I’m a shamefully erratic writer. My first novel under my own name (I’d done two serials for Woman’s Weekly under a pseudonym) was a last desperate attempt at the Betty Trask Prize. Which, because I’d already thrown out two bleeding chunks of 300-plus words and the closing date was nigh, I actually wrote in 19 days flat. Cross my heart. Didn’t get anywhere in the Trask awards, but it got me very respectably published. My career’s been downhill ever since. Novel number 2 (I’d blanked out a whole month in the diary) took… two years. But that’s nothing to Number 7. Which I’m just about to finish – some FIFTEEN years after Number 6. Like I said. Erratic.
Before I embarked on writing (or not writing) contemporary romantic comedy, I was a BBC Radio 4 Features producer. I live in the North York Moors with my husband, Ed, a GP, and am terrifically talented at creating excuses for not closeting myself in the converted dog kennel otherwise known as my office.