“Thank you. I understand,” I said, eager to be left alone. I was hungry and wished I’d brought something to snack on, since dinner was still hours away and I hadn’t had time to grab lunch before getting on the train, but I’d have to wait.
Lisa glanced at her watch. “Would you like me to bring up some tea and nibbles to tide you over till dinner?” she asked.
“Yes, that would be great,” I said. The blog had mentioned that Lisa was an excellent hostess and treated her guests as if they were her children.
“Be back in a tic,” Lisa said, and left.
I set my case on the wooden trunk at the foot of the bed and opened it. I liked to unpack as soon as I arrived at a hotel. After putting away my clothes in the old-fashioned wardrobe, I went into the bathroom, thankful each room had a private bath. I wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing. The claw-footed tub looked awfully inviting, and I thought I might have a bath.. I had plenty of time before pre-dinner drinks. I was looking forward to meeting the other guests, but also a little nervous.
I’d never been to a writers’ retreat and hoped people wouldn’t interrogate me about my work. I had nothing to be ashamed of, my sales and reviews were respectable, but unlike most people of my generation, I had a horror of oversharing and didn’t respond well to prying questions. I liked to take my time getting to know new people and found forced social situations stressful. I didn’t used to, not in the least. In fact, I was always fairly outgoing, but my life had changed dramatically over the past year, and my lack of social confidence was probably a natural result of several less-than-comfortable encounters I’d had of late.
I stared at my reflection in the oval mirror above the pedestal sink. People always told me I was pretty, but I thought I was rather average. My nutbrown hair was now streaked with caramel highlights—since my agent had told me I should spruce myself up for my book cover photo and promotional appearances—and my eyes a pale green, like bits of jade, or more prosaically like grapes. My cheekbones were high and pronounced, more so recently since I hadn’t been paying proper attention to my diet. My girlfriends told me how lucky I was to be able to lose weight so easily, but there’s nothing attractive about looking gaunt and scrawny, although many would disagree.
At the age of thirty-two, when I’d thought I’d be established in my career and part of a loving family, my career was floundering and the family I’d dreamed of had never quite materialized, despite my best efforts. The past year in particular had been filled with tragedy and soul-crushing disappointment, leaving a sense of loss that was ever-present, like an extra organ.
In any case, the whole point of coming to the retreat was to leave my problems behind and concentrate on starting a new book, one that would hopefully revive my flagging career, but before I did that, I had to come up with an idea that was new and fresh, and, most of all, marketable. My last book had been a labor of love, a tome on Alfred the Great, who was something of a hero of mine. I thought I’d done him justice, but although the book had been received well in academic circles, my royalties had not lived up to my expectations, nor had they been enough to keep me going for long. My agent, Angela Simons, had advised me to rethink my prospects and suggested I leave my historical idols behind and delve into fiction, preferably a popular genre such as historical romance or mystery.
I turned on the taps, added some scented oil so thoughtfully provided by Lisa, and stepped into the tub, ready to begin my getaway in earnest. As I sank into the fragrant water, I tried to relax, but all I could think was that if I didn’t get an idea for a book soon, the fee I’d paid for the retreat, which was considerable, would be completely wasted.
Chapter 2
I presented myself downstairs at ten past seven, hoping I wouldn’t be the first one down. I had settled on a casual but elegant moss-green wraparound dress paired with chocolate-brown suede boots, adding my favorite silver necklace that I’d splurged on while visiting Florence a few years before. One man and two women were already in the sitting room. According to Lisa, all the guests had checked in today, so everyone would meet for the first time tonight. I thought having a new group check in on the same day was a good idea, eliminating some of the anxiety of having to meet new people on a daily basis. I didn’t lock myself away when I wrote, as some did, but I couldn’t be bothered with small talk and endless pleasantries, not that authors were always pleasant. Some people I met at conferences and book fairs were downright snarky, needing to shade the work of others in order to promote their own efforts. I had no patience for such antics. I thought one should always be respectful and humble, regardless of one’s level of success.
Several lamps were lit against the gathering darkness outside, and a number of open bottles were arranged on the sideboard, something for every taste.
“Can I pour you a drink?” the silver-haired man of around sixty asked. He was tall and lean, his
