Hard Bargains

‘Not every story. And you’ll remember I wrote the fourth Sheila Carradine novel in six days.’

‘That was more like a novella.’

‘Hey, a lot of Agatha Christie’s books were that length.’

He’d smiled then, sensing the pre-emptive bargaining behind my words. ‘We’re talking about a proper modern novel here, Jess, and you know it. A full-length, eighty-thousand-word novel. In a single weekend.’

I knew I’d done it then. Sealed my fate. Because I can never back down from a challenge, even when I’m the idiot doing the challenging.

‘Fine,’ I’d said, lifting my chin like some proud heroine in a romance novel. I’d written a few of those too. ‘What do I get if I win?’

He’d laughed at that. ‘Other than the satisfaction of a job well done? It’s your proposition, my dear. I’ll publish the book, of course. I’ll even spring for the weekend for you to write it. But more to the point – what do I get if you lose?’

That had made my face burn. I hadn’t even considered a forfeit. I hadn’t even really noticed I was talking myself into such a high-stakes game until it was too late. It was on the tip of my tongue to say it didn’t matter since I didn’t intend to lose. But my confidence had started to falter by that point.

‘What do you suggest?’ I’d been reduced to asking. And when he told me what he had in mind, my stomach began to flutter.

But I’d swallowed my pride and nodded and stuck out my hand for him to shake. ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ was all I could bring myself to say.

And he’d smiled like the wolf in the kinkiest version of Little Red Riding Hood.

Now I’m staring up at this scary old house, about to embark on the most ludicrous bet of my life. Not that the place isn’t inspirational. Blackwood House has to be the oldest and darkest old dark house ever. Imposing stone towers claw at the sky above crumbling arches and tortuous iron scrollwork and the windows glint like spying eyes.

It’s October, so nothing is blooming. The thorny brambles of dead rose bushes clamber over broken pergolas in what must once have been a glorious garden. Equally lifeless ivy clings to the stonework like exposed veins. Beneath the barren trees, the grounds are strewn with leaves, a carpet of brown and red and gold. It’s the only colour in the place and it transforms the otherwise gloomy location into a fantastical setting.

I might be the second Mrs de Winter arriving at Manderley. Or Jane Eyre reporting for duty at Thornfield Hall. Or any number of wide-eyed young damsels wandering cold and labyrinthine corridors in nothing but a flimsy nightdress. I feel as intimidated as any of them as I put the key in the latch and turn it. Then I cross the threshold into the shadowy interior.

Once I’m inside, my breath catches. I’m no longer in gothic romance territory. Now I’m firmly in the land of ghost stories and haunted houses. This could be Hill House. Or Hell House. Or the House of Usher. It’s not hard to understand where the authors of such tales got their ideas. At some time they must have wandered by themselves into a place like Blackwood House. They must have stood staring up at the staircase cloaked in darkness, the corners teeming with shadows. The atmosphere is genuinely chilling and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.

‘Well, then,’ I say, flinching a little at how my voice echoes in the vast hall. ‘What are you going to inspire me to write?’

But of course the house doesn’t answer. Because it isn’t really haunted. That

’s just the silly spin used to sell it as a weekend retreat. ARE YOU BRAVE ENOUGH? DO YOU DARE? I’d found the Scooby Doo pitch pretty silly, but I’d always been curious about seeing inside the place.

Peter had made all the arrangements and ensured there was a room with a desk where I could work undisturbed. I’m not keen to venture up the darkened stairs just yet to find it, but I remind myself that every moment I spend in awestruck gawking is a moment I could be winning our bet. Even so, I do have to explore. I have to feed the muse before I can write anything.

I start downstairs, where a corridor leads me from dusty room to dusty room. Ancestral Blackwoods peer down at me from their ornate frames as I admire the elegant dining room. The table is laid as if for a dinner party, albeit one for ghosts, given the cobwebs strung between the candlesticks and chandelier. I can’t help but wonder where Miss Havisham’s wedding cake is. Maybe the ghosts ate it.

Further along is a cosy little alcove with a cushioned window seat. I try it out and send a cloud of dust into the air for my efforts. Definitely more Hell House than Manderley. The letting agents might want to think about tidying the place up before touting it as a romantic getaway.

At the end of the wing is a ballroom, its walls lavishly painted with commedia dell’arte characters. I’m having trouble envisioning either of my popular detectives here. But maybe I’m going about this all wrong. Maybe I should try something new. I’ve never written a period novel before. I toy with the idea of a Victorian locked-room mystery, a house full of shifty-eyed guests, every one a suspect.

Then I remind myself: research.

It’s not my favourite thing at the best of times and this weekend is not the best of times to be wildly ambitious. I have to get 80,000 words down on paper – well, on screen – before the end of Sunday night. Only a first draft, of course, but it still has to be a proper story. Best just to stick with what I know and what my readers enjoy.

With a sigh I retrace my steps and head upstairs to find my new office for the next 72 hours.

It’s better than I dared to hope. Peter has picked the best room in the house for me. The library. And it’s every bibliophile’s wet dream. Deep mahogany panelled walls, matching desks with red leather insets, velvety chairs arranged before a fireplace. And best of all – a spiral staircase leading up to a gallery level!

The shelves are full of dusty old books and it takes a colossal effort of willpower not to simply pour myself a glass of wine (which I see Peter has also arranged) and sit before a roaring fire poring over ancient tomes.

My laptop looks blasphemously out of place on the antique desk, but it can’t be helped. The easiest thing to do is just start writing. Something. Anything. I decide to drop amateur sleuth Lee Price into a renamed version of Blackwood House and see what she finds there.

It’s easy enough at first. It always is. The words pour forth, Lee’s dialogue sparking off the page as she investigates the same rooms I’ve just seen. I give her client a double-barrelled surname to pad out the word count and watch the story begin to take shape. I’m nearly four thousand words in when I hear the crash.

I freeze, my fingers poised above the keyboard like clawing monster hands. My heart pounds in my chest as I listen, expecting to hear the slow, dragging tread of footsteps coming up the stairs. But the only sound is the fire, crackling away in the hearth.