Persuading Austen. Brigid Coady
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Thanks to the RNA for having my back and for being the best writing organisation in the world. Also thank you to Dr David Hessayon for his sponsorship of the Joan Hessayon Award for New Writers. I was lucky enough to win this award for my first novel, No One Wants To Be Miss Havisham the boost it has given me is incalculable.
This book would have been written faster if Keris Stainton hadn’t pushed me down the rabbit hole that is the One Direction fandom. Thanks for that and much more. The Tumblr fandom is a weird and wonderful place, populated with many talented people writing fan fiction and distracting me from my writing. I have left little nods to the fandom in the book; all included with love and respect. So thanks Keris and Katey Lovell for the group chats, writing support, concert ticket panic, and the fan fiction recommendations. I promise I will finish The Breakfast Club AU one day.
Everyone needs a support network of non-writing friends. Matt Turner – white van man extraordinaire, Bookshop Crawl Stig, book recommender, and partner in crime. Thank you for being you, and also for being the only one who bothered to come and see me in Basel.
To Tricia Gibney and Mr Pie, thank you for letting me stay and looking after me so well. No writer could ask for more; gluten-free food on tap, cat cuddles, and great conversation.
The wonderful Jill Mansell bid on and won my offer – to have a character named after her – for the Authors for Nepal auction. The Jillian Mansell depicted in this book in no way resembles Jill.
This book has its own playlist that was the soundtrack to my writing - http://spoti.fi/2sE8Gye And yes, there are rather a lot of One Direction songs on it. That is the way I roll.
All the many mistakes in this book about producing a TV show are all mine. And in the words of Dick Wolf and Law & Order:
The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event.
For my sister, Annalise.
Thank you.
Wikipedia – William Elliot, Actor
William Charles Elliot – born March 1, 1950. Renowned actor. Son of Sir Walter William Elliot – actor, theatre manager, director – and Elizabeth Siddons, actress. Married July 15, 1974, to Molly Stevenson, actress (died 2002). They had four children: three girls and a stillborn son. Imogen Elliot, actress (1982), Anne (1983?), a son (1984), and Marie, actress and TV presenter (1986) married to Charles Musgrove, investment banker.
Annie heard the thump as she walked down the stairs. She stared down at the handmade leather brogue that had sailed from the living room and bounced on the black and white tiled hallway. She halted briefly, her foot hovering as she wondered whether she should take the next step or turn round and hide in her room. No, she needed to get out of the house …
Could she make it down to the kitchen without anyone seeing her?
She put her foot down carefully, hoping that it wouldn’t make any sound.
‘Annie.’
Crap.
Her name echoed up out of the living room, round the hall, and up the stairs. Her father’s voice could reach to the back of a large theatre; it had no problems with their house.
‘Annie. What was the point in having you as a Wikipedia editor if you don’t keep my page up to date?’ The words bounced and caused the chandelier to tinkle. At least his shoe hadn’t taken any more crystals off it.
She walked down the rest of the stairs, a solid lump forming in her gut. She would like one day without drama. She rubbed her temple and wondered what it would have been like if she had grown up in a family where dramatics weren’t the family business.
‘But, Dad …’ she said as she scooped up the shoe and cradled it in her hands. She quickly checked it wasn’t scuffed. William Elliot didn’t wear scratched shoes and the family finances couldn’t stretch to another pair of handmade shoes.
‘Don’t “but Dad” me. You know I wanted that link to the Guardian review added to it; it came out yesterday. It should be there.’
Annie stood in the doorway of the living room, watching as her father pulled at his bottom lip and frowned at the laptop screen in front of him.
If only someone hadn’t introduced him to Wikipedia. She would like to give that stage manager who showed him Alan Rickman’s page a piece of her mind.
‘I’ll do it when I get to the office,’ she said quietly. There was no point in raising her voice or saying no. It was a waste of time and energy because they all knew she’d do it anyway.
‘Well you’d better. It isn’t as though you were doing anything last night.’ He flicked his fingers at her in dismissal. Annie realized he hadn’t looked up from the screen once during the whole exchange.
And whose fault was that? she thought. The tickets she had to see Rag ’n’ Bone Man unused because Dad had wanted her to pick him up from the theatre. She’d waited in all night for his call, before he came home in an expensive cab.
She should’ve said something. If it had been work, she’d have ripped someone a new one. Annie sighed.
Annie stroked the burnished brown leather upper; it was warm from his body heat. It was the closest she’d been to him in awhile. Carefully she put the shoe down close to his chair so he’d see it but wouldn’t trip over it.
She turned and walked across the hall towards the stairs down to the kitchen, the lump in her stomach dissolving slightly. It could’ve been worse. Her finger brushed the small hole in the plaster in the wall; that had been his phone. And after that she knew no matter how broke the family were she always had to make sure he flew first class. She was thirty-two, lived at home, and was a complete pushover.
But as Annie entered the kitchen she took a deep breath and felt herself expand and unfurl. This was her place, every battered and old-fashioned part of it. The crazy Seventies-style cupboards with mustard-coloured doors that hung slightly off their hinges and the scratched and burnt wooden worktops. Her dad and oldest sister Immy never came down here if they could help it.
There had been a brief period when Immy had invaded, thinking her smoothies would gain an extra something if she prepared them herself. Immy took up more space than her spare frame should; her presence had squashed Annie into the corners of the room. Annie had felt like an interloper in her safe space. Luckily Immy had realized she could get the smoothies delivered from the same organic supplier that the Duchess of Cambridge swore by, and Annie had breathed a sigh of relief, moving the blender to the back of a cupboard.
An expensive gadget to be gathering dust but it was worth it for the freedom.
Annie closed the door to the kitchen, sealing herself inside, and turned on the small TV she had in the corner of the counter.
‘I don’t know why women make such a fuss about not having time to take care of themselves. For your marriage to survive you need to keep up certain standards. I mean … here I am with a career, two kids, and a very happy husband.’ Annie grimaced as she turned down the blast of her baby sister’s voice coming out over the speakers.
‘And a nanny, and a housekeeper and me,’ Annie muttered as she opened the fridge. If she had the show, Easy Ladies, on in the background she wouldn’t be completely lying when Marie called to ask, or rather demand, whether she’d watched it. Technically it was Annie’s day off but the prospect of spending more time at home had her, by mid-morning, desperate to escape to the office. And it also meant she didn’t have to give Marie blow-by-blow feedback on her performance.
Ah, there was the hummus.
She grabbed the