Interview with a main character: Tom
Okay, Tom - I can smell the turps and
linseed oil from here so I’m guessing I’ve taken you away from your current
work in progress? What are you painting right now?
Tom: It’s fine, I
was just putting the finishing touches to a huge portrait and it needs to dry
before I carry on. It’s kind of different from my usual style; wilder and less
... tidy? Lots of crashing waves, The tourists loved my old stuff, views of the
big Norfolk sky and calm seas and the pier and the lighthouse so it was risky
trying this, but I don’t care. I was going mad never being able to let myself
go.
But you mentioned that it was a
portrait? That sounds more like a landscape to me?
Tom: Ah. Well it
would be, but there’s a woman in it. A beautiful woman.
A friend of yours, is she?
Tom: Yes. Just a
friend. Her name’s Molly. I met her on the beach.
I’m sensing a romance here, Tom?
Tom: I should be
so lucky. Bloody hell, I sound like Kylie. I mean, if there was more to it than
just friends, I’d ... I’d ... oh well, it’s never going to happen, is it. Look
at me.
I’m not sure what you’re getting at,
to be honest, Tom.
Tom: Come on, cut
the crap. She’s not going to fancy a bloke in a wheelchair, is she? She’s
gorgeous. What have I got to offer a woman like that?
Erm ... you’re pretty gorgeous
yourself to be quite truthful. Strong, funny, talented. I could go on.
Tom: Yeah, right.
Anyway, we’ll see. It might happen. Watch this space.
Extract:
The next day, Tom took his courage in both hands, put
on his favourite faded Levis, his old leather flying jacket and a red t-shirt,
and got into his car. As he drove to Molly’s house, he rehearsed his lines over
and over again. He had to strike just the right note or he’d frighten her off
before he could get to know her properly.
He pulled in behind
her car, which looked as if it had been abandoned rather than parked, and swung
himself out of his own, intending to reach for his sticks. Before he’d had a chance
to organise himself, Hattie came flying out of the front door.
‘Tom!
I saw you from my window – I sleep at the front – no-one else likes it because
it’s a bit noisy but I like to see what’s going on in the street, and I saw
you. I’ve got my own room now. Have you come to see how we did in the sleepover?’
She
paused to breathe and Tom started to manoeuvre himself out of the driving seat.
‘Do
you want your chair?’ Hattie asked, going to the boot. ‘I can do it, I know
how.’
At
that moment, Molly emerged from the house, and Tom was struck dumb by her beauty.
She was wearing one of her floating-type ensembles, layer upon layer of
crimson, burgundy and russet material over skin tight leggings. Her hair was
tied up on top of her head, and curls cascaded around her face. She opened her
eyes wide when she recognised her visitor, but rallied quickly and came towards
him smiling.
‘Tom,
this is nice. I was going to come into the shop again to see your new paintings
properly.’
‘Hi
Molly, I was just passing and I thought I’d bring in the girls’ sponsor money.’
There was an ominous silence and Hattie became very interested in the toes of
her boots.
‘I
tell you what, we’ll talk about that inside,’ said Molly, glaring at her
youngest daughter. Hattie sprang into action, wrenching the wheelchair out of
the boot, opening it up deftly and bringing it to just the right place for Tom
to slide into. He grinned at her.
‘You’ve
done that before,’ he said, settling into the chair.
‘Yes,
I’ve got a friend at school who’s d–’ she stopped suddenly, exchanging agonised
glances with her mum. Tom laughed.
‘Who’s
the D word,’ he finished. ‘You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me,
sweetheart, I’ve been in a wheelchair for a long time. I’m used to it.’
‘But
why?’ Hattie ground to a halt again as Tom began to propel himself towards the
house. The step was tiny, and he easily got through the wide doorway. Over his
shoulder, he said to Hattie, ‘You can ask me anything you like, if you give me
a cup of tea.’ Hattie shook her head, biting her lip.
Soon
Tom was relaxing in one of Molly’s most comfortable chairs, with a brimming mug
next to him and a slice of Hattie’s flapjack, made that day at school. He had
never felt so at home in someone else’s house before. Usually it took him
several visits to grow accustomed to a new place. There were practical issues,
such as whether the loo was accessible, and if the floors were laminated –
major slipping hazard – and whether the home owners tried to make too many
allowances for his needs.
Blurb:
Suddenly bereaved, Molly White realises
that she has never really known her feisty husband Jake when random boxes begin
to appear through the post, each one containing a tantalising clue to the
secrets of Jake and Molly’s past. Someone who knows them both well, for reasons
of their own, has planned a trail of discovery. The clues seem to be designed
to change Molly’s life completely, leading her around Britain and then onwards
to rural France and deepest Bavaria.
Meanwhile, waiting in the wings is Tom,
a charismatic artist who runs a gallery in the same town. Strong, independent
and wheelchair-bound from the age of fifteen, he leads a solitary life and has
no idea how devastatingly attractive he is to women. When Tom meets curvy,
beautiful and funny Molly, he knows that she is his dream woman, but she seems
way out of his orbit until the boxes start to weave their spell and the two of
them are thrown right out of their comfort zones.
Little Boxes is a story of love in a
variety of guises - mother-love, unrequited passion, infatuation and the
shadow-love held in memories that refuse to go away.
Author
Bio:
Celia J Anderson spends most of her spare time
writing in as many different genres as possible, including children’s fiction.
In her other life, she’s Assistant Headteacher at a small Catholic primary
school in the Midlands and loves teaching literature (now comfortingly called
English again but still the best subject in the world.)
She tried a variety of random jobs before
discovering that the careers advisor at secondary school was right, including
running crèches, childminding, teaching children to ride bikes (having omitted
to mention she couldn’t do it herself) and a stint in mental health care. All
these were ideal preparation for the classroom and provided huge amounts of
copy for the books that were to come.
Celia enjoys cooking and eating in equal measures,
and thinks life without wine would be a sad thing indeed. She is married, with
two grown up daughters who have defected to the seaside. One day she plans to
scoop up husband and cats and join them there.
Links:
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