to avoid damaging fragile egos.’

‘Oh yes, we do that for stars. And some of us will do it for nobodies. We don’t do it for people who address us as pieces of furniture. We’re funny that way.’

‘Sorry, I was a bit stressed. I’ll address you as anything you like – your majesty – if you’ll fix me up. You see, if they ever finish with those bloody lights, we get to shoot the one and only scene in which I have to do some acting, as opposed to propping up Adam fireplaces. Decoratively. So I’d like to look my best. Please. Ma’am.’

‘I see.’ She produced a small tin from the breast pocket of her linen shirt and extracted a safety pin. ‘Stand still. Very still.’ She knelt in front of him and slipped her hand inside the waistband of his breeches.

He looked down, bemused, at the top of her shining dark head, now on a level with his crotch. ‘Well, let’s hope there are no paparazzi behind me, lurking in the shrubbery with a telephoto lens. I can see the headline now . . . Blow-job in the bushes: BBC’s desperate attempt to boost ratings with Regency sex romp.’

Unperturbed, she stood up and examined her handiwork. ‘OK, you’re done. You won’t be able to pee in a hurry, though.’

‘Pee? My dear, we have catheters sewn into our breeches, didn’t you know?’ He noted with satisfaction that she was now avoiding his eye in an attempt not to smile. The corners of her mouth twitched as she let the curtain of her hair fall forward to hide her face. He pressed home his advantage. ‘What’s your name - er, your royal highness?’
‘Gwen Rowland.’

‘Well, Gwen, I’ll save you the embarrassment of admitting you haven’t the faintest idea who I am. And don’t worry, you’re not the only one. The director’s either forgotten my name or doesn’t recognise me in costume.’

‘Could be all the weight you’ve put on, I suppose.’

The eyes that now met his conveyed both challenge and mischief. From a distance, he’d thought she hadn’t looked all that attractive, but at close quarters the reluctant curve of that pretty mouth, the provocation in those blue eyes meant he was enjoying this more than he’d expected. ‘You know, I like you, Gwen, I really do. I suppose it would be too much to hope the feeling was mutual?’

She shook her head. ‘Far too much. But I might like you better if I knew your name.’

‘I doubt it. My name’s Alfie. Alfie Donovan. I’m a nobody. Playing a nobody. The youngest brother. A tousle-haired tearaway. It’s a speciality of mine. So . . .’ He stood back to let her admire him. ‘You reckon I’ll survive Caroline’s scrutiny?’

‘Turn round and let me see . . . Yes, you’ll do. No-one’s going to call you droopy drawers. But you might find your arse on the receiving end of more unwanted attentions now.’

‘That wouldn’t include yours by any chance?’

She fixed him with a look. ‘As well as covering up tell-tale numbers on tape measures, we’re trained to rebuff sexual advances from artistes who think they can take advantage of an intimate working relationship.’

‘Is that so? I see what you mean about the training being exhaustive. How very disappointing. I was going to ask – politely – if you’d have dinner with me. In about three weeks time when we’ve finished shooting this bloody scene. I wonder - if I had asked - what you would have said?’

‘I might have said yes. Though I’m not sure someone with a weight problem should really be dining out.’

He beamed at her. ‘Gwen, you are a delight! Please have dinner with me. Or rather, please let me watch you eat dinner. I’ll just toy with a breadstick.’

She folded her arms. ‘OK, I give in. You’ve worn me down. A girl can stand only so much relentless charm. Is this what they teach you at drama school nowadays? Come and find me when you’re through. You might want some help getting out of those breeches.’ She grinned, then turned and walked away, leaving him temporarily bereft of words.

He watched her long-legged stride and the way her thick, dark hair swung from side to side in time with her step. He called out after her, ‘You know, you just made my day!’

Laughing, she turned back, executed a mock curtsey, then continued on her way.