Book synopsis
LOVE AND
LONGING IN THE BRIGHT LIGHTS OF LONDON
When iconic ballerina Beatrice Duvall died, a nation mourned – and
a legacy was born. Sixteen years later, her daughter Ava comes to London to take
part in a high-profile tribute to Beatrice, and to learn about the mother she
never knew.
There’s just one snag: the tribute is a ballet, Swan Lake. Which is infinitely painful
for Ava, because she can’t dance. Won’t
dance. Not since she quit the Royal Ballet School last year and walked away
from everything that defined her.
But this is
London, colourful and crazy, and with actor Seb at her side, there’s so much to
discover. Like Theatreland razzmatazz and rooftop picnics and flamingo parties.
And a whole load of truths Ava never knew about her mother – and herself.
When the time comes to take the stage, will Ava step out of the
shadow cast by her mother’s pedestal? And who will be waiting for her there, in
the bright lights?
A
coming-of-age novel about family and first love, in the city of hopes and
dreams.
Book link
Author bio
Once upon a time a little girl told her grandmother that when she
grew up she wanted to be a writer. Or a lollipop lady. Or a fairy princess.
‘Write, Charlotte,’ her grandmother advised. So that’s what she did.
Thirty-odd years later, Charlotte writes the kind of books she loves to read:
romances. She lives in a village of Greater Manchester with her husband and two
children, and when she’s not reading or writing, you’ll find her walking
someplace green, baking up a storm or embarking on a DIY project. She recently
achieved a lifetime ambition of creating a home library for her ever-increasing
collection of books. She pretends not to notice that the shelves are rather
wonky.
Mini interview
What is
the inspiration for the story?
A kaleidoscope of ideas… Memories of performing on stage. The
years I lived in Kensington, London. The many shows I’ve seen in the West End.
A backstage tour of the Royal Opera House. The public reaction to Princess
Diana’s death. My own experience of losing my mother.
What draws
you to this genre?
Young adult: the time of life that
most signifies discovery and sensation and freedom. Dreaming big;
confronting reality. Being trendy; being quirky and out of step. Messing up
gloriously; succeeding epically. First crush, first kiss, first love. Making
memories that will last a lifetime.
Why do you
write?
Because writing makes the blood sing in my veins; it makes me feel
alive; it defines me. Because I’m a bibliophile, and the only thing better than
having a book in my hand is having my own
book in my hand. Because I want to entertain, inspire – and leave a legacy for
my children.
Author links
Book extract
The Tube from Turnham Green is quiet,
until we reach Earl’s Court, where it starts filling up. By the time we get to
Victoria I’m in a scrum spilling out onto the platform. I find the Victoria
Line platform and shoe-horn myself into a carriage; Seb would be proud of my
elbow action.
At Oxford Circus I’m carried by a sea of shoppers up the
escalators, across the foyer and up some steps to the street level. I’ve
managed to come out the right exit, opposite the flagship Topshop. The massive
store calls to me. Now that’s where
to buy a dress for the tribute. Simple and trendy. I dread to think what
Thisbe’s wardrobe department contact is going to make me. Something showbiz, I
guess: long and loud and sparkly. Ugh.
But I don’t want to offend Thisbe, who’s called in a favour,
apparently, to get me a dress sewn so quickly. So, with a sigh, I turn my back
on Topshop and trudge down Argyll Street. When I see the Palladium, like a
classical temple with massive columns, my mood lifts. At least I’m getting to visit one of London’s
most historic theatres, where anyone who’s anyone has performed over the years,
from Elvis Presley to Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra to Ella Fitzgerald, Elton to
Adele – even The Muppets have taken to this stage. I wonder: will I get to
stand on the stage?
Nope, is the answer. I don’t even see the auditorium. A security
guard shows me from the foyer down into the underbelly of the theatre, to a
small, windowless room made even smaller by its many contents: two dressmaker’s
dummies, a hanging rail of costumes, shelves of fabric and haberdashery, and a
desk for the sewing machine. I barely have time to make a mental comparison of
this room and the wardrobe department at the Royal Opera House – in a big room
overlooking the Piazza and flooded with light – before a girl springs out from
behind one of the dummies and hugs me.
Hugs me?
Thankfully, it’s brief. She steps back and beams. I smile back
automatically, and in a second I take her in: round, rosy face, electric-blue
eyes, dark wavy hair. She’s a little older than me, maybe twenty, and wearing
stylish jeans and a really unusual shirt covered with little embroidered
seahorses.
“You’re Cara Cavendish?” I say, daring to hope that maybe my dress
won’t end up being horrendously glitzy after all.
“The one and only,” she says cheerfully. “And you’re
Ava-who-needs-a-dress. Thisbe explained. Sit, sit…” She pulls out a little
stool from under the desk and I perch on it.
Cara walks around me in a circle, eying me up and down.
“Easy-peasy,” she declares. “Dancers’ forms are so simple to dress.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m not a dancer.”
She completes her circuit and leans on the desk, looking curiously
at me. “But you’re Beatrice Duvall’s daughter,” she says.
The name gives me a jolt, but I manage to reply evenly: “That
doesn’t make me a dancer.”
“’Course not,” says Cara. “I mean, my mum was an architect, and
look at me! But I heard you were training to be a dancer like your mother. With
the Royal Ballet.”
“I was. I… stopped.”
“Oh. Why was that then?”
I frown at Cara. She smiles back at me.
“Did Thisbe put you up to this?” I ask.
“Up to what?”
“All the questions.”
“Oh, no. That’s just me. My brother’s always telling me I’m blunt,
because I don’t go in for all that evasive British crap – ignoring the elephant
in the room. Better to lay it all out there and say, ‘My mum’s dead, and it
sucks.’ You know?”
“Not really,” I reply honestly. I’ve never said those words in my
life.
Cara nods like I’ve said something profound. Then, to my relief,
she claps her hands and says, “Let’s talk dresses.”
After a quick-fire round of questions designed to establish my
style, Cara hands me a scrapbook in which she’s pasted cuttings, photos and
drawings of formal dresses, and she talks me through cuts, lengths, necks,
sleeves and fabrics. Somewhere around the midi dress page I begin to come
undone.
“What is it?” she says.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Something,” she says. “You look like you’re about to have a panic
attack. Is it claustrophobia? This room is a little dinky.”
“It’s not that. It’s...”
She waits expectantly. I gesture to the scrapbook.
“It’s just all a bit real, suddenly, looking at these dresses. I
mean, I’ve got to wear one and stand on a stage at the Royal Opera House in
front of people. Lots of people.”
“Ah,” she says. “Yeah, I’d be a wreck doing that. But you’ve
performed on stage before, right?”
“Sure. Plenty of times. But this isn’t a performance. I have to be
myself. I mean…”
“You mean you have to be your mother’s daughter. And your mother
was the legendary Beatrice Duvall.”
Startled, I nod. She gets it. I don’t even know this girl, but she
gets it.
“So,” Cara says, plucking the scrapbook off my lap and leafing
through the pages, “what you need, besides the strength to get on that stage,
is a really kick-ass dress. A dress that makes you feel tall and powerful and
goddam beautiful, like nothing can touch you while you’re wearing it. Ah-ha.
Here. This one. What do you think?”
The dress illustration jumps right off the page. It’s bold, it’s
simple, it’s glamorous, it shouts “designer”: a strapless bodice with
criss-crossing satin ribbons and a flowing skirt with chiffon overskirt ending
just on the knee.
“Wow,” I say. “You can make that? In time?”
She grins. “Hell yeah.”
“And you think I can pull that off?”
Her grin widens. “Hell yeah.”
