tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70042880608674554522024-03-16T04:31:53.887-07:00Deborah LawrensonProvence, the Luberon and an old house on a hill...Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.comBlogger386125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-3282887048268152192021-01-03T07:43:00.003-08:002021-01-03T08:06:06.523-08:00Work in Progress<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxHFF778yd_pMR9M9zJVO-9yeT9Y0IMfPBd4pcvBoXptUvACi9w7Nh9aJkLTtXHl5TIdPLod8lOApTNTZ8GYDhCdMJWw_jQKrf0dcBRkotJd9zMK2mAsGGPtnFTP0oDPcBdldfGgah-w3w/s1525/P1030012.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1525" data-original-width="1096" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxHFF778yd_pMR9M9zJVO-9yeT9Y0IMfPBd4pcvBoXptUvACi9w7Nh9aJkLTtXHl5TIdPLod8lOApTNTZ8GYDhCdMJWw_jQKrf0dcBRkotJd9zMK2mAsGGPtnFTP0oDPcBdldfGgah-w3w/w318-h442/P1030012.JPG" width="318" /></a></div><p>Update: I'm still here, still quietly working away in these strange, unsettling times. I can't say I've worked all through last year, but I have a rough draft now of the hardest and most rewarding book I have ever attempted. Its scope has expanded though, and I now envisage a two-part work in the same volume. The first will be a fictionalised novella based on my mother Joy's diaries, set in Moscow in the late 1950s at the height of the Cold War. The second will be a memoir of her, and our experiences as a family - what happened next, in other words.</p><p>My thinking is that this might seem odd at first glance, but actually could be very satisfying. And sometimes writers have to try new formats, surely, or all books would conform to the same dull template. This is the idea I'm currently working with, anyhow. It's a way to avoid compromising the drama of a spy story based on real, known events, in particular the continuing enigma of Kim Philby before his unmasking as a Soviet spy, while also examining the personal price paid for what she herself called "an interesting life".</p><p>There's a true romance in the fiction, too. It was in Moscow that my mother met my father. Their tales of their dates trailed by the KGB became part of the fabric of our family history. Some of their adventures sounded fantastical when I was growing up, but research has proved it all to be true, and much more besides that I never realised. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the end, this personal memoir of her is a universal
story about how families and their stories evolve; the narratives we thought we
knew and understood, yet missed the point due to familiarity and mistaken
assumptions, or lack of courage to ask, or lack of curiosity at a given time. And
sometimes, secrets kept until the last.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p>A short extract from the first draft:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>My mother never discussed any specific work she did. But I read and then carefully transcribed her diary for 1958
knowing what she had finally told me in her final years: that she had worked
for MI6 and that “There were four of us who knew all the secrets” at the British Embassy in Moscow.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>She would have had a natural aptitude for
intelligence work. Despite her beauty, she was self-effacing almost to a fault,
did not court attention and was irritated by those who did. She was analytical
and patient, interested in psychology and sociology; her nature was
self-sufficient and she had deep inner resources. </i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Some people - perhaps most people - want to seem more than they are.
Very few people are content being more than they seem – but Joy was one of
them.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="font-family: inherit;">What
was always clear was that the past was never all that far from the present. It
resonated throughout my childhood. The war my parents experienced as children. The
lucky near-misses in wartime bombings. The fateful meeting in Moscow. The Cold
War. Kuwait. Peking. When they entertained, which was often when we were
abroad, the talk was all of foreign postings and people and upheavals,
political and personal. Communism. The Cultural Revolution. The grey oppression
and underlying threat of Soviet Russia. It was a lot for a silent, observant
child to take in. I would sit quietly, lest I be told to go out of the room,
absorbing it all, as the tales rolled out of people who had disappeared, what
had been tried to save them, or find them, or help them across a border, like
the European nuns who had taught me and other international children at the
Convent of the Sacred Heart, the last Catholic school in China.</i></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>When my sister and I were growing up, she made sure
we knew that she thought satisfying careers for girls were far more important
than finding husbands. Though in the long run, husbands and families were to be
encouraged, they shouldn’t be considered until we were in our thirties and had
had more experience of life. (When I married at 28, it was with a sense that I
might have rather let her down.) It was typical of my mother that when I left
school after taking Oxbridge entrance examinations in December, I found she had
booked me a secretarial course starting in January. Her reasoning
was simple: with typing and shorthand skills, I would be able to earn good
money in the university holidays, and would always have something to fall back
on. I did wonder, though, whether there was a subtext. She wanted me to
understand that clever girls could forge interesting careers by careful choice
of which typewriters to bash.</i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p>My parents in Moscow in January 1959, at the wedding of friends - Joy was a bridesmaid. They would marry later that year in London.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBkIHj-aSEhpIH9t6rQRKn1WLykXRuIBqIHMVTlK83S7fuCjrd5ZGUE7qAyOpX_yKJRFTJYDPOI_o3xQSuZM2i6OKuaDjIh7HqgsArqGYvGAnWF3Gd_1Nm7CW9SMUX4uDZOMc_ZKvXSRM/s2048/P1000838.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1777" data-original-width="2048" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBkIHj-aSEhpIH9t6rQRKn1WLykXRuIBqIHMVTlK83S7fuCjrd5ZGUE7qAyOpX_yKJRFTJYDPOI_o3xQSuZM2i6OKuaDjIh7HqgsArqGYvGAnWF3Gd_1Nm7CW9SMUX4uDZOMc_ZKvXSRM/w350-h304/P1000838.jpg" width="350" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-39964970189164311662020-01-01T02:48:00.000-08:002020-06-17T15:19:17.881-07:00A new beginning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Happy New Year to any of my old faithfuls who still check in to this blog from time to time. My plans to switch to using the blog on my <a href="https://www.deborah-lawrenson.co.uk/" target="_blank">new website</a> didn't quite come off, as I discovered that this one was more user-friendly after all (or maybe I just like what I know). So I plan to update this one more often this year.<br />
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The two <a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/9780062869869/death-in-provence/" target="_blank">Penelope Kite mysteries</a> written with Rob under the nom de plume of Serena Kent will come out in paperback in the USA and Canada in February and March. But meanwhile, I have been playing around with a new solo novel, one I have wanted to write for several years but couldn't find the way in. I think I can see the path now, and have been doing some fascinating research.<br />
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The photo shows the heroine, my mother Joy, who passed away five years ago. Here she is in Moscow in 1958, at the Donskoi Monastery. She was working at the British Embassy, but what exactly was she doing there at the height of the Cold War? Her diaries tell us very little, though some of the entries contain a wonderful mixture of the exciting and the mundane, such as the contrast between two letters in the entry below. There are intriguing clues between the lines, some that make sense only to those who know the family stories. I see it as a novel about remarkable events never spoken about, mothers and daughters, and what we don't - or can't - know about those we love. Wish me luck!<br />
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Diary for Saturday, June 14 1958: <i>Panic stations this morning with a lengthy Khrushchev letter to go out; four of us worked on it & it was ready in time; home late, only to dash out again on the Kremlin visit. Only I turned up & we had no guide; the museum & churches were quite interesting, but O so tiring – and the Gruesome Twosome weren’t receiving after 4. </i>[Deborah's note: The "Gruesome Twosome" refers to Stalin and Lenin, who shared a mausoleum between 1953 and 1961. A nice example of my mother's dry humour.]<br />
<i><br />Joy came in for a cup of tea – we were perishing cold, and then I was quickly out again with Valerie to see “The Monte Carlo Story” with Dietrich & de Sica at America House. Enjoyed it very much; came straight home & managed to get my letter home written in bed.</i><br />
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-70965681192934357212019-10-27T03:31:00.002-07:002019-10-27T03:31:41.765-07:00The joys of re-reading Mary Stewart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /><br />I love Mary Stewart’s romantic suspense novels: their sense of adventure and intriguing storylines, their strong-willed heroines, and most of all, their transporting settings. Her first, published in 1955, was <i>Madam, Will You Talk?</i>.<br /><br />The narrative takes place around 1950, in a hot, dusty Provence where Roman ruins and stony, abandoned villages dominate the landscape. The Second World War still casts a shadow over the life of young widow Charity Selborne, whose husband lost his life flying RAF operations. On a summer motoring holiday through France with a friend and fellow teacher, Charity arrives at a small hotel in Avignon. Through Stewart’s lyrical descriptive prose, we feel her release and excitement at being in the balmy warmth of the south.<br /><br />‘<i>It was dusk when I set out, and the street was vividly lit. All the cafés were full, and I picked my way between the tables on the pavement, while there grew in me that slow sense of exhilaration which one inevitably gets in a Southern town after dark.</i>’<br /><br />This is the opening of a piece I've written for Perfectly Provence e-magazine. To read on, please hop over to <a href="https://perfectlyprovence.co/provencal-armchair-travel-mary-stewarts/?utm_campaign=coschedule&utm_source=facebook_page&utm_medium=Perfectly%20Provence&utm_content=Provencal%20Armchair%20Travel:%20Mary%20Stewart%27s%20Madam,%20Will%20You%20Talk%3F&fbclid=IwAR118Aya4lbwSSjaAs5z38JJPpIwXug749CZm51ySM41BfragPUVZRWzos8">Perfectly Provence on this link</a>.<br />Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-3801684514366274462019-03-22T08:25:00.000-07:002019-03-22T08:25:32.169-07:00Blog move<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
After more than eight years on Blogger, I have moved my blog to my new website: <a href="https://www.deborah-lawrenson.co.uk/">https://www.deborah-lawrenson.co.uk/</a>. It made sense to combine the two, especially as I no longer have the time to devote to writing posts, and it seems to me that there are diminishing returns from doing so. Naturally, I shall keep the archive here, as it's a record of the first publication of my books in the USA and an illustrated background to the stories.<br />
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Along with many other writers, I also enjoy using Instagram to interact with readers and booksellers, and I'd be delighted if you wanted to find me there: @deborah.lawrenson <a href="https://www.instagram.com/deborah.lawrenson/">https://www.instagram.com/deborah.lawrenson/</a> and @serena.kent <a href="https://www.instagram.com/serena.kent/">https://www.instagram.com/serena.kent/</a>Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-64446505186607470432018-11-06T07:52:00.000-08:002018-11-06T12:01:36.792-08:00The mystery of Penelope Kite's money<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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How can Penelope Kite afford to live in Provence? It’s been bothering some early readers of <i>Death in Provence</i>, and I think that’s great because it shows they are really trying to imagine her enviable new life in the sun. So while discretion usually applies to financial matters, I can’t allow the vexing question of Penelope’s money to overshadow the other mysteries in the books.<br />
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In fact, the answers are all there in the book – though subtly present, like all the best clues.<br />
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For more than twenty years, Penelope was married to David, a solicitor – later, partner – in a law firm that specialised in City of London transactions. In London “the City” is shorthand for banks and large companies, the US equivalent of “Wall Street”. It is quite conceivable that David would have earned several million pounds a year from the mergers and acquisitions and share issues he worked on, and equally possible that Penelope’s divorce settlement, after a long marriage, would have reflected this at £5-10 million.<br />
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Penelope owns a house in Esher, Surrey, an affluent suburb in leafy south-west London. It might have once been the family house. A spacious five-bedroom house in Esher currently costs £2-3 million, perhaps more.<br />
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But let’s err on the side of caution and say that Penelope bought a smaller house in Bolingbroke Drive after the divorce. Even that would most likely be worth more than £1 million. When she moves to the south of France, she rents it out. A quick look at rental prices for a well-presented three-bedroom house in the area shows that she could make £3000-4000 a month. That alone would be a very decent amount for a single person to live on.<br />
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But there’s more. Penelope is an only child. Both her parents have passed away. No further details are given in the first book, but it’s revealed in the next that Penelope’s father was a doctor, a GP and police surgeon, and that the family lived in Bromley, another leafy suburb of south London. Penelope would have inherited her parents’ entire estate, including a house that could easily have been worth £2 million, and other investments.<br />
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Penelope can well afford to buy a run-down farmhouse in the Luberon with a realistic asking price of around €800,000, which converts to c. £700,000. She can also afford substantial renovation work, along with croissants, bottles of rosé and new clothes – and the “nearly-new” Range Rover she buys for the hilly Provençal roads.<br />
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Fairly early on in <i>Death in Provence</i>, Penelope sees the red Ferrari that keeps popping up on the local roads and muses about where she fits into the social scale: <i>‘There was an interesting mix of people here in August, she thought: happy holidaymakers from northern Europe; artists and photographers; walkers and cyclists; the farming community; the butchers and bakers and candlestick makers who gave so much pleasure to everyday life; and some extremely rich people – Parisians and Swiss and Americans - staying at their second homes. Penelope wondered if people would assume she was rich. She didn’t think she was. Comfortably off, perhaps. And, for the first time in her life, reckless with a lump sum.’ </i><br />
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Penelope doesn’t see herself as belonging to the Ferrari-driving classes. But, like most well brought-up, conventional British women, she is being discreet about her own wealth - which many might consider substantial.<br />
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-8560398450953022142018-08-26T03:08:00.002-07:002018-08-26T03:13:33.170-07:00Lazy Sunday in Provence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After a "soft launch" of ebook and audio only, the paperback edition of <i>Death in Provence</i> is out now from Orion in the UK! A blog tour has brought forth a raft of lovely reviews and all's well with the world. In the US, readers have only to wait until February for the Harper hardback and ebook, but I am going to run a giveaway open to all so there's a chance to be an early reader.<br />
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In the meantime, here's a introduction to the main character, Penelope Kite in a piece written for <a href="http://www.frenchvillagediaries.com/2018/08/lazy-sunday-in-france-with-author.html" target="_blank">The French Village Diaries</a> blog - a Lazy Sunday in France:<br />
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<i>Our accidental sleuth Penelope Kite loves Sunday mornings in Provence. Even though she no longer works nine-to-five as assistant to an eminent forensic pathologist, she still savours that delicious Sunday feeling of waking with no pressing need to leave a soft bed when the sun slants through the open shutters. No family to prepare lunch for, no housework, just lovely croissants for breakfast on the sunny terrace of Le Chant d’Eau, her recklessly purchased old farmhouse with views of the Luberon valley.<br /> Cello practice (what bliss to be able to play again, letting the notes rise into the open air, disturbing no one) is followed by a quick swim in the pool. The pool looks glorious in the walled garden now, with lavender lining the walls and four sentinel cypress trees. Fortunately, there is no dead body floating in it today. <br /> The sun is already hot as she prepares to go out tat-hunting at a classic Provençal brocante.</i><br />
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<i><br /></i><a href="http://www.frenchvillagediaries.com/2018/08/lazy-sunday-in-france-with-author.html" target="_blank">Continue reading...</a><br />
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"This was such an entertaining and refreshing read. With eccentric characters and a twisty but, at the same time, hilarious plot, you just need to sit down and enjoy this captivating mystery set in the beautiful South of France."</div>
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Review from <a href="https://bookafterbook.blog/2018/08/26/blogtour-death-in-provence-by-serena-kent-serenakentbooks-orionbooks-alainnageorgiou/" target="_blank">Book After Book blog</a>.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-44561025944933497702018-06-21T04:33:00.000-07:002018-06-24T06:21:04.804-07:00New book! Death in Provence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At last, all can be revealed! The lack of posts on the blog this year is squarely down to hard work at the desk on not one, but two new novels. (There was also a lengthy trip to the US, the Bahamas and Chile, during which, blissfully, no work of any kind was undertaken!) But here we are, with publication next week in the UK of Death in Provence, the fun - yet fatal - mystery that Rob ("The Panto King" for long-time readers) and I have written together.<br />
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It's a soft launch, which means ebook and audio download first, on June 28, followed by the paperback on August 23. For those who want to pre-order, you can do so here: <a href="https://amzn.to/2taf7w7" target="_blank">AMAZON</a>. The good news is that until August, the ebook is only £1.99, so early readers will get a bargain.<br />
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Mercifully, Rob and I are still speaking, if only just, after five intense months drafting the sequel, Death in Avignon. Our nom de plume, Serena Kent has her own <a href="http://www.serena-kent.com/" target="_blank">website</a>, where you can find out more, see background pictures and read the opening.<br />
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And if you're wondering about the name, it's all that was left of our determination to make one from an anagram of our surnames, Lawrenson and Rees. Sadly neither Serena Rowlsen, nor Loren Wassener had the requisite charm, but we and the publishers all liked Serena. So Serena it is - with her young-at-heart, croissant-scoffing, clever heroine, Penelope Kite!<br />
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<br />Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-31159495713455886252017-12-05T03:14:00.000-08:002017-12-05T03:14:01.210-08:00Exciting news!<div abp="111" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thrilled to be able at last to share some great news...a new two-book deal with HarperCollins in the USA and Orion in the UK. But there's a twist! I'm writing with my husband Rob, aka The Panto King for long-time readers of this blog.</div>
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It started just as a bit of fun, but working on it was so enjoyable that it soon took on a life of its own. Here's the premise:</div>
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"Introducing Penelope Kite, less femme fatale than a fatal combination of Agatha Raisin and Bridget Jones, as she investigates a <span abp="184" class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span abp="185" class="text_exposed_show">mystery in the beautiful setting of <em abp="186">A Year in Provence</em>. The first in a series of cosy detective novels featuring Penelope and her circle of local friends and acquaintances, set in recognisable locations in the South of France."</span></div>
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<span abp="185" class="text_exposed_show">So I hope that appeals. These books will be rather different from the previous ones: the lush locations will all be there, but alongside banter, good humour and comic moments to lighten the dark deeds that Penelope uncovers. Can't wait to share more when I'm able to!</span></div>
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How far we have come from these two merry undergraduates at Cambridge all those years ago. And miraculously still on speaking terms after a no-holds-barred final editing session...</div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-56124766695377031672017-09-07T03:55:00.001-07:002017-09-08T15:12:12.731-07:00Provence: by the sea<div abp="133" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The end of high summer in Provence means now is the time to set out for the beach. <em abp="176">La Rentrée</em> has seen off families with children who must return to school and soon the university students will be making for home too. Only the older or childless holidaymakers remain to share the sea and the sun with the locals.</div>
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Our preferred part of the coast stretches from Toulon to La Ciotat. Not the smartest on the French Riviera, but full of charm and the French themselves, which is always a recommendation. The photo shows Bandol, which has a line of beaches, each different in character. This is the seaward side of the sheltered Anse de Renecros, where the horseshoe bay is a perfect swimming lagoon.</div>
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There are plenty of cafés and restaurants serving fish and <em abp="225">salads nicoises</em> - and, of course, the famously good Bandol rosé wine is not to be missed.</div>
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I'm very fond of Sanary-sur-Mer, too, just along the coast towards Toulon. It has one of the prettiest seafront marinas and promenades of the whole of the south of France. Again, not conspicuously smart but friendly and relaxed, with plenty to do and see. </div>
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And then there's lovely Cassis and La Ciotat, which looks so unpromising from a distance, with what seems to be an industrial zone where it butts up against the hills. The towering cranes turn out to be part of a yacht builders and chandlery and, again, it's a pretty town with good beaches.</div>
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If this has made you want to prolong summer with a spot of armchair travel to the sea, you might like <em abp="399"><a abp="400" href="http://mybook.to/300days" target="_blank">300 Days of Sun</a></em>. You can find out more in this Q & A I wrote for <a abp="343" href="https://annebonnybookreviews.com/2017/08/28/qa-with-deb_lawrenson-author-of-300daysofsun/" target="_blank">Anne Bonny Book Reviews</a>. </div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-12551158652211582752017-08-06T06:13:00.003-07:002017-08-06T07:07:40.956-07:00How book blogging has changed<div abp="3636" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the year (and a bit) since <em abp="53">300 Days of Sun</em> came out, I've been thrilled by some of the lovely reviews and messages I've received about it. Much of this has been on the newer, faster social media such as <a abp="2413" href="https://www.instagram.com/deborah.lawrenson/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> and Facebook, but this post is a shout-out for the stalwart bloggers who keep going, crafting longer, more detailed and insightful pieces about books and writing.</div>
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I know from hard experience that it's tough to maintain a great blog, and keep it fuelled with entertaining and worthwhile posts, especially when you are trying to write a book on the side! I began this blog in December 2010, and the best content dates from mid-2011 when I got into my stride, to around 2014. It simply takes a lot more effort to write a short essay than it does to share a photo with a few lines on IG.</div>
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Luckily, arts and book bloggers are both dedicated and made of steely stuff. They have to be. For just as publishing has changed in the past ten years, so has the nature of book blogging. It used to be a glorious, idiosyncratic free-for-all. Bloggers were delighted to be approached direct by a lateral-thinking author with a new novel to promote. Most of them hadn't yet been sucked into the marketing machine that sees bloggers as a cheap and very effective way of harnessing the power of reader-to-reader recommendations.</div>
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Nine years ago, when I was disappointed in the efforts of my then-publishers to get coverage for my novel <em>Songs of Blue and Gold</em>, I determined to go my own way. I discovered some fantastic British bloggers like Cornflower and Tales from the Reading Room, and whizzed off emails to them. It was such a rewarding experience. I can't think of anyone who didn't reply, sometimes within hours, or offer to review. Some of them became my first online friends, and some I met and we became offline friends, too. </div>
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Now, there are rules of engagement. Publishing publicists have lists of bloggers and blog tours, and what is still technically an amateur pursuit has a frighteningly professional edge. Bloggers are no longer simply happy readers, but suffering burn-out with too many books to get through and provide reviews. Bloggers worry about upsetting publishers (no more free advance reading copies of big books) and authors alike. Stress increases as the TBR mounts. More books are published, and schedules fill.</div>
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A consequence is that writers are often asked to produce guest blogs - which is great, don't get me wrong, as these often give you exposure to a new set of readers - but this does mean that there's even less time for the writer to create good content for his or her own blog.</div>
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When these work, though, it's a win-win situation. A blog I've admired for a long time, and greatly enjoyed working with is Trip Fiction, which is perfect for the kind of books I write, which have a strong sense of place and recognisable setting. Here's the link to <a abp="112" href="http://www.tripfiction.com/talking-location-with-author-deborah-lawrenson-portugal/" target="_blank">the piece I wrote about Portugal and <em abp="113">300 Days of Sun.</em></a> </div>
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And then there's the pure joy of finding a review by a blogger who obviously went out and bought your book and just liked it, <a abp="169" href="http://bunchedundies.blogspot.fr/2017/07/book-review-300-days-of-sun-novel-by.html" target="_blank">then thought he'd write a blog review</a>. How great is that?</div>
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"Part romance, part thriller, part history lesson, <i abp="171">300 Days of Sun: A Novel</i> will leave the reader entranced and wishing for more. It’s a sensualist adventure with an ever-present malevolent edge and by the time it’s over, you’ll be a little bit smarter and a lot more aware of life’s lovely but dangerous possibilities You’ll also be mightily impressed with Deborah Lawrenson, and her graceful ability to make the English language flow and shimmer."</div>
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Available from all good booksellers and<a abp="283" href="http://mybook.to/300days" target="_blank"> Amazon</a>. </div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-53324018565001887632017-07-30T09:47:00.000-07:002017-07-30T09:47:00.745-07:00A Good Year - take two, in Gordes<div abp="65" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the decade or so since Ridley Scott's "local" movie <em abp="108">A Good Year</em> was released to less than ecstatic critical acclaim and box office success, something rather extraordinary has happened. It had become everyone's favourite sun-drenched, feel-good Luberon comfort film. People in the villages featured still talk about the making of it, and Russell Crowe gossip snakes around. <a abp="298" href="https://deborah-lawrenson.blogspot.fr/2012/09/chateau-la-canorgue-good-year.html" target="_blank">My own piece about it</a> has been my most popular blog post for years.</div>
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So I can never pass the restaurant in the corner of the Place du Château at Gordes without being reminded of Max and Fanny, so beautifully played by Marion Cotillard. Gordes is a stunning place anyway, but this is just an extra dusting of stardust.</div>
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Sadly, though the atmosphere of the real life "Fanny's Café" is indelible, the restaurant under current management is not getting good reviews, and the crowds are staying away from its tables. We went to La Trinquette, tucked away down a precipitous street, the <span abp="164" class="_Xbe">Rue des Tracapelles, and it was fantastic, with glorious views over the Petit Luberon.</span></div>
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<span abp="165" class="_Xbe">Afterwards, a brilliant concert of operatic arias and Lieder</span> starring Elsa Dreisig at the Théatre des Terrasses. The cobbled alleys down from the main square showcase the height of the village above the valley - and give a sweeping view of a great number of other locations used in <em abp="213">A Good Year, </em>including the <a abp="354" href="https://deborah-lawrenson.blogspot.fr/2012/09/chateau-la-canorgue-good-year.html" target="_blank">Château la Canorgue</a> at Bonnieux, the Provencal dream of a house and vineyard that Max inherits.</div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-59396718285920134912017-06-13T05:27:00.002-07:002021-02-17T07:07:27.425-08:00Rupert Brooke at Penshurst<div abp="14">
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Penshurst 1907</div>
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In July 1909, Rupert Brooke came to Penshurst, in Kent, on a camping trip with a group of friends. In a meadow close to the River Eden, they recreated days and nights at Grantchester with daring mixed swimming in the river, poetry recitals and romantic entanglements.</div>
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Among the young campers were three of the Olivier sisters, Bryn, Daphne and Noel, whose family lived at nearby Limpsfield Chart. They were cousins of the famous actor Sir Laurence Olivier, and Bryn and Noel, in particular, were charismatic beauties. Bryn and another sister, Margery, were part of Rupert’s famous Cambridge set. But it was at Penshurst that Rupert Brooke fell deeply in love with Noel, the youngest (pictured, Brooke right). He had been pursuing her since they first met when she was still a schoolgirl at Bedales, and on this trip, she seemed to return his feelings.</div>
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Another of the friends was 17-year-old David “Bunny” Garnett, neighbour of the Oliviers at Limpsfield - he would become a prolific author and member of the Bloomsbury Group, and would write the novella <em>Aspects of Love</em>. He had chosen the pitch, ‘across the river from the imposing edifice of Penshurst Place’. But where exactly was the site of this camp? Remembering these summer days and nights, David Garnett wrote:</div>
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<em abp="3523">‘When we reached Penshurst we found a little road crossing the river Eden and above a narrow old bridge was a wider pool with water lilies, in which we bathed. Nearby was a little weirhouse over the river.’</em></div>
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There are four bridges over the rivers at Penshurst, which is in a valley at the confluence of the Medway and the Eden. Three of them have views of Penshurst Place, the stately historic birthplace of the Elizabethan poet Sir Philip Sidney. The question was, which one was it that saw the friends diving from the wall, as described by Garnett? </div>
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<em abp="3536">"On Sunday morning the rustics of Penshurst came down and leant in a line upon the parapet of the bridge, staring into the pool in which we were to bathe.</em></div>
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<em abp="3542"> Nor did they. We bathed, ignoring them, and Noel, not to be put off from her high dives, picked her way along the parapet between the rows of wrists and elbows, politely asked for standing room in the middle, and made a perfect dive into the pool. With florid expressionless face, the nearest labourer shook his black Sunday coat-sleeve free of the drops which had fallen from her heel."</em></div>
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The long, tranquil field behind lies close by alongside the Salman’s Farm road, and offers a surprisingly fine view of Penshurst Place across the meadows. It seems a perfect – and relatively discreet – spot for a party of young men and women camping together in what, in the eyes of many Edwardians, would have been a shockingly free-spirited display of unconventionality.</div>
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If you want to see it, cross the bridge in the direction of Salman’s Farm, the field is immediately on the left. Downstream, very close by, an old shallow weir still splashes into a wide pool in the river, though the weir house has been replaced by a modern gauging station (the red brick structure at the bottom right of the photo). This picture was taken with a zoom lens that has shortened the real distances. This is what remains of the shallow weir.</div>
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Days and nights passed in walking, swimming, eating and talking. At night, they swam naked by the light of a bicycle lamp. Rupert had been pursuing both Noel from a distance for many months, and they finally had a chance to be alone together on a riverbank walk.</div>
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<span abp="4556" style="font-size: x-small;">The Bathers, woodcut by Gwen Raverat (1885-1957) another of Rupert Brooke’s Cambridge friends, who took part in the Granchester night swimming parties. </span></div>
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<em abp="4792">The Hill by Rupert Brooke (1909)<br abp="4793" /><br abp="4794" /> Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,</em></div>
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<em abp="4795"> Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.<br abp="4796" /> You said "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;<br abp="4797" /> Wind, sun, and earth remain, and birds sing still,<br abp="4798" /> When we are old, are old...." "And when we die<br abp="4799" /> All's over that is ours; and life burns on<br abp="4800" /> Through other lovers, other lips" said I,<br abp="4801" /> "Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"</em></div>
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<em abp="4803"> "We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.<br abp="4804" /> Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;<br abp="4805" /> "We shall go down with unreluctant tread<br abp="4806" /> Rose-crowned into the darkness!"... Proud we were,<br abp="4807" /> And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.<br abp="4808" /> —And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.</em></div>
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After this idyllic interlude in Penshurst, the poet’s love for Noel Olivier endured, becoming almost obsessive. Yet he was distracted by other relationships - notably with Ka Cox - and unable to commit to her. The steely and self-sufficient Noel was coolly unimpressed by his confusions. Her eventual resolve that she did not love him caused Brooke to write her an enraged letter in 1912:</div>
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<em abp="3647">“You lie, Noel. You may have persuaded yourself you don’t love me, or engineered yourself into not loving me, now. But you lie when you say you never did & never could. You did – Penshurst & Grantchester & a thousand times. I know you did; & you know it. And you could.”</em><em abp="3648"><br abp="4340" /></em> </div>
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Noel qualified as a doctor in 1917, becoming a paediatrician. She married and had five children, before belatedly falling in love with James Strachey, another of Rupert’s Bloomsbury set friends, and brother of Lytton Strachey. In their forties, Noel and James embarked on a passionate affair that lasted nearly a decade.</div>
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Rupert Brooke died of sepsis caused by an infected mosquito bite in April 1915, on a ship in the Aegean Sea, bound for Gallipoli. Brooke (1887-1915) was known as “the handsomest young man in England” and he was already famous for his neo-Romantic poems when he enlisted to fight in World War One. His death at twenty-seven only added to his reputation and idealised image, allied to his lyrical nostalgia for the English countryside. He was buried on the Greek island of Skyros.</div>
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<em abp="3656">The Soldier by Rupert Brooke (1914) <br abp="4347" /><br abp="4348" /> IF I should die, think only this of me: <br abp="4349" /> That there's some corner of a foreign field <br abp="4350" /> That is forever England. There shall be <br abp="4351" /> In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; </em></div>
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<em abp="3664"> A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, <br abp="4353" /> Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, <br abp="4354" /> A body of England's, breathing English air, <br abp="4355" /> Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home. </em></div>
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<em abp="3670"> And think, this heart, all evil shed away, <br abp="4357" /> A pulse in the eternal mind, no less <br abp="4358" /> Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; <br abp="4359" /> Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; <br abp="4360" /> And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, <br abp="4361" /> In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.</em> </div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-41233770880788173362017-05-25T02:48:00.000-07:002017-05-25T02:48:48.595-07:00"But what are they eating?"<div abp="105" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was delighted to be asked this question by US blogger and writer Shelley Workinger, about my characters Eve and Dom in <em abp="223">The Lantern</em>. With some relish, I supplied what I hope is a lip-smacking answer in a guest post over on her foodie matters and book blog <em abp="224">But What Are They Eating?</em></div>
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<br abp="225" />Food is a vital part of Eve and Dom’s sensuous life in the South of France. The naïve translator and the worldly older man connect on an instinctive level that seems - at first - set apart from the bleak realities of the lives they are both trying to escape. They fall in love and move into a crumbling Provencal hamlet, set apart on a hillside, where they lose themselves in the heat and light, in music and the imagination – and the fruits of the landscape. </div>
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<em abp="226">That summer the house and its surroundings became ours, a time reduced in my memory to separate images and impressions: mirabelles, the tart orange plums like incandescent bulbs strung in forest green leaves, a zinc-topped table under a vine canopy; the budding grapes; the basket on the table, a large bowl; tomatoes ribbed and plump as harem cushions.</em> </div>
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You can read the whole piece by following the link to <em abp="228"><a abp="229" href="https://bookfare.blogspot.co.uk/2017/05/foodfic-please-welcome-deborah.html?spref=tw" target="_blank">But What Are They Eating</a>?</em></div>
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The photo was taken at the time I was writing <em abp="231">The Lantern</em>, and so has the tang of absolute authenticity. It's late summer and the table is laid for dinner outside the music room. In the winter, we eat in the kitchen, or if guests are invited, we set up a table in the sitting room. If I were to imagine Eve and Dom hosting an October supper party, the menu might follow one of ours that proved a great success with local friends:</div>
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<em>Spicy butternut squash soup</em></div>
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It was seasonal, which the French always appreciate, and the classic English pudding went down a storm - though I did make it as light as possible! Served with a restrained amount of <em>crème anglaise, </em>custard, for the full experience.</div>
Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-987818105570384582017-04-25T04:48:00.003-07:002017-04-25T06:48:01.710-07:00The Durrells and Corfu<div abp="160" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<em abp="7468">The Durrells</em> are back on Sunday evening TV, bickering and creating mayhem against the heavenly backdrop of Corfu. Simon Nye’s adaptation is gorgeous escapism, much as the island was for the real Durrells in the years before the second world war. And the tales it spins are about as misleading.</div>
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Some years ago I became so fascinated by the family, and elder brother Larry in particular, that I wrote a novel inspired by his traveller’s life – and four wives along the way. I loved Gerard Durrell’s <em>My Family and Other Animals</em> from the moment I opened it aged about eleven. It was the funniest book I had ever read, and Gerald’s vicious yet loving lampoon of writer Larry sparkled in a glittering sea of hilarious set pieces, the 'diminutive blond firework' by turns pompously literary and infuriated by marauding beasts and insects.</div>
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But as ever with the Durrells, the truth was never allowed to get in the way of a good story. As sister Margo once said: “I never know what’s fact and what’s fiction in my family.”</div>
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To read more, please hop over to <a abp="172" href="https://bibliomaniacuk.blogspot.co.uk/2017/04/guestpost-deborahlawrenson-300daysofsun.html" target="_blank">Katherine Sunderland's BiblioManiac blog</a>. This is the opening of a guest post I've written for her.</div>
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I'm still fascinated by the Durrell family, their books, adventures and the truth behind the stories, and have recently read and thoroughly enjoyed Michael Haag's <em abp="7485">The Durrells of Corfu</em>. It's a great overview of their real lives, with some poignant new photos that have never been released before, though it doesn't reveal much of the darker, and possibly most fascinating aspects of their stories. Still well worth reading if you're loving the TV series, and I bet you'll want to find out more...</div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-22363835010142769782017-04-11T02:17:00.000-07:002017-04-11T02:17:10.589-07:00Wandering<div abp="7548" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don't feel like writing at the moment, not even - as must have become obvious - on the blog. I'm quite content just wandering, pottering, faffing about. And very lucky, it has to be said, that I am able to do just that when I want to.</div>
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In Bonnieux the other day, I caught sight of this magnificent wisteria behind a gate, through an archway. It looked intriguing so I stopped. For a brief moment I wondered who lived in the house and how long that bottle had been there in the courtyard. Another time, I might have considered whether it might make a setting for a scene in a novel, but I just took a photo because it was pretty and left it there.</div>
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Have I run out of steam? Does there come a time when a writer feels there's no more to say for a while? A few too many crass online reviews? "Meh." "No. Just no." "This book uses words that are literally not in the dictionary." (At least that one gave us a laugh.) I don't think it's anything to do with that. I'm someone who believes passionately in freedom of expression, and will defend to the end the right of reviewers to be mean if that's how they feel. There are enough other readers who do like my novels, which redresses the balance.</div>
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I've long thought that the reason for writing and reading novels is to try to make sense of the world. Each of my novels has contained some personal issue that I've been grappling with, though usually this has not become apparent, even to me, until some time afterwards. There's no equivalence in the plot. The manifestation is more like those dreams of places and people that don't seem to look like they do in life.</div>
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But in the case of the last novel, issues of identity and loss were all too close to the surface as I was struggling to write it. There was no time to process my emotions. They were raw and real and ever-present as I wrote through the winter that saw both my parents pass away within four months of each other. Over the book, the word "deadline" hung with a bitter, macabre irony.</div>
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Writing this now, I think I've realised what my silence is saying. "Give me a break."</div>
Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-81315628017908460442017-03-21T06:31:00.002-07:002017-03-21T06:31:34.971-07:00Amazon Daily Deal<div abp="75" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thrilled to say that <em>300 Days of Sun</em> is one of the Deals of the Day on Amazon UK today! You can download to your Kindle for only 99p, and you have until midnight to do so. Please do spread the word to anyone you think might enjoy it! Click here for<a abp="236" href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_1_8?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=300+days+of+sun&sprefix=300+days%2Cdigital-text%2C231&crid=3H7DZCGAOW5PI" target="_blank"> the deal page on Amazon</a>. </div>
Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-43891174717512350512017-03-08T07:39:00.000-08:002017-03-11T02:40:13.149-08:00Special Deal news<div abp="211" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong abp="7430">March 21st</strong> - traditionally the first day of Spring, and this year, a boost for my novel, too. The Kindle edition of <em abp="7431">300 Days of Sun</em> is an Amazon Daily Deal in the UK <strong abp="7432">for one day only</strong> at a great price drop. You can check the <a abp="462" href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/300-Days-Sun-Suspense-Summer-ebook/dp/B01FSKQDNY/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1488985778&sr=1-1&keywords=300+days+of+sun" target="_blank">Amazon page</a> on the day for the deal, but it's a fantastic chance to pick up a bargain for your e-reader. </div>
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This novel was selected as one of the Great Group Reads for National Reading Group Month in the USA last October, and has done well in Portuguese translation, too.</div>
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I've had some lovely reviews on <a abp="464" href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25817393-300-days-of-sun" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> recently, so if you hop over there you can get a feel for the book. Here are some of my favourite ones: </div>
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<span abp="467"><span abp="468" id="freeText3037603577996695838"><em abp="528">"The writing itself is wonderful, the descriptions of Portugal are absolutely mind blowing, more than once I looked online to see just how close to reality they were and was not disappointed, the reader really is transported to Portugal whilst reading this, sadly once you close the book you are back at home.<br abp="529" /> The characters were interesting and well developed, their predicaments compelling and really captured my attention. An impressive historical fiction novel with mystery, suspense, romance and wonderfully descriptive settings."</em></span></span><span abp="467"><span abp="468"><em abp="528"><br abp="530" /></em><br abp="471" /><span abp="472" id="freeText9757118283853608935"><em abp="531">"I wish more fiction readers knew about Deborah Lawrenson, she really is a great novelist. Her books always have great detail of place and time, revealing the amount of research Lawrenson must do. I enjoyed this one for various reasons: a unique locale (Portugal), a believable &relatable narrator, WWII historical fiction backstory woven into contemporary tale, true crime suspense, and an interesting ending. Jo's story and Alva's story were both so compelling, I didn't want to put the book down!"</em></span></span></span></div>
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If you are intrigued about <em abp="7471">300 Days of Sun</em> and can't wait for March 21st, you can find it wherever you are via this <a abp="533" href="http://mybook.to/300days" target="_blank">Amazon link</a>.</div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-31163976341326443092017-02-25T07:59:00.000-08:002017-02-25T07:59:06.435-08:00Historical fiction anthology<div abp="3463">
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<span abp="2282" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span> <br abp="6374" />Where do works of historical fiction find their starting points? How are those seeds refined into story? What are the gifts and challenges of using the past as source, and how can both be most inventively addressed? Where does historical accuracy end and fictional power begin? How do authors today make a given moment in history compelling to contemporary readers?<br abp="6375" /><br abp="6376" />These are the questions posed by<em> Stories of Inspiration: Historical Fiction Edition</em> edited by publishing industry veteran Suzanne Fox, and I was delighted to contribute an essay. <br abp="6377" /><br abp="6378" />Fox has collecting insights from both established authors and new voices and charts the often surprising journey from an original point of departure to a finished work of historical fiction, spanning the genres from literary fiction to mystery, romance, and more.<br abp="6379" /><br abp="6380" /><em>Stories of Inspiration</em> is available from <a abp="6445" href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/0998122904/" target="_blank">Amazon UK</a>, <a abp="6382" href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0998122904/" target="_blank">Amazon USA</a> and other good booksellers.</div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-77403336348023581832017-01-27T03:26:00.000-08:002017-01-27T03:46:55.091-08:00On the radio<div abp="7499" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Heads up: I'm on London's Resonance FM radio tomorrow at 2.30-3.30pm, speaking with Jude Cowan Montague about her new novel for readers of all ages, <em abp="4">Young Hitch: Forbidden Flames</em>. It's a great read, introducing the famous film director as a mischievous eleven-year-old boy in his native East London. </div>
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Young Alf Hitchcock lives in a world of his own in the bustling streets of Limehouse where his family runs a fishmongery and fried fish business. He smells of smoked haddock and is bullied for it, his father treats him as a nuisance, and the boy loves to escape into the new-fangled picture palace that stokes his already over-active imagination. So when he stumbles into a real-life story of life and death, what will he do?</div>
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Writer, poet and film archivist Jude is the resident host of <em abp="119">The News Agents</em> show, but this time I'm delighted that she invited me to ask the questions. We'll discuss the inspiration for the book on the streets of East London and the early days of newsreel, the background to the Sidney Street siege in 1911, Hitchcock's life and work, and the nuts and bolts of writing bio-fiction, trying to unpick and understand an established character.</div>
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Join us if you can on 104.4FM, <a abp="64" href="https://resonancefm.com/schedule" target="_blank">or click here for more info and Resonance FM livestreaming</a>.</div>
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Jude's own blog has some atmospheric and informative background posts: <a href="http://younghitchcock.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">Young Hitch, Geek, Misfit and Anti-hero.</a></div>
Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-28451612637190586032017-01-06T06:51:00.001-08:002017-01-06T06:51:23.959-08:00Lavender - off the beaten track<div abp="3543" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When the lavender is harvested in Provence at the end of July, a heavenly scent is carried on warm evening breezes. Alerted by the first wafts of perfumed air, from our terrace we can sometimes see the smoke rising from the other side of a small ridge. The distillation has begun.</div>
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In the small purple fields woven into the landscape of the hills around the town of Apt in the Luberon, the stills are sometimes placed in the very fields where the flowers have been grown. In this part of Provence lavender farming is a far cry from the huge commercial concerns of Sault and Valensole, more like smallholdings tended in the traditional way.</div>
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<strong>If you would like to read more, please hop over to the web magazine </strong><a abp="95" href="http://perfectlyprovence.co/provencal-lavender-off-the-beaten-track/?utm_campaign=coschedule&utm_source=twitter&utm_medium=PerfProvence&utm_content=Provencal%20Lavender%20%E2%80%93%20off%20the%20beaten%20track" target="_blank"><strong>Perfectly Provence</strong></a><strong>, where I've written a guest post. For those of you who love the South of France, and haven't discovered this site yet, you are in for a treat!</strong></div>
Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-77611865119491561402016-12-06T02:54:00.000-08:002018-11-06T04:04:50.322-08:00The sound of gunfire, Lisbon 1940<div abp="7390">
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Come inside...a short glimpse inside <em abp="7576">300 Days of Sun</em>. I always enjoy reading and researching into a fascinating subject, and with this novel I loved writing the sections of the novel set in wartime Lisbon. Here's one of the early scene-setters, viewed through the eyes of Alva Barton, wife of an American newspaperman. The Bartons have left Rome, then Paris as the German army of occupation swept into France in 1940. After a nerve-jangling journey south, they have arrived in Portugal's capital city, along with many other refugees desperate to escape Europe.<br />
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<em abp="7563">The attic room at the Hotel Métropole was stuffy and a long way from the bathroom. But the Bartons were used to being thrown back on their own resources. Wasn’t that how they had ended up here? They were still the people they were before they lay on these hard twin beds, getting up each morning to eat salty toasted cheese sandwiches for breakfast and lobsters and langoustines for lunch, considered not extravagant but very standard local fare. Scrupulous cleanliness was the norm and they were treated with warmth and cordiality by the Portuguese at the hotel, in the cafés, in the shops.</em></div>
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<em abp="7565">Like Rome, Lisbon was a city on seven hills. After it was destroyed by the great earthquake of 1755, the architecture that rose from the ruins was bold and uniform in style, the best the eighteenth century could offer. Set back from the Tagus waterfront behind a wide square with a horseman statue was a triumphal arch with colonnaded building forming wings to either side, reminiscent of the Rue de Rivoli in Paris. In its way, the city was as self-confident and beguiling as Paris. It even had its Champs Elysée: the magnificent tree-lined Avenida de la Liberdade.</em></div>
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<em abp="7624">On display in the stores of the Rua Augusta was an abundance of goods and food, much of it imported: McVitie’s biscuits from England, Haig whisky from Scotland, German stollen cakes made with marzipan. Newspapers with all the familiar titles, the Daily Mail from London, the Herald and France Soir from Paris, the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, squashed together into the racks in similar proportion to the displaced persons in the cafés. The British Embassy was next to the building that housed the German Legation, which left the Union Jack fluttering with authority only a few hundred yards from the Nazi swastika.</em><br />
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<em abp="7569">At night, Lisbon possessed a rare beauty. Light danced from shops and houses; churches and palaces were floodlit like stage sets. The streets were full with a sense of happiness until three in the morning. The clubs oozed American dance music. It was all too possible to mistake it for a safe haven, a place of excitement and adventure. When they heard gunfire as they walked through a side street, on the second night, they cowered against a wall but no advance troops appeared. The next day they were told that what they had most likely heard was the beating of carpets. A local law forbade the practice between the hours of nine a.m. and midnight, so those householders who abhorred early rising beat their carpets in the party hours.</em><br />
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<em>300 Days of Sun</em> is available through all good bookshops and on Amazon - <a abp="7726" href="http://mybook.to/300days" target="_blank">link here</a>.</div>
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From HarperCollins US catalog: "Deborah Lawrenson’s mesmerizing novel transports readers to a sunny Portuguese town with a shadowy past—where two women, decades apart, are drawn into a dark game of truth and lies that still haunts the shifting sea marshes.<br />
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Traveling to Faro, Portugal, journalist Joanna Millard hopes to escape an unsatisfying relationship and a stalled career. Faro is an enchanting town, and the seaside views are enhanced by the company of Nathan Emberlin, a charismatic younger man. But beneath the crumbling façade of Moorish buildings, Joanna soon realizes, Faro has a seedy underbelly, its economy compromised by corruption and wartime spoils. And Nathan has an ulterior motive for seeking her company: he is determined to discover the truth involving a child’s kidnapping that may have taken place on this dramatic coastline over two decades ago. <br />
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Joanna’s subsequent search leads her to Ian Rylands, an English expat who cryptically insists she will find answers in The Alliance, a novel written by American Esta Hartford. The book recounts an American couple’s experience in Portugal during World War II, and their entanglements both personal and professional with their German enemies. Only Rylands insists the book isn’t fiction, and as Joanna reads deeper into The Alliance, she begins to suspect that Esta Hartford’s story and Nathan Emberlin’s may indeed converge in Faro -- where the past not only casts a long shadow but still exerts a very present danger."</div>
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For a great review in Portugalist, the must-read travel site for Portugal, <a href="https://www.portugalist.com/review-300-days-sun-deborah-lawrenson/" target="_blank">click here</a>.</div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-45311254566523099222016-11-23T10:21:00.001-08:002016-11-23T10:21:33.872-08:00November in Provence<div abp="117" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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November in Provence has been glorious. Each day the hillsides have been turning a deeper gold, and the bright sunlight brings everything into sharp relief. The lavender fields (above) show ribs of muted grey-green. Apricot and cherry trees have turned a flaming red like orchards of lit torches, and our unpicked muscat grapes are purple against glowing yellow leaves on the trellis that gave shade to our summer dining table.</div>
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Been having a lovely time seeing friends and relaxing, and wandering around the Luberon hill villages after a busy time in England during September and October. It's all much quieter than when we were last here. The restaurants have autumn menus - we had a special Game and Wild Mushroom one at a local auberge the other night, featuring tiny tasters of delicious pumpkin soup and wild boar, chanterelles with truffle and seared scallop, venison, a rather experimental black truffle and vanilla ice-cream (not sure about that one) followed by a chocolate bombe.</div>
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One a cloudless day there's often warmth, too. Here is a glimpse of the castle at Gordes,, and now is the time, without all the tourist crowds, to wander round this spectacularly beautiful village with its panoramic views. Here I am, on a slightly colder day, in Goult.</div>
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It was mellower, and slightly misty that day, and the view from the top by the old windmill was softer and more green than in other higher parts of the valley.</div>
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Finally - wishing Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends and readers in the USA! </div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-34325621343710337182016-10-29T08:45:00.001-07:002016-10-29T08:57:41.538-07:00The author reads: audio clip<div abp="2369" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last month I did a radio interview on Resonance FM in London, during which I read a couple of extracts from <em abp="2448">300 Days of Sun. </em>I was sent one of the extracts the other day, and I thought I would share it here: <a abp="2503" href="https://clyp.it/uvkz30nm" target="_blank">Deborah Lawrenson sets the scene in the town of Faro</a>, from the opening of the novel.</div>
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It's only two minutes long, but while you're listening you might like to look at this photo I took early one morning from the top of the Hotel Faro looking over the Jardim Manuel Bivar towards the Old Town gates where the storks nest. The white structures are the food stalls that opened at night during the folk festival. In the foreground is the bandstand where Joanna meets Ian Rylands, and beyond the marina are the lacy green salt marshes and the islands. If you enlarge the photo, there is even a plane coming in to land. Hope you enjoy it!</div>
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Available at all good booksellers and from <a abp="3490" href="http://mybook.to/300days" target="_blank">Amazon</a>.</div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-6381435120459527602016-10-20T08:15:00.000-07:002018-01-21T04:11:34.150-08:00Romantic Poets made Terrible Husbands<div abp="118" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</span><span abp="187"><span abp="206" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Romantic Poets made terrible husbands. T<span abp="209" lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">hey were always slipping out for country walks (marching the dirt back on their boots for Mrs Coleridge to clean up, long
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daffodils when they returned. All they wanted to do was drone on about
themselves and the revelations offered by hills and sheep. (“A tot of laudanum,
Wordsworth?” “Don’t mind if I do. Now, about that baa-ing crag...tortured youth or weathered age?”) While Mrs C
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Person from Porlock. How on earth did they cope with family life? Can you
imagine being married to Wordsworth? All that "Well, my sister Dorothy
says...and Dorothy wouldn't do it like that…and Dorothy always listens!" Actually, Dorothy had some fairly salty thoughts of her own about Coleridge coming to stay for eighteen months and being a fussy eater. As well as getting through two quarts of laudanum a week, with the resulting screams as he woke from his drug-induced nightmares.</span></span></span></div>
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Shelley and his bloody boat! Off sailing when the house on the shore in Italy was sorely
in need of some manly DIY. His wife Mary was expected to get cracking with the hammer
and nails herself, cope with a flooding ground floor, sick children and
miscarriages while he skipped off -“Hello Sea, hello Sky and Wind!”- to see a
yacht builder who could supply a bigger, better boy’s toy to keep up with his
posturing<span abp="214" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> m</span>ate Byron…no wonder Mary saw
monsters under the skin of men. Her husband had never learned to sail properly, but he was so convinced of his own invincibility that when he finally collected his flashy new boat, he refused to take good advice when it came his way about a storm brewing...</span></span></span></div>
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<span abp="202" lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span abp="203"><span abp="216" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What about Keats,
all white-faced and melancholic after spending all night listening for
nightingales - what good would he have been in a crisis? All ripe was the
drowsy hour for him, with his Negative Capability. Clever, eh? Just droop
around waiting for Happenings to happen.</span></span></span></div>
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<span abp="202" lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span abp="203"><span abp="216" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">How a Mrs K would have thrilled to that
excuse as she rushed around attending to the practicalities of life. (“And
another thing, dear husband, the water you slosh on the floor around the copper
bathtub does NOT evaporate. The dryness is effected by a cross woman with an
absorbent cloth!”) And in his own words: “Oh, for ten years, that I may
overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed…” Blimey. Talk about a soggy
nana. No wonder it was a No Thank You from <em abp="222">La Belle Dame Sans Merci</em>.</span></span></span></div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7004288060867455452.post-65880299463746718352016-10-01T07:35:00.003-07:002016-10-06T01:33:03.768-07:00The Scent of Night, a short story<div abp="111" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="112" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVfHvpv7EajzVNTEVxdFqdQvNgGghZ-NmD-xmDMag92Ot2O9CVMXnee2YsVSaEGi7D_SF65X7s-Mk4s3DArYjAq-4tnnDVxu_9B7PYUblk9Vq8g-YLSWcIC7qEw3U-Tk9rAOuNCCTEkXN/s1600/sn+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="113" border="0" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVfHvpv7EajzVNTEVxdFqdQvNgGghZ-NmD-xmDMag92Ot2O9CVMXnee2YsVSaEGi7D_SF65X7s-Mk4s3DArYjAq-4tnnDVxu_9B7PYUblk9Vq8g-YLSWcIC7qEw3U-Tk9rAOuNCCTEkXN/s400/sn+1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The sun cut sharp as a blade across the floor tiles. Penny felt the warmth on her face as she padded to the window and pushed open wooden shutters to embrace the morning. Beyond the courtyard and the garden below, the wide blue ripples of the Luberon hills hung like a great curtain across the landscape. The only sounds came from the first sleepy cicadas.</div>
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Perfection: the beauty and peace of a month in Provence; the summer heat and light. This rambling farmhouse they had rented hadn’t disappointed, far from it. Inside and out, there was space to breathe and long, calming views from the hillside.</div>
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Trees whispered in cooling breezes. Sunk into the garden was a swimming pool with water the colour of glacier melt.</div>
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“Are you going down to get the bread or am I?” John’s voice carried a plea, a hungover-sounding appeal to her good nature.</div>
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He was still a sheeted walrus on the bed.</div>
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“It’s your turn,” said Penny. “And they’re your guests.”</div>
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And I wish they’d go, she thought. Not even in the sense of “leave”, just go to the boulangerie one morning for once instead of expecting to be waited on as if they were staying in a hotel. Because this holiday was supposed to be their anniversary treat (twenty-five years married!) but it hadn’t quite been the paradise she’d hoped for.</div>
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It had been fun while Sam and Lottie were staying, but they were adults now with jobs and commitments of their own, and plans that didn’t include spending too much time with Mum and Dad. After the children, their partners and assorted friends had gone, Penny and John had a huge empty house in the South of France to themselves. That was fine with Penny.</div>
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She had visions of sitting in the shady courtyard under a fragrant fig tree and reading, or wandering round gorgeous villages looking at brocante markets, and drinking glasses of light, fruity rosé at lunchtime, all the things she never seemed to have time to do at home.</div>
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But it hadn’t worked out like that.</div>
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Instead of drifting dreamily around lavender fields and spending long lazy afternoons doing whatever we want, Penny thought as she scooped up the car keys and her straw basket for the bread and croissants, I have been running a small hotel and restaurant for all the friends and family John invited to drop by as it seemed a shame not to make the most of it. It was amazing how many of them had taken up the offer.</div>
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And now, after three weeks of hot-flush-fuelled cooking and cleaning and bed-making, John’s old workmate Simon was the final straw. He had turned up, newly divorced, with a younger woman in tow – and she was awful. Her name was Sassie (Saskia), she was a pin-slim, groomed corporate lawyer in her early thirties, and she lay by the pool all day checking her Blackberry. And it went without saying she never lifted a finger to help and looked with pity at Penny and the cellulite that no sarong could mask – though not enough pity actually to get dressed and volunteer to do the supermarket run for a change, of course.</div>
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She was waiting for Penny downstairs, a vision of blonde good health in a wisp of beachwear.</div>
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“Are you going into town?” she asked. “Because if you are, could you get me some more sun cream?” Saskia studied one slim bronzed arm. “Factor 15 ought to do it.”</div>
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Penny opened her mouth to suggest that perhaps Sassie might like to go herself, as the chemist was only a few doors away from the bread shop, but closed it again as she realised that left to Sassie there would be probably be no breakfast. She seemed to exist on hot water and slices of lemon.</div>
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“Who owns this place, again?” asked Sassie. Penny had the impression their guest had had a good nose around while she was alone downstairs.</div>
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“A composer and his wife.”</div>
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“It’s all a bit of a mish-mash, isn’t it?”</div>
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“I rather like it,” Penny said, beginning to walk off. She supposed some of the old French furniture had seen better days. The large splashy paintings on the walls were flaking. And the brown wood statue of a monk in the hall was a little unsettling, as was the wall sconce of an arm reaching out of the iron frame with a candle. But it was shabby chic, wasn’t it? It was perfect for this house of white walls speckled with the patina of time and gleaming terracotta tiles on the floors, as were the rusty garden chairs and odd stone artefacts outside.</div>
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Anyway, Penny thought but didn’t say, if this doesn’t suit you, go somewhere else. But after three days Sassie and Simon showed no sign of moving on.</div>
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Later that morning Penny had returned with the supplies (and the sun cream which Sassie had just picked up from the kitchen island and hadn’t even offered to pay for), and was making a cheesecake for dinner. She absent-mindedly licked the mixing spoon then started to scrape the bowl. She felt fat and dragged down. It is a truth universally acknowledged (though not nearly often enough), thought Penny, that a woman approaching 50 is in need of a husband who likes a good armful because, by God, that was what he’d be getting.</div>
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Through the kitchen window she noticed that Sassie had taken her bikini top off. John – straining to hold his stomach in – was eagerly adjusting the parasol above her and taking his time about it, while Simon handed her a drink. Unless he leaves me for a younger model, of course, Penny hastily revised her homely assumption. He was still a good-looking man, big and broad with a lovely, generous nature. A younger woman would be lucky to have him.</div>
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The drinking went on throughout the lunch Penny laid out on the terrace: a vibrant tomato salad on a deep cobalt plate, goat’s cheese and sweet onion tartlets, pâté and fresh bread. The sun seared down from the bluest of skies. When everyone else slunk off for a siesta, a sober Penny cleared the dishes away, made herself a cup of coffee and went down to the pool with her book. </div>
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She tipped her face up to the heat, luxuriating in the time alone.</div>
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That evening, sunset burned a rosy tangerine streaked with gold. Everyone assembled expectantly by the table on the terrace. Penny produced more chilled wine and a sumptuous dinner, and repeated the catering process. Sassie only picked at the sea bream and ribbons of courgette. She was comfortably installed on a cushioned chair telling the men about the high-profile cases she had worked on, making them laugh and admire her even more with tales of defeated opposition and great men brought down, as Penny got up and cleared away. </div>
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In the kitchen she cut herself a hefty misery slice of cheesecake as she surveyed the stacks of plates. A light tinkling of laughter from Sassie wafted through to the kitchen. Penny drowned her out by crashing pans loudly, but no one seemed to notice. </div>
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After midnight, Penny lay in bed unable to drop off to sleep. Next to her, John had started to snore gently. The trouble was, Penny thought, I’m on my own with this. I am just myself, and Sassie is a sex goddess and invincible career woman. She tried not to think about what was going on in the bedroom down the corridor. But all that success shouldn’t stop her from behaving with basic courtesy, even if friendliness was too much to hope for.</div>
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Perhaps a fellow grumpy old woman might have noticed Sassie’s selfishness, but the men wouldn’t have a clue. And in comparison, there was no doubt about it: Penny had let herself go. She was wondering rather reluctantly whether she might have to start going to some kind of gym, when she gradually became aware of a scent carried on the air. It was a lovely perfume, of vanilla and sweet lavender, which then became a kind of chocolate smoke. Minute by minute it was becoming stronger, until it seemed to pervade the room.</div>
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It was either coming through the open window from outside, from some night-fragrant plant down in the courtyard – or was it a scented candle that Sassie had lit? Penny got out of bed and went out on to the terrace outside the bedroom and breathed in deeply. The scent was carried off by a faint breath of wind in the dark. Above was a luminous arc of silver stars, bright and burning in the black sky. All was still and quiet.</div>
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It was strange; the scent didn’t seem to be coming from the garden. Penny waited a while, enjoying the profound silence, then went back to bed. In the darkness, she lay on her back enveloped by the lovely scent from a source that was still mysterious and closed her eyes.</div>
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But when she mentioned it the next day, Sassie didn’t know what Penny was talking about.</div>
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“I can assure you it was nothing to do with me,” she insisted.</div>
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“It was quite pungent – lavender and rose and vanilla and chocolate and burnt almonds. Really strong and smoky. I was wondering if it was a candle or something…” persisted Penny.</div>
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But Sassie shook her head, and denied everything. “I only ever wear a very light delicate perfume. I absolutely loathe anything strong and smoky. The very thought gives me a headache and makes me want to run.”</div>
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That evening, at Simon’s suggestion, they went out to a restaurant on the edge of a beautiful hill-top village. Penny had put on a new maxi-dress and pulled herself together. She took a little more time and trouble with her make-up and decided that whatever happened she would make an effort. It was so lovely to be taken out to eat this evening instead of taken for granted.</div>
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From their table outside under a vine canopy, they could see for miles. All down the valley, the distinctive vertical crevices in the ridge of the mountain darkened as the air softened, until they seemed to be great dusky rivers cascading down to the valley floor.</div>
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“To Penny,” said Simon, raising his glass, “Who has looked after us so beautifully. Very much appreciated.”</div>
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It was so unexpected, Penny forgot any lingering annoyance. Candles were lit, and dishes of mouth-watering Provençal food arrived. Under the table, John squeezed her hand. Penny felt herself relax in the warmth of the evening and the effect of the wine, and let Sassie be the centre of attention.</div>
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They all drank too much. Simon constantly leaned back in his seat and ordered fresh bottles of palest rosé. Penny, sitting next to him, noticed the criss-cross patterns of red veins in his cheeks, and the way he looked at Sassie as if he couldn’t believe his luck that she was with him.</div>
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Everyone except Sassie finished with a trio each of crème brûlées, infused with lavender, thyme and peach. Penny sat back, replete and glowing from a glorious afternoon in the sun. But when the bill came and Simon tried to pay, his credit card was refused and it was John who settled up.</div>
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Back at the house, another bottle was freed from John’s stock.</div>
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“Push on through, eh?” roared Simon, pulling the cork.</div>
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“I’m going to bed,” said Penny. She didn’t want so much as another sip. She heard Sassie coming up about half an hour later, but the men stayed up into the early hours, drinking in the garden.</div>
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The next morning, though the sky was cloudless again and the heat rising, there was a distinct chill in the atmosphere.</div>
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Sassie was fuming.</div>
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“We are leaving, as soon as we can,” she hissed as they came downstairs.</div>
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Simon blanched. It was clear from her tone she expected to get her way.</div>
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<div abp="3492">
“And as for you,” she said to Penny, though barely acknowledging her with a glance, “Drenching our room with that suffocating scent in our room after I’d specifically said I can only tolerate the lightest of fragrances… It gave me the most appalling night, made me physically sick. I can’t think why you did that.”</div>
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<div abp="3494">
“But I didn’t –”</div>
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<div abp="3496">
Sassie waved her words away imperiously. “You obviously don’t want us here, so we’re leaving, and that’s that.”</div>
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Penny decided to offer no resistance.</div>
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<a abp="528" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjITCICZ2_DvNpS7S9ad-Lj0vwtDtzOrJZbVR5iR9UZtn57HUnnq5KCc70zc7yBbGEF8HFvmq6wsmts5aO7OUY3hoh1oDXgZs2dLJek9wrwBa_r7RyXXQo2pnyy-DqgP-o8xO21CQZEWrhP/s1600/sn+6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="529" border="0" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjITCICZ2_DvNpS7S9ad-Lj0vwtDtzOrJZbVR5iR9UZtn57HUnnq5KCc70zc7yBbGEF8HFvmq6wsmts5aO7OUY3hoh1oDXgZs2dLJek9wrwBa_r7RyXXQo2pnyy-DqgP-o8xO21CQZEWrhP/s400/sn+6.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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An hour later they were saying goodbye: Simon reluctantly and apologetically, struggling with the bags. Sassie strode ahead towards Penny, but the four-inch heels she’d put on for travelling caught on an uneven paving stone as she approached, throwing her towards Penny and forcing them to embrace far more closely than either intended. She was bony as a starved child, thought Penny, as they pulled apart awkwardly and exchanged thin smiles. She smelled of lemon pith, sharp and bitter.</div>
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“Bye, then,” said Penny.</div>
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“Was it you?” asked John. He didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.</div>
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“No, it wasn’t! I didn’t go near their room, not since I delivered the fresh towels Sassie asked for, but that was yesterday morning.”</div>
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She wondered whether to mention the mysterious perfume, but then John said: “Poor old Simon.”</div>
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“What?” Poor old Simon, the successful entrepreneur with the stunning younger woman? Had her hearing gone now?</div>
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John was positively jaunty as he measured out coffee and filled the pot with water. “He poured it all out last night. He’s pining for his ex-wife and he’s taken a massive loss on his last deal. There’s not much left, and no doubt when Sassie finds out, she’ll be off permanently. I know her sort.”</div>
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“I thought you thought she was marvellous,’ said Penny.</div>
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“I was being nice, for Simon’s sake. He hasn’t had much luck lately.”</div>
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<div abp="3524">
Penny sat down with relief. “She was so irritating,” she said.</div>
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<div abp="3526">
“Not a woman of substance,” smiled John, reaching out for her.</div>
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“Like me,” she said sadly.</div>
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<div abp="3530">
John bent his head and kissed her gently. “In all the best ways.”</div>
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“Three whole days left to ourselves,” said Penny happily.</div>
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<div abp="3534">
She pottered into the sitting room and noticed a book had fallen off a shelf. It was an illustrated history of lavender growing and she opened it instead of putting it straight back. The first picture was a photograph of a house, this very house. A piece of paper covered in handwritten notes fluttered out. “Marthe Lincel, creator of perfumes,” Penny read, “was inspired by her childhood home, Les Genévriers. Lavande de Nuit, her most famous fragrance, was said to capture the spirit of Provence…”</div>
<div abp="3535">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3536">
Penny took the book outside and spent the whole day reading in the garden. The tranquillity and the books she dipped into were balm for her soul.</div>
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<div abp="3538">
That night, she woke and smelled the perfume again. It was a soft warm caress all around her, and it was heavenly.</div>
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<a abp="567" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQrD0BWZ_bBIRFYU2q8nC9CfdN_vOad1tUkv4BFnnYpSqnBCiQRvjN8ecO7dKeNeaFjJJkiS_AP0nVNx3IysD6_uvoNLUT5wkYuwxJkuyRvXt4gmO7hL14Xgnvwumbrno3ARhyExyzoHZm/s1600/sn+7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="568" border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQrD0BWZ_bBIRFYU2q8nC9CfdN_vOad1tUkv4BFnnYpSqnBCiQRvjN8ecO7dKeNeaFjJJkiS_AP0nVNx3IysD6_uvoNLUT5wkYuwxJkuyRvXt4gmO7hL14Xgnvwumbrno3ARhyExyzoHZm/s320/sn+7.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<strong abp="255">This is a story I wrote some years ago for Woman and Home magazine in the UK, and it appears in the anthology <em abp="3549">The Coffee Shop Book Club</em>. I posted it in short episodes over the course of last week on Instagram, as part of the Bookstagram Gala, and I thought I ought to post the whole story here in case anyone missed a bit. I hope any readers who know <em abp="3550">The Lantern</em> and <em abp="3551">The Sea Garden</em> enjoyed the nod to the setting and the characters who appear in them.</strong> </div>
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<div abp="3547">
My latest novel <em>300 Days of Sun</em> is <a abp="3605" href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/300-Days-Sun-Suspense-Summer-ebook/dp/B01FSKQDNY/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1475742454&sr=1-1&keywords=300+days+of+sun" target="_blank">available in the UK for only £2.99 on Kindle</a> and at all good retailers in the USA, <a abp="3696" href="https://www.amazon.com/product-reviews/0062390163/ref=cm_cr_dp_syn_footer?k=300%20Days%20of%20Sun&showViewpoints=1" target="_blank">including here on Amazon.com</a>.</div>
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Deborah Lawrensonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882043247450468229noreply@blogger.com2