Write Your Own Script Read online

  She woke sometime later, an awful crook in her neck from falling asleep sitting up. A quick glance at her watch told her she’d only snoozed for about an hour. Her rumbling stomach told her she had missed lunch.

  Well, that’s easily remedied, and at least it will get me up and moving. God knows I can’t sit here for two weeks doing nothing.

  She found a carton of organic tomato soup in the fridge and heated it up while she organised the food she’d requested. It would be so tempting to ignore her healthy diet while on this retreat, but she knew she’d only regret it. So, into the cupboard went her organic granola, seed mixes and dried fruit, her Asian ingredients, and her vitamins. In the fridge there was already plenty of low-fat yoghurt, vegetables, fruit, organic chicken, organic soups, and fresh juices. And champagne. It was her one concession to being forced—as she saw it—into this position.

  After pouring the hot soup into a bowl and placing that on a tray, she ate in front of the fire. It was more soothing than she would have imagined not to be surrounded by the noise of the radio or TV, her usual accompaniments at home. There was a TV in the cottage, and probably a radio somewhere, but somehow she didn’t need them. The crackling of the fire kept her company, and she was surprised at how calm she already felt. She knew there was only so long a person could maintain anger, but she hadn’t expected it to dissipate quite this quickly.

  She smiled. Maybe, like Carmen had said, this place would do her good after all.

  Why the hell did I pack so many?

  Tamsyn swore loudly for the third time as she lugged the case into the bedroom, cursing herself for being old school. All of this would have been so much easier if she’d ever invested in an e-reader. But no, she had to go all traditional and buy paperbacks.

  Stupid.

  Giving up on even the idea of lifting the thing onto the bed, she opened it on the floor. The sight of all the books that awaited her instantly wiped the scowl off her face.

  Hello, my beauties.

  Slowly, almost reverently, she lifted each book from its resting place and laid them out on the bed. Spreading them into two long rows widened her smile. So much joy to be had in the coming few weeks. Her secret pleasure, to be indulged at a rate of a book a day with any luck. She probably could have brought more, but knew it would better for her health if she made sure she actually left the cottage each day, so she’d planned to split her time between reading, yoga, and long walks around the estate. Carmen’s aunt owned fifty acres, all of it encircled by private woodland with walking paths woven throughout. Tamsyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually taken a solo walk. Back in London, or any of the cities where she was usually based around the world, she was too recognisable to risk it, always ensuring she had someone with her to fend off her wide-eyed fans or offer a quick escape from the more persistent ones. Here though, she had every hope that some quiet time would be hers. Time amongst the trees, the birds, and the sounds of the wind.

  But first, finish the unpacking, then some yoga to ease out the kinks.

  In the end she decided to leave the books in their suitcase. While there was a small bookcase on the wall facing the bed, it was already filled with a pitiful collection of trashy novels supplied by the owner and she couldn’t be bothered rearranging it all.

  After changing into soft yoga pants and a loose T-shirt, she unrolled her mat on the polished wood floor of the bedroom. The area at the end of the walnut-framed bed, between it and the bookcase, was plenty wide enough, and it meant she almost faced the window. She cracked it open, delighting in the swell of birdsong and cool, fresh air that immediately filtered into the room. At each standing pose she only had to swivel her eyes a fraction to see the trees and the weak afternoon sunshine casting a golden glow across the sky.

  Dropping into Downward Dog, she revelled in the slight pull of her spinal muscles, the easing out of her hips and hamstrings. At fifty-two, her body was in better shape than she might have anticipated in her late teens, when she had still been trying to lose the last of her puppy fat, feeling awkward and gangly in her still-developing body. Now, after years of being in the public eye, and the adoration and abuse—in equal parts—that exposure bestowed on her, the yoga she’d practised all that time had enabled her to maintain the slimness that was expected of her, as well as a suppleness that, for her, was far more important.

  Easing back into Child’s Pose, she moaned with pleasure as her spine stretched, her arms held out in front of her on the floor. Damn, that felt good. She held it for a little longer than usual, then came upright to sit on her feet; finished with her breathing exercises, she let her shoulders roll and lower as the glow of her workout warmed every inch of her skin. Almost better than sex.

  Almost.

  She smiled to herself, stood up, and walked to the bathroom to pat down her warm body with a small towel. Once she’d changed back into sweatpants and a hoodie, she hauled her big slippers from under the bed and wriggled her feet into them. Tonight was all about making a delicious dinner, drinking a couple of glasses of champagne, and curling up on the sofa with a good book. She shivered in anticipation and turned to the suitcase holding her books.

  Okay, which one of you is first?

  Two minutes later, her choice in hand, she wandered through to the kitchen, dropping the book on the sofa as she passed by. She stoked the fire and added another large log; that would see her through the evening, she suspected. After pulling some vegetables and chicken from the fridge, she went in search of a chopping board and a knife. She had just grabbed both implements when a sharp bark out back had her gasping and almost dropping the knife.

  She crept over to the door. Not being a huge fan of dogs, she hoped this one wasn’t right on her doorstep. A quick peek out of the glass that formed the top third of the door gave her a sense of relief; the dog—a small, brown, wiry thing—was in her garden but not that close to the door. How had it gained access to her garden? She glanced around. Oh, there—an open gate where the garden adjoined the path that led to the woods. So where was the dog’s owner? Oh well, not her problem. Not unless the little mutt came any closer.

  She stepped back and continued with her chopping. A minute later a woman’s voice called, “Gizmo! Gizmo! Where the hell are you, you little shit?”

  Tamsyn snorted. Gizmo, what a name. Although, on reflection, perfectly suited to the scrawny little beast. And at least the voice confirmed that the neighbour was indeed female.

  “Gizmo! Get back here!”

  A couple of quick yelps, their volume receding as the dog clearly scampered away, signalled that peace was restored to Tamsyn’s corner of the world.

  Perfect. Just me and the latest Maddie Jones. She glanced over at the book where it lay, enticing her, on the sofa.

  Soon, sweetheart. Soon.

  Chapter 3

  Maggie stared down at Gizmo, her scolding face on. “You, young man, are in a heap of trouble.”

  Gizmo blinked, then licked his chops. Was he actually grinning at her? Little git.

  She shook her head, then laughed. Gizmo barked and jumped up a couple of times.

  “All right, all right. God, why can’t I resist you?”

  She crouched down and accepted his licks and snuffles all over her face. Stroking his head and back, she sighed. He was a cheeky little sod, but his love for her always made her feel better.

  “Come on, that’s enough fresh air for today. Time for snuggles by the fire.”

  Strolling through the trees had become her new favourite thing this past week. Usually they were confined to the local park near her house in Putney. Having such an expanse to play in had sent her beloved Border terrier into paroxysms of delight, and his enthusiasm was infectious. So what if she hadn’t written a single word since she’d arrived here?

  They reached the gravel driveway of her cottage and shimmied past the car to get to the front door. S
he glanced back at the other cottage, the single light coming from what she knew was the kitchen, and hoped that whoever was staying there hadn’t been too disturbed by Gizmo’s antics.

  Gizmo squeezed through the door before she’d even got it fully open, and ran straight to his water bowl where he lapped noisily for a couple of minutes while she removed her coat and shoes. It was nicely nippy out, and her face was tingling now that she was back in the warmth of the cottage. She walked over to the fire and added some more wood, noting that her pile was diminishing but it would at least last her through to tomorrow morning.

  The bottle of red wine she’d opened the night before was standing on the kitchen counter, and moments later she was sipping a large glass by the fire. She’d taken to sitting in the single armchair. The sofa was comfy enough, but there was something even more comforting about being embraced completely by the chair—Gizmo usually either laying on the floor by the fire or wedged between her folded legs and one arm of the chair.

  She stared at the flames as they danced in the grate. Her eyes felt tired. Hell, the whole of her felt tired. The burnout had hit her hard and fast, and although she knew her recovery would happen at its own good pace, she couldn’t help but will it to go faster. She had deadlines to meet, fans to keep happy.

  Yes, but you also need to keep yourself happy.

  She could almost hear her sister’s voice, her gentle yet firm pleas for Maggie to slow down, stop working so hard, to find some time for herself.

  She snorted and Gizmo, who had passed out in front of the fire after guzzling down his water, twitched in his slumber.

  Well, now she was realising Ruth had been right all along. Writing under two pseudonyms, in two entirely different genres and markets, had seemed like such a good idea when it first started. And the money it earned, and the plaudits and awards she’d garnered in both markets, had only spurred her on. She’d been churning out three books a year, on average, for the last four years. Of course, in doing so she had barely seen her family, or friends, and her last girlfriend had disappeared six months into that first year, claiming—quite rightly—that she never saw Maggie so they could hardly call it a relationship, could they?

  She’d convinced herself none of that mattered. It was the acclaim that fed her soul, fired her up. Finally she was something. Someone. From being nothing at school, and not much else in her twenties, when she’d first started dabbling with writing—having always felt it was in her—her early successes in short story competitions and submissions to magazines had lit a fire beneath her for something more. That first novel, in her early thirties—God, was that fifteen years ago already?—had only made her burn faster and harder. It had sold reasonably well, and although it took her another three years to write the sequel, she’d found her audience from the first book desperate for that follow-up, and a new audience had discovered her thanks to a new agent and the change of personnel at her publisher. Suddenly, she was a name. The new face of historical romance.

  Then she’d had the bright idea of switching personas. Of keeping her original pen name, Jessica Stewart, for that genre, and inventing a new name to explore a market more true to herself. The historical work had almost been a fluke, utilising elements of her studies from her time at university. But the other, the romantic lesbian fiction, that came from her heart. Her soul. And much to her own surprise, she’d been an instant hit there as well. Maddie Jones was a big name in the lesfic market these days.

  But now, bizarrely, all of that had dried up. She hadn’t written a word in three months. Both publishers were clamouring for new titles, but she didn’t have it in her. The ideas weren’t there, and sitting in front of a blank screen wasn’t conjuring up any inspiration.

  So, here she was. On retreat, as she was calling it. She’d agreed with her agent that she would take a month off, see if she could free the block. She had no idea what would happen if it didn’t work.

  The warmth of the wine and the fire were making her drowsy, and her head dipped. This was the other thing she couldn’t quite get used to—she was tired. Constantly tired.

  Of course you’re tired. You’re burned out. You have nothing left in the tank.

  Burned out. She’d thought that only happened to city workers, the people making all the big deals in the financial market. It had never occurred to her that it could happen to a writer. A writer of romances, for crying out loud.

  She chuckled and Gizmo raised his head, his liquid brown eyes blinking at her.

  “Relax,” she said, and took another sip of her wine. “It’s just me, going slightly bonkers.”

  No, not bonkers. Not really. Just a bit…lost.

  “Stand still, you little bugger.” Maggie grabbed Gizmo by his collar and hauled him back towards her. “I thought you loved walks. Why are you fighting me on this?”

  She finally managed to clip the lead into place and stood upright again. As soon as she did, Gizmo strained the leather leash in his eagerness to reach the front door.

  “Good God you’re fickle.”

  Stumbling after the little dynamo, she grabbed the keys from the small table in the entranceway and locked the door behind them once they were on the front step. The cold pricked at her ears, and she smiled. Another beautiful morning in this small piece of paradise. And to her, it was paradise—nothing but nature all around.

  After yet another restless night, she knew the fresh air would do her good. It was crazy, she thought, as she let Gizmo lead them towards the path that squirmed through an opening in the trees about a minute from the back of their cottage, that for someone so worn out she couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep. She hadn’t done since the first night here; the speed with which she’d booked the trip, packed, and closed up her house had worn her down to the point where not sleeping was impossible once she’d arrived at the cottage. But since then, all of the doubts about her writing had plagued her brain, and so far none of the remedies she’d tried for easing her mind before sleep had worked.

  They were in the trees now, and the change in the sounds around them, and in the very air itself, soothed her. Maybe she should try sleeping out here one night. She snorted. Yeah, so not going to happen. Imagine all the wildlife skittering around! She’d give herself a heart attack before daybreak wondering if she was going to be eaten by wild animals. Even though she knew it was ridiculous—there were no carnivorous predators in Norfolk—the thought of exposing herself to the rawness of nature that way did not appeal.

  A yelp from Gizmo brought her sharply out of her reverie and she looked around to see what had him so worked up. Then she stopped, and stared, because standing on the path ahead of them, looking concerned at the noise and the rather agitated little hops Gizmo was making, was Tamsyn Harris.

  Maggie shook her head. No, there was no way that could possibly be Tamsyn Harris standing in a Norfolk woodland, all alone, only twenty paces or so in front of her. Tamsyn Harris was a world-famous actress who split her time between London and Los Angeles, eating out at all the best restaurants and being seen in all the most fashionable places when she wasn’t working on a film or TV series. This woman, whoever she was, just bore a remarkable likeness to her, that’s all.

  Mind you, it’s extraordinary how much her double she is…

  “Good morning,” Maggie called, yanking Gizmo back on his lead and pointing a finger at him that said “Behave!” when he turned reproachful eyes on her.

  “Is your dog safe?” the woman replied.

  Maggie was affronted. Safe? Of course Gizmo was safe, what a ridiculous thing to sugg—

  “Only I’m not exactly a fan of dogs.”

  She sounded like Tamsyn Harris too, with that hint of huskiness in the posh-but-not-too-posh tone that Tamsyn Harris used. Maggie stared at her again, taking in all her features. The chestnut brown hair was mostly hidden by a stylish woollen cap, but it was the right shade. She wasn’t close enou
gh for Maggie to see her eyes, but the height seemed about right, even in the flat walking boots she wore, and the body shape was too, although many women were as slim as Tamsyn so that wasn’t much of a clue.

  When Maggie let her gaze drift back to the woman’s face, Maggie realised she was still waiting for a response.

  “Oh. Sorry. Gizmo’s fine, don’t worry. All bark and no trousers this one.”

  Gizmo whimpered, as if offended.

  Finally the woman smiled. It was weak, but even so it transformed her face and suddenly, right then, Maggie knew. That smile was unmistakable.

  Holy. Crap.

  The actress walked slowly towards her, then gestured to the path. “I’m just going to pass by, okay?”

  “O-Of course.” Maggie’s heart was thundering beneath her ribs. Tamsyn bloody Harris! Maggie’s celebrity crush since she was eighteen years old, only yards away from her and about to walk within inches of her—how was that even possible?

  Tamsyn approached, gave Maggie a half-smile, then side-stepped around Gizmo with caution. He stared up at her, his mouth open, tongue lolling, and for a brief moment Maggie wondered if she was standing in the middle of the pathway in much the same manner. A quick check confirmed that, to her relief, her tongue was still contained within her closed mouth. She knew, however, that her eyes were as wide as saucers.

  She should say something. Ask her—are you really Tamsyn Harris? But her brain wouldn’t engage properly and when it did, her overwhelming sense was, much to her surprise, to protect this woman. To keep her secret. Because, clearly, Tamsyn was here incognito—there was no entourage, no sign of any companion. And for someone as famous as Tamsyn Harris to do that, there must be a significant reason behind it. As someone who was in Norfolk dealing with her own demons, Maggie could respect that.