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Authors: Stella Whitelaw
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not a detective.’
‘I like the way they slash the cover with a pink pen.’
‘So do I,’ said Fancy. ‘The Pink Pen covers are well designed.’
She scanned the heads in the dining room, looking for streaked dark hair and glinting glasses, but he wasn’t there. Perhaps Jed had gone home. Perhaps he was dining a young and delightful blonde at a nearby hotel. Fancy gathered that sometimes delegates ate out, tired of stodgy pastry and orange custard.
Tonight’s supper was fillet of fish in a white sauce followed by, joy oh joy, a strawberry concoction with a weird name, fresh fruit mixed with crushed meringue and cream. It was unbelievably delicious. Everyone wanted seconds, except the young woman who was on a gluten and sugar-free diet. The kitchen produced something different for her at every meal.
She cut her banana into small pieces to make it last. ‘I’d love some of that,’ she said enviously.
‘You could have had just the strawberries.’
‘You tell me now!’
The guest speaker that evening was suitably famous. His books were going to be televised and he was something important in the Crime Writers’ Association. He travelled all over the world to conferences and had just flown back from Washington. Northcote must have seemed like the backwoods after the dazzle of a cosmopolitan capital.
Fancy knew him but not well. He bumped into her in the corridor on the way to the main conference hall. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ He peered at her name badge but couldn’t read it properly. ‘Lovely to see you again.’
‘Glad you found your way here.’
‘It looks fun. We’ll have a drink in the bar afterwards. It’ll have to be a quick one, though, as I’ve got to rush back to London this evening.’
Fancy decided not to sit in the safety of the elite corner with the committee and other guest speakers. She wanted her independence .She walked over to the other side of the hall, to the ‘shelf’. Someone had told her it was called the shelf. It was also called the rebels corner, because once, in ages past, there had been a gang of rebels at Northcote who wanted to change the old stuffy image, and they always sat on the shelf. A kind of clan thing.
The shelf was only wide enough for two rows of chairs but it meant you could look over everyone and get a clear view of the speaker. Fancy had not enjoyed her view being blocked by backs of heads, especially if the heads did not keep still and kept bobbing about.
‘Coming to join us on the shelf?’
‘May I, please? Do you mind? Is there room?’
‘Not at all. As long as you behave yourself. No rowdy behaviour . No wolf whistles or rude noises. Strict rules on the shelf.’
‘Promise. I can’t whistle.’
‘We are a very refined lot up here.’
‘I can see that. But you also look as if you enjoy yourselves.’
‘We have independent minds. If we think a speaker is rubbish then we clap in an appropriately low-key manner. No overblown hysterics or unnecessary cheering.’
Fancy liked the sound of restrained clapping. For a moment she forgot that they would be judging her tomorrow. They made room for her now, shuffling chairs along so she could sit in the front row. She knew she was going to feel at home on the shelf. She would join them with her dreams and her frustrations.
She had never been top of any best-seller list even with dozens of complimentary reviews. Her website was informative and visited daily by fans. Yet her books stayed stuck in the middle somewhere. W H Smith never put her titles in the number one display spot. She’d never had an advert on the Underground.
But she sold well. And her peers read her writing.
Fancy knew she wrote well. Sometimes she surprised herself with a good phrase or an unexpected turn of words. Her Pink Pen Detective was fun and clever, a woman that readers could identify with. The plots were ingenious and injected with theright amount of warmth and emotion. The weird plots came
‘I like the way they slash the cover with a pink pen.’
‘So do I,’ said Fancy. ‘The Pink Pen covers are well designed.’
She scanned the heads in the dining room, looking for streaked dark hair and glinting glasses, but he wasn’t there. Perhaps Jed had gone home. Perhaps he was dining a young and delightful blonde at a nearby hotel. Fancy gathered that sometimes delegates ate out, tired of stodgy pastry and orange custard.
Tonight’s supper was fillet of fish in a white sauce followed by, joy oh joy, a strawberry concoction with a weird name, fresh fruit mixed with crushed meringue and cream. It was unbelievably delicious. Everyone wanted seconds, except the young woman who was on a gluten and sugar-free diet. The kitchen produced something different for her at every meal.
She cut her banana into small pieces to make it last. ‘I’d love some of that,’ she said enviously.
‘You could have had just the strawberries.’
‘You tell me now!’
The guest speaker that evening was suitably famous. His books were going to be televised and he was something important in the Crime Writers’ Association. He travelled all over the world to conferences and had just flown back from Washington. Northcote must have seemed like the backwoods after the dazzle of a cosmopolitan capital.
Fancy knew him but not well. He bumped into her in the corridor on the way to the main conference hall. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ He peered at her name badge but couldn’t read it properly. ‘Lovely to see you again.’
‘Glad you found your way here.’
‘It looks fun. We’ll have a drink in the bar afterwards. It’ll have to be a quick one, though, as I’ve got to rush back to London this evening.’
Fancy decided not to sit in the safety of the elite corner with the committee and other guest speakers. She wanted her independence .She walked over to the other side of the hall, to the ‘shelf’. Someone had told her it was called the shelf. It was also called the rebels corner, because once, in ages past, there had been a gang of rebels at Northcote who wanted to change the old stuffy image, and they always sat on the shelf. A kind of clan thing.
The shelf was only wide enough for two rows of chairs but it meant you could look over everyone and get a clear view of the speaker. Fancy had not enjoyed her view being blocked by backs of heads, especially if the heads did not keep still and kept bobbing about.
‘Coming to join us on the shelf?’
‘May I, please? Do you mind? Is there room?’
‘Not at all. As long as you behave yourself. No rowdy behaviour . No wolf whistles or rude noises. Strict rules on the shelf.’
‘Promise. I can’t whistle.’
‘We are a very refined lot up here.’
‘I can see that. But you also look as if you enjoy yourselves.’
‘We have independent minds. If we think a speaker is rubbish then we clap in an appropriately low-key manner. No overblown hysterics or unnecessary cheering.’
Fancy liked the sound of restrained clapping. For a moment she forgot that they would be judging her tomorrow. They made room for her now, shuffling chairs along so she could sit in the front row. She knew she was going to feel at home on the shelf. She would join them with her dreams and her frustrations.
She had never been top of any best-seller list even with dozens of complimentary reviews. Her website was informative and visited daily by fans. Yet her books stayed stuck in the middle somewhere. W H Smith never put her titles in the number one display spot. She’d never had an advert on the Underground.
But she sold well. And her peers read her writing.
Fancy knew she wrote well. Sometimes she surprised herself with a good phrase or an unexpected turn of words. Her Pink Pen Detective was fun and clever, a woman that readers could identify with. The plots were ingenious and injected with theright amount of warmth and emotion. The weird plots came
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