If You're Not the One (33 page)

Do you have a favourite character in
If You're Not the
One? Why, and what inspired you to write them?

Jennifer is my favourite character in the book. She's by no means perfect(whois?), but I really like her and can relate to her enormously. The idea for her story came to me during a period when, like Jennifer, I was trying to figure a few things out. On paper she
should
be happy. But she's not and is hurtling towards a mid-life crisis, unsure of what she wants. We meet her at a time when she's wondering if there should be more to life and is asking herself, ‘Is this it?' I would imagine she's not alone. We live in confusing times, encouraged to reach for the stars, to have the best career, the best relationship and not to settle. Of course, there's a lot to be said for safe and steady and secure, but only as long as it doesn't trickle into dull, unfulfilling and suffocating. Previous generations were programmed just to get on with things and people's reluctance to ‘put up and shut up' these days is often labelled as selfishness. Is it, though? I'm not sure. This is why I like her character so much and why she was such a joy to write. Jennifer doesn't have all the answers and I truly believe that, like her, most of us aren't completely happy all of the time or completely miserable. Instead, most of us have good days and bad. Life can be beautiful and also sad. As a result, she feels very real to me and I loved exploring how all the different relationships she experiences make her feel and, to a degree, act in a different way. She's also funny. All the best people are.

Which man do you think Jennifer would be happiest with and why?

I think the man who was her real soul-mate and with whom she had the most passionate connection was Joe. Of course, their feelings were dramatically heightened by the situation
they were in, but I like to think that, given the chance, they would have made each other very happy.

With the book as a whole, I wanted to demonstrate that most of the time, when we break up with someone, it's for a very good reason. More often than not our instincts are correct. Therefore it was important to show that had she stayed with Aidan or Tim she would have been fairly miserable. However, I was also determined to show that had she stayed with Steve she could have been quite content, thus destroying the romantic notion that there's only one person out there for each of us. After all, if your parents emigrated to another country when you were a child, it's unlikely to imagine you would never meet anyone you were compatible with and that you had in fact been destined solely for the boy up the road.

Would you like to be able to see what ‘could have been'
,
like Jennifer does?

I'm not sure! I think it's something we all wonder about and not just in terms of relationships. I often ponder what might have been had I chosen as lightly more standard career path, for example. I think perhaps it's better we can't and that we just live in the moment and try not to have too many regrets and have faith in our own decisions.

If there's one thing you'd like readers to take away from
If You're Not the One, what would it be?

That our lives are all made up of a series of small and large decisions which determine everything. Who you choose to share your life is the most far reaching, for it affects not just your emotional needs but also where you live, your financial status, your friends, extended family, etc. I wanted readers to form their own opinion about Max and Jennifer to a degree. They've got a lot going for them, but the effort has gone. I don't think the book necessarily provides any concrete answers, but I do believe it throws up lots of questions and I hope this makes it an interesting and thought-provoking read. I also set out to try and demonstrate that from the outside looking in it can be easy to imagine you know how people feel or what it's like to be them,
and yet no one really does unless you're in those four walls or in that person's brain. Most of all, however, I simply hope that it's an enjoyable read with some sad bits and some funny bits that passes the time enjoyably and makes people want to tell their friends about it. (Not much then?!)

Where do you write—are you a paper-and-pen girl or a coffee-shop with a laptop sort?

Laptop all the way. It's terrible to confess, but my seven-year-old son and nine-year-old daughter have far better handwriting than me these days. When I write a card or something, it's like I've forgotten how to write with a pen. Forgotten how to
hold
a pen even. To be honest, I don't know how anyone could bear to write anything in longhand. What happens if you want to edit a chunk or move things around? I'd have to totally change my approach if I had to write in longhand as I tend to sort of pour my thoughts out on to the screen and then go back and make sense of the jumble after. This would not be at all practical if using a pen. My next deadline would probably need to be about 2038. And half of that would have been taken up just looking for a pen, as in my house they disappear as soon as they're bought. Full respect to pen wielders. I don't know how you do it.

What do you love most about being a writer?

The satisfaction of creating an entire world and the people who inhabit it. It's the best job in the world and the only really hard aspect of it is coming up with what your next idea is going to be. Once you've cracked that, though, there's nothing better than a day when it's all flowing and at times you've made yourself chuckle or (and this has been known to happen) to cry at what you're writing. Those are the moments when you know you're on to something good. The fact that this all happens in your own head in solitude does at times conspire to make you feel like a bit of a nut-job admittedly, but it's also a lot of fun. The absolute best thing about being a writer, though, is that your only commute is to the kitchen to get caffeine-based drinks, you can wear your most comfy (revolting) ‘leisure wear' and no one knows if your hair's greasy and you look like a total minger.

What piece of advice would you give to aspiring writers?

Have a good osteopath on speed dial. When you start to hate your manuscript (about fifty thousand words in), take a break for a few weeks in order to get some objectivity back. Don't write with your audience in mind, otherwise you'll start fretting about whether your mum will approve and end up restricting what you want to say. Know where you're trying to get to. It's obvious, but every story needs a beginning, a middle and an end and it helps enormously if that has been thought out before you begin. Don't forget to read other people's books! Reading keeps you inspired and keeps you tuned in to what will make your writing interesting and good. Also, think about what the point of the book is. To my mind there isn't any point if there isn't a point. And lastly, don't give up. Rejection is par for the course, but if you love writing, you should continue anyway. Do it for the love of it and with a bit of luck one day your perseverance will pay off.

Champagne or a cup of tea?

I drink more tea than champagne. I hope to reverse that in the future and aspire to be more like Joan Collins in many ways. I love the idea of wafting around casually brandishing a flute of the fizzy stuff because it's simply all I'll drink. In truth though, I tend to find champagne a bit acidic and on occasion to cause reflux and dry mouth which tends to lessen the glamour factor. Tea, however, rocks. As does vodka, white wine and gin. OK, now I'm just listing types of alcohol…

City or country?

I don't think I could live in the country full-time. Or at least not while I'm still working. I'm an urban chick at heart. I was born and raised in London and love the hurly burly of the capital. Having said that, an escape to the coast or the country is like medicine for the soul when the traffic, noise and grime have all got too much. I'm so ‘city' that a walk in totally fresh air literally makes me feel like I've been drugged afterwards. In a good way. I guess the ideal is a bit of both.

Topshop or Gucci?

Hmm—I'm not sure that during these strange economic times I could ever justify spending hundreds of pounds on a skirt or belt, but that doesn't mean to say I wouldn't love a Gucci handbag. It's pathetic, but like most females I am simply designed to be excited by a new handbag or shoes. No point fighting it. It's just basic biology. So, I'd say Gucci for a treat, but good old Topshop every day of the week if I needed some new clothes I could actually afford and that didn't make me vomit in my mouth, due to sickness brought on by anxiety and guilt after paying at the till.

Tell us a bit about your next book…

My next book is one I'm very excited about. There are some big themes going on. Life, death, family, love and the nature/nurture debate all feature. It's a bit different from anything I've ever written before inasmuch as I've had to do a fair bit of research for this one. It involves some scenes which need to be totally spot-on in order to do it justice. I love lots of the characters and the protagonists' mum is probably my favourite. I don't want to give too much away, but I hope that it will make people laugh and then make them cry in equal measure.

Loved
If You're Not the One?

Read on for an exclusive extract of Jemma's fantastic new book,

When I Met You,

a story that's full of life, laughter and maybe a few tears …

 

I
sit up, wondering what time it is, what day it is even. My bedroom's completely dark and the light from the moon is the only thing enabling me to see anything at all. Rubbing my face, I switch on the bedside light and pick up my watch. Three minutes past nine. I only meant to shut my eyes but must have been asleep for ages.

Blurry with sleep, I sit staring blankly into space, wondering vaguely why the rest of the house is so silent until, overcome by both thirst and curiosity, I haul myself up and pad out onto the dark landing to investigate.

Downstairs, there's a note on the dining table from Mum. It reads ‘
Me and Mar gone to Sheena and Dave's anniversary dins. On mobile. Quiche in fridge. Pete at Josh's for night.
'

Of course, I'd forgotten they were going there. I feel cold and a bit shivery, so as soon as I've glugged back a pint of water, I make a cup of tea, grab some biscuits from mum's stash and head back to my room where I slump onto the bed. The same single bed I slept on throughout my teenage years, which serves as a constant reminder that at the age of thirty-one I haven't come very far. Still, I've wasted enough hours lamenting my embarrassing woman-child status.

It occurs to me then that I should be making the most of the empty house by getting some violin practise in. The one thing I have progressed in over the years. When Mum's around, I only ever get away with playing for about half an hour before the complaints start – apparently classical music makes her feel like a patient in a mental institution – so it'll be nice not to have any interruptions.

I place the sheet music for Bach's solo sonata No. 1 in G minor on my stand. The music's hauntingly beautiful and incredibly hard to do justice to but, once I've practised my scales, arpeggios and a few studies, I feel ready to tackle it. It's not long before I'm completely lost in the music, oblivious to the storm that is brewing outside. The window is ajar, but the sound of the gale howling only adds to the majesty of the sonata. Then, just as I'm in the middle of an exceedingly challenging section, there's a huge rumble of thunder, the skies open and rain starts to pelt down, at which point I place my violin on the bed. I'm just about to pull the window shut when I hear a crashing sound coming from somewhere in our back garden. The security lights at the rear of the house instantly flick on. I jump out of my skin.

Heart thumping, I peer out, trying to see what made the noise. The lights give me a clear view of the patio below, which is undoubtedly the most furnished patio in Essex. You can hardly move on it for swing chairs, heaters, loungers and the like. My stepdad, Martin, makes his living selling garden furniture and equipment. He's bizarrely passionate about it. I swear whenever he visits B&Q or Homebase to check out the competition he goes a bit quivery with anticipation. But I digress.

It doesn't take long to work out what caused the noise. On the right-hand side of the patio, a dustbin lid is lying on the ground and as the wind picks up again, it rolls around, its metal making a terrible din. I guess it must have blown off the bin. Either that or a fox must have disturbed it or something. I yank the window shut. The noise of the storm is instantly muffled but I can still hear the lid clattering around at which point I realise I have no choice but to go outside and put it back on.

Going through the house I switch on every single light. The house is carpeted throughout so as I pad down the stairs into our hallway I don't make a sound. Downstairs it smells in a synthetic, sickly way, of peach, due to the air freshener mum keeps constantly plugged in.

I pass the front room we never use and the downstairs loo, before carrying on straight ahead into our main living area. Usually I don't mind being on my own at night, but the storm's making me twitchy. I chastise myself for being silly.

What am I worried about? I'm not even sure. All I do know is that I'm planning on replacing the lid as quickly as is humanly possible so that I can race inside, upstairs and back to the non-creepy confines of my room.

The keys to the sliding doors, which lead out to the garden, are kept on a hook next to a hatch in the wall that divides the living room and kitchen. Once I've got them I unlock the doors and gingerly slide them open a touch. The wind is fierce. Rain immediately blows into my face but, taking the plunge, I step out into the elements at which point it's quite a struggle to slide the doors shut again. By now the rain's coming down in a torrent so, no matter how quick I plan on being, getting totally soaked is inevitable. Glad of security-conscious Martin's lights, I pick my way across the width of the patio. The wind is almost strong enough to knock me over but with a lot of effort I make it to the offending bin lid, only just as, while I'm bending down to pick it up, an extra strong gust blows it yet further out of my reach. At that point I stop and, with my heart in my mouth, I spin around as a sixth sense heightens the feeling I've been trying to ignore. That I'm not alone.

I must be mistaken though. Fear's playing tricks with my mind because there doesn't appear to be anyone there. Although, having said that, if someone were lurking in the shadows, I probably wouldn't be able to see them from here anyway. Not if they didn't want me to. They could easily hide themselves away down the alley that spans the side of our house.

‘Who's there?' I yell, feebly and somewhat pointlessly. My voice was never going to carry very far against the noise of the storm. By now I'm soaked to the skin and shivering with cold. I pull myself together. My imagination is running away with me. I just need to get the blasted lid back on the bin, get back inside and into a hot shower. Heart thumping, I make a dash down the lawn for the lid again. Got it. I grab it, then turn and run towards the passage that runs down the side of the house where the bins are kept. Rain pummels my head and face and, gasping for breath, I slam the lid on, making sure it's secure. As soon as it is, with adrenaline coursing round my body, I make for the house. Turns out, however, I wasn't being paranoid. All my instincts had kicked in for good reason, for just as I'm about to reach for the door, I hear heavy, terrifying footsteps behind me. At this point, I scream so loudly I almost don't recognise my own voice. It's a guttural sound, a scream of survival, because I honestly believe I'm about to be killed, raped, or both. Just as my fingertips make contact with the door handle, a strong arm makes a grab for me and in that instance I don't think I'll ever be able to describe the depth of pure terror that I feel.

I'm terrified, rendered totally incapable of rational thought. My body shuts down completely. My legs go to jelly. I want to scream again but as I try to, a black-gloved hand clamps my mouth shut. The man's gripping on to me so tightly now I can feel his breath on my face. Then, the most eerie thing of all happens. In a rasping, deep, terrifying voice, my assailant says, right into my ear, ‘Don't scream, Marianne.'

Well, that does it. The fact he knows my name makes the whole experience beyond sinister and I honestly think I'm going to pass out on the spot. This person has singled me out. He must have been watching the house. He knows everyone's out and now he's going to do something to me. I'm on the brink of collapse when the attacker says something else I'm not expecting. Though at first I think it's some kind of sick joke.

‘Don't be scared. It's me. It's your dad.'

And in that second my whole life implodes.