I’ll be at the Community Kettle in Cosham, on Monday (2nd March). If you’re in the area, please come in and say hello – and perhaps have some tea and cake. I’ve been informed one will be freshly baked that morning.

I’m delighted to have stories in both My Weekly and Woman’s Weekly, this week. That sort of thing hasn’t happened in a long time. That’s partly because, since I started work on my cosy mystery novel series, I’ve not written so many short stories.

With This Ring is a crime story in Woman’s Weekly. It’s years since I’ve had a story in this magazine, as for quite some time they wanted all rights to my stories, and I wouldn’t sign a contract giving them up. It was a blow to lose what was my biggest market at the time, but I still feel I did the right thing sticking to my principles.
It’s appropriate then that Carly, the main character in this story, also does the right thing – eventually.

Perfect Petals in My Weekly is a story about flowers. The title and that gorgeous illustration probably already told you that much, but I won’t say more just in case I spoil the ending for you.

I’m pleased to have a story in the current issue of Take A Break’s Fiction Feast.

Yes, it’s about cake again! Trust me, if you’d put as much time and effort into researching the topic as I have, you’d write about cakes quite frequently too.

Should you wish to read more on this important subject, take a look here.

As it’s coming up to Valentine’s I thought I’d share the openings of my romance novels. I’ll do it alphabetically, which means I’m starting with A Year And A Day. (More details here.)

Stella tried to ignore the aroma from the hotdog stand as she bounced along in time to the rock music blaring from the dodgems.

“Step away from the burgers, mate.” Daphne attempted to steer her back into the hot, noisy heart of the funfair.

“It was hotdogs, not burgers and I’m hungry.”

“You’re as bad as the kids I cook for, always wanting to eat junk food rather than wait for a proper meal. I’m sure you’ll survive until we get back to my place for a curry.”

Stella could hardly make out her friends words but the thought of the crispy lamb samosas, creamy chicken korma and fragrant pilau rice Stella intended to order revived her enough for her to follow her friend to the next stall. Giant playing cards were arranged on a cork board and ‘all’ they had to do to win was to land a dart on three which matched.

Daphne threw first, if you could call her pathetic efforts throwing.

“Imagine you’re throwing them at someone you don’t like,” Stella advised. “And put some effort into it.”

Daphne threw again.

“Better.”

“I was thinking of you.”

“Were not! Come on, let me show you how it’s done.”

Stella conjured up the mental image of a short, smug policeman and aimed. One, two, three darts into each seven of diamonds.

“Lucky little lady here just won our top prize,” the stall holder bellowed for the benefit of passing potential customers. “What’ll you have, love?”

Stella selected a huge panther, with fur as dark and glossy as her own hair.

“Good choice; black cats are lucky. Maybe we’ll pull tonight,” Daphne said.

“Only thing I’m going to pull is a muscle carrying this thing around and it won’t be lucky if I have to pay extra on the rides for him. Still, I think we’ve been on the best ones already.”

“You’re probably right. Let’s just wander around for a bit.”

They’d already done quite a lot of wandering and Stella was getting the distinct impression it wasn’t entirely aimless. She narrowed her eyes at Daphne, but to no effect.

“I was thinking… shall we get our fortunes told?” Daphne suggested, twisting her blonde hair around one finger.

She sounded as though she’d just thought of the idea. Stella wasn’t fooled: she was relieved. She’d suspected Daphne was up to something and worried she’d planned another matchmaking attempt with her brother, John. The last time had been a disaster. OK, it had seemed like a good idea at the time, twelve years, four months and six days ago and Stella was completely over it, but she still didn’t want a repeat performance.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Daphne said.

“Take what as a what?”

“We’re going to get our fortunes told.”

“No way; it’s stupid. Anyway, I’m not sure I want to know what’s going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“I hate having my life arranged for me, you know that. It’s bad enough when other people do it, I don’t like the thought that it’s all set up in advance and there’s nothing I can do to change it. Besides, looking into the past didn’t do me much good, did it? Why would seeing the future be any better?”

“Stella, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about that. If it will upset you then of course we won’t do it.” Daphne put her arms around Stella and hugged her.

Stella felt guilty. When she’d turned eighteen and tried unsuccessfully to trace her parents Daphne had been there for her and swore she’d never abandon her friend. The idea of having her fortune told did make Stella uncomfortable, but it was unfair to pretend to be more upset than she really was just to get her own way.

“I’m OK. I just think all this mumbo jumbo is a bit daft.”

“Asking for guidance isn’t daft,” Daphne said. She linked her arm through Stella’s and urged her to keep walking over the dust-dry playing field.

“It depends who you ask,” Stella said. “Personally I’m not sure a complete stranger wearing a headscarf, who’ll have moved on by tomorrow and who’s being paid to say what you want to hear, is the best bet.”

“Lighten up! I just thought it’d be fun. Anyway, Rosie-Lee is well known. I read an article about her and she’s really good. And she offers a money back guarantee.” Daphne gestured to the brightly painted caravan and its sign listing the almost famous people whose fortunes had been read by Romany Rosie-Lee. “You’d be able to find her again if you really wanted to.”

“Seems we’ve found her even though I didn’t want to.”

“Shall we do it then? It’d be a laugh,” Daphne said.

Stella sighed.

“Please. I really want to.”

Stella knew when to give in gracefully. “OK, OK. My treat.” Paying for the reading might help her feel in control of the situation.

“OK, but I’ll get the take-away.”

“Deal. Just as long as she tells me something nice and we agree it’s just a laugh and you absolutely promise not to do anything stupid based on anything she says.”

“Deal.”

Unspoken between them was the memory of the time the previous year when Daphne had insisted they took the number seven bus because her horoscope had mentioned an exciting journey connected with that number. In fact the seven mile walk home after missing the last one back really had been quite eventful; a thunder storm made their mobiles useless and torrential rain ruined their clothes. Their wet shoes rubbed giving them blisters, which made the walk take even longer. Daphne’s parents had become worried and called the police – or rather they’d done something far more embarrassing. They’d called Daphne’s policeman brother John, who’d driven out in search of them.

Stella’s wet blouse had clung, almost transparently to her top half, her trousers were dragged down with the weight of the water and mascara streaked her face. She’d had to endure watching his shoulders shake with laughter as she sat behind him for the drive home and again when he gave her an umbrella for her birthday soon after.

Then there was the time Daphne had read some mystical mumbo jumbo claiming that for her star sign orange would lead the way. Daphne, without stopping to think, had dyed her hair, plus the bathroom tiles and carpet in Stella’s flat in a particularly hideous version of that colour.

Daphne stood outside the gypsy wagon with her hand over her heart. “I promise,” said and then gave a Girl Guide salute. It would have been a lot more reassuring if they’d ever got around to joining that organisation.

Daphne went in first. Stella tried waving her stuffed cat about to create a breeze, but the effort just made her hotter still. She held her hair away from her neck and glared at the gaudily painted caravan. If they’d really wanted it to look like an old fashioned wagon, they should have unhitched it from the gleaming Range Rover it was connected to. She looked at her watch yet again. How long could it take to rave over tall, dark handsome strangers and promise Dappy Daphne she’d live happily ever after? Stella hoped that was the sort of thing Rosie-Lee would tell her. What she dreaded was the gypsy promising what she wanted most; a loving family. She couldn’t bear to be told that and know it was all a scam, she’d rather keep her dream.

Fun; that’s what Daphne had said this was going to be. Compared with the awful thought of a go on the Tunnel of Love with John, being conned out of her cash by a gypsy might be bearable. Not actual fun, just more fun than another lecture from John the cop. Ever since she’d recovered from the humiliation of their break-up, he’d felt he had the right to act as though he was personally responsible for her safety and moral welfare. And ever since then he kept creeping into her thoughts when she really didn’t want him to be there.

She most definitely didn’t want to think of the time, so long ago, when she’d been pleased to have his company at the fair. She’d climbed out of her foster parents’ window and John had grabbed her waist to help her safely down. He’d taken her and Daphne to the fair, spending all his paper round money on rides and candyfloss for the pair of them. He’d taken her out a few times after that, without Daphne as a chaperone and was the first boy who’d ever kissed her. And then it had all gone horribly wrong and stayed that way.

At last, the door to the gypsy caravan opened and the first part of Stella’s ordeal was over.

“You’ll never believe what she’s told me,” Daphne said as she emerged from the caravan and climbed down the antique wood and brushed aluminium steps.

“You’re quite right, I’m not going to believe any of it. Oh well, I suppose I’d better get this over with.”

Want to read on? You can buy the paperback or ebook, or read through kindle unlimited here. Alternatively, order from your local bookshop, or request it in the library (paperback, or ebook version).

My romantic murder mystery, Acting Like A Killer, is currently on special offer at 99p / 99c. *See what I did there?
Here’s the opening –

Honestly, how could anyone be too ill to die? And where on earth was she going to find someone else willing to be bashed over the head with a blunt instrument in twelve hours’ time?

“Next year will be very different,” vowed Amelia Watson, duty manager of Falmouth’s largest hotel. Rather than devise an interesting scheme to boost the usual pre-festive season slump in business, and avoid mid-November tinsel, she would embrace Christmas starting early. Why wait until next year? She immediately made New Year’s resolutions. “I’ll avoid everything to do with crime of all kinds, particularly murders and dead bodies. And if I get any more brilliant ideas I’ll keep them to myself,” she promised, very quietly, whilst printing an itemised receipt. It didn’t count unless you wrote it down or said it out loud.

As Amelia processed the fidgeting queue of guests checking out, she allowed her attention to drift to the man waiting patiently at the back. Partly because he was pleasant to look at. Mostly to avoid thinking about the impending disaster which would begin with the far longer queue who’d soon attempt to check in.

“We hope to see you again soon,” she told a departing guest, then, “How can I help you?” to the next in line.

He didn’t want to be helped. He wanted a discount for not having a sea view, because gulls existed, and the fact it had rained on Wednesday. Amelia, politely but firmly, charged the price he’d been quoted for the room he’d booked. Thankfully there were just seven people left for Amelia to deal with, and the attractive man at the back wasn’t a complainer. She could always tell.

Although it was great that The Fal View was fully booked, it would have been better if they were also fully staffed. Increased bookings proved Amelia’s idea had been excellent. Had, past tense. A quarter of her staff getting colds was inconvenient, but not a complete shock during November. Amelia had just about cajoled enough people to take extra shifts when the real snag arose – one which was in no way her fault and which she simply couldn’t have anticipated. No corpse.

“There’s lots of information and a map here,” she told the lady wanting advice about local attractions. Usually she took the time to give personal recommendations; today it was a smile, a fistful of leaflets and, “How can I help?” to the next person.

At last the patient man stood before her. He was average height, with a lot of glossy reddish-brown hair, a body which suggested he exercised and face that looked as though it often smiled. Amelia felt oddly hopeful as she asked, “Can I help you?”

“You really, really can.”

The deep voice and slight Irish accent had Amelia’s stomach attempting a jig. His grin reached his eyes, which were lighter than his hair. Almost the colour of caramel coated popcorn. Amelia felt hungry and not just for her favourite snack.

“All you have to do is avoid saying, ‘Sorry, we’re fully booked’.”

“Ah.”

“Please, just don’t say it, Amelia. I know what the sign says, but I’m desperate for somewhere to stay for the next fortnight.”

She liked that he’d used her name. A lot of men glanced at her bust, but they weren’t all reading her name badge. “We can do two weeks starting Monday.”

“I need somewhere from today. Perhaps you have a room which is being decorated, or has no heating, or no bed? Anything.” He gave a persuasive smile.

Amelia suspected it usually got him what he wanted. Or maybe she’d made that assumption because she was very keen to help him. She had a brilliant idea which could solve both their problems at once. Glancing round to ensure no other guests were within earshot, she leaned closer and asked, “How do you feel about dying tonight?”

‘Shocked’ was clearly the answer. “You’re offering to book me into the local morgue?”

He had a wonderfully expressive face, especially his eyebrows. Somehow they combined horror, desperation and even a hint of amusement. Amelia couldn’t help imagining how he’d look when experiencing entirely pleasurable emotions.

“How about you let me sleep in my car in the car park and come in for breakfast and use a bathroom, just until Monday?”

“I’m offering a genuine room… complete with bed.”

“Sounds perfect, apart from the dying bit.”

“Obviously I don’t mean you have to actually die.”

“Obviously not.” He didn’t sound, or look, entirely convinced. In fact he looked intrigued.

“You just need to be a bit dead for a little while. OK, there’s slightly more to it than that, but mostly it’s eating dinner and talking to some people and then lying really, really still. That bit’s very important.”

“It is a classic behaviour in dead bodies.”

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I think it’s a convenient and cost effective way to try books you might enjoy, but perhaps wouldn’t have bought, due to being unfamiliar with the author’s work. That’s why so manu independent authors offer their books this way.

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