After 5 non-fiction books, this is Clare Josa's first novel. In it, she takes you on a life-changing journey of hope, growth and realising you're not alone in life.
Clare Josa is the author of five life-changing non-fiction books and You Take Yourself With You is her first novel.
She spent 30 years dreaming of writing a novel, but a throwaway comment from an English teacher, back in her teens, meant she convinced herself she couldn’t think of a good story. And she was right. Then, one morning, she did some inner block-clearing work - the kind she does with her clients - and 2 days later a series of 7 novels had been drafted. Three months later, two of them were written, of which You Take Yourself With You is the first.
The scariest bit was asking her husband to read it and give her feedback, before it went to her editor. She knew she had cracked it the night he put that day’s draft down and demanded to know when he could read what came next.
In You Take Yourself With You Clare wanted to explore what happens when life gets tough and how we subconsciously get in the way of our own happiness and fulfilment, which is how Sophie’s and Christof’s journeys were born. Unafraid to tackle challenging topics like PTSD, guilt, obligation, self-doubt, abuse and depression, You Take Yourself With You is a journey of growth and hope and realising that you’re not alone in life - deep-acting insights into the human condition, served up with a generous dollop of humour.
In her previous incarnations, Clare Josa has a Masters Degree in Mechanical Engineering and German, she has been an NLP Trainer (‘user manual’ for your brain) since 2003, she is a certified Meditation & Yoga Teacher (and has published two books on mindfulness - 52 Mindful Moments & the 28 Day Meditation Challenge). She teaches internationally on the little-talked-about yet vitally important ‘inside work’ for when you want to make a bigger difference in the world. Her book Dare To Dream Bigger gives you the step-by-step how-to for this.
Her secret addictions are great coffee with cashew milk, growing unusual vegetables and listening to Harry Potter in German on her phone.
When not writing or running workshops on the ‘how to’ for ‘be the change you wish to see', Clare loves hanging out with her husband and their young family, their bouncy Jack Russell, their self-assured black cat and ten mindful chickens at her home in Sussex, UK. Her hammock under the willow tree on a sunny afternoon, listening to her boys playing, is her favourite place in the world.
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* Your name in the back of the book as one of my superstar supporters - as long as you sign up for this before 11th November 2017
* EXCLUSIVE: a haiku - written by me, just for you - on the topic of your choice (subject to stuff that wouldn't make your Mum blush!)
* A shout-out on social media, with your haiku, so the world knows how lovely you are
I love writing haikus and there is one at the start of each chapter in You Take Yourself With You. This is your chance to get your very own haiku as a thank you for being a patron for the novel.
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* a one hour accountability mentoring call, one month later
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I have been training business leaders in how to 'be the change' since 2002. I've even published a transformational book on it which readers rave about - Dare To Dream Bigger. Want to book me to train your team?
I'll create a bespoke 7-hour training course for your team at under half my usual rate and give you 50 copies of You Take Yourself With You AND 50 copies of Dare To Dream Bigger.
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Are You Brave Enough To Make Peace With Your Past?
What happens when we get in the way of happiness? Exploring self-doubt, trauma, depression and bullying, Clare's novel is a journey of hope, courage, love and realising we're not alone.
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Book: approx 320 pages paperback (UK B-format). The manuscript is currently with the editor.
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When Christof's father dies in an accident that Christof survives, he's left with more than guilt. A mountain of hidden debt threatens to devastate the Italian cherry farm his family has called home for generations, leaving its workers destitute. Struggling to juggle the demands of a city job that wants him to put a mafia boss behind bars and the overwhelming responsibility of running the farm, Christof has never felt more alone, though he doesn't let anyone close enough to tell. Can he save the farm, beat the mafia and learn one of life's most important lessons, before it's too late?
Sophie is brilliant at her job and on track to get promoted when her best friend and boss goes on maternity leave. When Sophie rejects her new boss's sexual advances, he sets out to destroy more than her career. Living in London with a narcissistic ex-boyfriend stalking her and her landlord making her homeless, can she escape from the black cloud that threatens to overwhelm her, to find the stability, happiness, success - and the love - she is secretly craving?
What happens when you get in the way of your happiness? Exploring self-doubt, trauma, depression, harassment (#metoo) and bullying, Clare's novel is a journey of hope, courage, love and realising we're not alone.
If you love a great story, especially when there's intrigue, twists and conflict in there, but you want more than chick lit saccharine romance and hate being given nightmares, then you'll love You Take Yourself With You.
It is the first in a series of five books about The Denucci Deception.
*** Your paperbacks will be shipped w/c 10th December, in time for Christmas! ***
$12 + P&P (approx £8.99 + P&P) + eBook - Click Here To Order Now
Get the book shipped to you w/c 10th December 2017, plus sneak-peek early bonuses to thank you for supporting the campaign.
______________________________________________________
$47 + P&P (approx £37 + P&P) - Click Here To Order Now
Get the books shipped to you the w/c 10th December 2017, in time to give them to loved-ones for Christmas, plus sneak-peek early bonuses to thank you for supporting the campaign...
AND an invitation to our virtual launch party.
AND you'll get your PDF copy a week before the publishing date!
Reward is worth £50 / $69.
Click here to order now for just $47 + P&P.
______________________________________________________
$65 + P&P (approx £48 + P&P) - Click Here To Order Now
You get EVERYTHING from the Christmas Shopping package, PLUS:
Get invitation-only access to a live training on How To Reach For Your Dreams in 2018.
It will run 4 times in December and January and I will teach you exactly how to do what I did - clear out a 30-year-old block and unlock your dreams, whatever they might be, in just a few minutes.
Reward is worth £200 / $260.
Click here to order now for just £47 / $65.
______________________________________________________
As for 'Insider Secrets' PLUS a life-changing online course & monthly group mentoring.
£97 +P&P (equivalent $127) - Click Here To Order Now
(Get EVERYTHING from the 'Insider Secrets' Package, PLUS:
Learn how to spot and clear out hidden blocks, fears, excuses and limiting beliefs - in less time than it takes a kettle to boil. This is my most popular online training course.
Reward is worth over £500 / $660.
Click here to order now for just £97 / $127.
______________________________________________________
£297 + P&P ($397 equivalent) - Click Here To Order Now
Show the world you care and sponsor this project. In return you will get:
EVERYTHING from the Deep-Dive package, PLUS:
I love writing haikus and there is one at the start of each chapter in You Take Yourself With You. This is your chance to get your very own haiku as a thank you for being a patron for the novel.
Reward is worth over £997 / $1,300.
Click here to order now for just £297 / $397.
______________________________________________________
£375 + P&P (equivalent $497) - Click Here To Order Now
You will get EVERYTHING from the Deep-Dive (for one person), plus:
Reward is worth over £850 / $1,100.
Click here to order now for just £375 / $497.
______________________________________________________
£750 + P&P ($997 equivalent) - Click Here To Order Now
Get EVERYTHING from the Deep-Dive package, PLUS:
This package is ideal for you if you've got a big launch coming or you're a passionate world-changer on a mission in 2018. The consultancy will happen in January 2018.
Reward is worth over £2,497 / $3,300.
Click here to order now for just £750 / $997
______________________________________________________
£2,500 + P&P (equivalent $3,275) - Click Here To Order Now
I have been training business leaders in how to 'be the change' since 2002. I've even published a transformational book on it which readers rave about - Dare To Dream Bigger.
Want to book me to train your team?
I'll create a bespoke 7-hour training course for your team at under half my usual rate and give you 50 copies of You Take Yourself With You AND 50 copies of Dare To Dream Bigger.
This reward includes:
UK only. Reasonable travel is extra.
Reward value is well over £5,000 / $6,600.
Click here to order now for just £2,500 / $3,275.
______________________________________________________
Got questions? Want a package that isn't listed? Use the 'message Clare' link at the top of the page to get in touch.
Sophie takes the biggest risk of her career - one that will either get her promoted or arrested - and she's terrified she'll be fired when her boss finds out. Will the client insist on her going?
Christof faces his demons and the guilt of surviving the car crash that killed his father, when he returns to his apartment in Milan, running away from the expectations that haunt him at the cherry farm he inherited, without wanting to.
Back in the job he loves, his boss allocates him the Denucci case - it's high-risk but exciting, aiming to put a Mafia boss behind bars. Could it be just what Christof needs to wake him up after his summer from hell?
Sophie has to act fast to rescue a hundred thousand pounds' worth of client research when a focus group in Paris career-endingly wrong. Then she waves goodbye to her boss and best friend, Lucy, as they celebrate her maternity leave with an eventful afternoon tea at Claridge's. How will she get on with her new boss, as he makes his mark in the office? And why is her narcissistic ex-boyfriend being so friendly?
The past comes back to haunt Christof, as he is thrown together with his former lover, Isabella, during a work trip to Paris. He isn't ready to forgive her yet. And he realises he is suffering from PTSD after the car crash, when what should have been a fun dinner at his boss's house turns into a living nightmare.
After she is assaulted at the office Christmas party, Sophie fears for her sanity, as well as her job.
And Christof receives an ultimatum that will change his life forever, whatever he decides.
Sophie's new boss is on a mission to get her fired and undermines her in front of a client she used to love. And worse - her new boss is an old friend of the owner of the agency she works for, so will anyone believe her story?
Christof is on a hot trail with the Denucci case, but he needs to gather evidence. Will the risks pay off?
A team-building day from hell turns into sweet revenge as Sophie gets one over on her boss. But will it last? And how long can she keep distracting herself from the sh*t going on in her life with partying every night?
Christof is struggling with the weight of his responsibilities back at the cherry farm and he has never felt so alone. A breakthrough comes one lonely night when he realises how he has been self-sabotaging his happiness, without realising.
Sophie's boss cranks up the bullying until she feels she's about to snap. Then terrible news from her landlord leaves her feeling broken and alone. Can she avoid the feelings of depression that threaten to overwhelm her?
Christof is shocked to find a hidden debt his father didn't tell him about, which threatens to destroy the cherry farm. Can he trace the source and persuade the bank to hold off from repossessing, while he looks for a miracle solution?
Determined to make a formal complaint against her boss, Sophie is out-manoeuvred. As she fails yet another job interview, will she be able to cling on to hope?
A stupid mistake that Christof will always regret puts the Denucci case in jeopardy - and Christof's life at risk. How will he break the news to his boss?
Soon to be homeless and with her self-confidence in tatters, Sophie has hit rock bottom. She doesn't know how to turn her life around. Can a dinner with her eccentric Godmother make any difference?
The truth comes out about Christof's Dad's loan - and brings with it the slimmest glimmer of hope of saving the farm. But will it be enough?
Sophie finds the courage to take drastic action. Treating herself to a much-needed holiday in Italy, she is excited about going to her first ever cherry festival. Does she realise her life will never be the same again?
A heartfelt confession gives Christof back his hope and he hatches a risky plan to save the farm and his career. But will it be enough? He won't know until he gets to the cherry festival. And will he notice when what he has been dreaming of is standing right in front of him?
It is the first in a series of five books about The Denucci Deception.
You love a great story, especially when there's intrigue, twists and conflict in there, but you want more than the saccahrine romance that can fall under 'chick lit' and you hate being given nightmares. There's a pile of books on your bedside table and you wish you could read them all at once.
You're happiest when a book has an ending that fills you with hope, hungry to read the next one, even if the journey within the pages gets you diving in deeply on topics we try to avoid, questioning your assumptions about how you see the world.
When you've really enjoyed a book, you're the kind of person who tells their friends and gives them a copy for Christmas.
This book will be shipped w/c 10th December and should be with you in plenty of time for Christmas.
I'm going to be doing a 'virtual book tour' over the next 3 months, to celebrate You Take Yourself With You and to help it inspire as many people as possible.
And if you have any ideas for how I can help get the word out there - places I could be interviewed or anything else (that wouldn't offend your mother!), please let me know. There's a 'message Clare' link at the top of this page.
And to keep on track with the virtual and real-world parties I'll be throwing to thank you for being part of this, please make sure you click the 'subscribe to updates' link just below my author picture - it should look something like this:
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Cranthorpe Millner
250 copies • Partial manuscript. Hybrid publisher Children Fiction, Literary Fiction, Literary Fiction, Mystery, Thriller, Horror & Suspense, Mystery, Thriller, Horror & Suspense, Mind & Body, Mind & Body, Romantic Fiction, Romantic Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Science Fiction & Fantasy, YA Fiction, YA Fiction, Biography & Memoir, Biography & Memoir, Health, Fitness & Dieting, Health, Fitness & Dieting, History, History, Personal Growth & Self-Improvement, Personal Growth & Self-Improvement, Science, Science, Sports & Outdoors, Sports & Outdoors, Travel, Travel United Kingdom, United States, Canada |
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Koehler Books
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1106 Design, LLC
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Atmosphere Press
250 copies • Partial manuscript. Service publisher Children Fiction, Literary Fiction, Mind & Body, Mystery, Thriller, Horror & Suspense, Romantic Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, YA Fiction, Biography & Memoir, Business & Money, Career & Success, Cookbooks, Food & Wine, Health, Fitness & Dieting, History, Journalism, Personal Growth & Self-Improvement, Politics & Social Sciences, Religion & Spirituality, Science, Society & Culture, Sports & Outdoors, Technology & the Future, Travel Worldwide |
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Authors Unite
250 copies • Partial manuscript. Service publisher Children Fiction, Christian Fiction, Comics & Graphic Novels, Commercial Fiction, Contemporary Fiction, Historical Fiction, LGBT Fiction, Literary Fiction, Mystery, Thriller, Horror & Suspense, Mind & Body, Mythology & Folk Tales, Romantic Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Women's Fiction, YA Fiction, Biography & Memoir, Business & Money, Career & Success, Children Non-Fiction, Christian Non-Fiction, Communication Skills, Corporate Culture, Crafts & Hobbies, Creativity, Current Affairs, Economics, Education, Entrepreneurship & Small Business, Health, Fitness & Dieting, History, Humor & Entertainment, Journalism, LGBT Non-Fiction, Management & Leadership, Marketing & Sales, Mindfulness & Happiness, Money & Investment, Motivation & Inspiration, Nature & Environment, Parenting, Personal Growth & Self-Improvement, Philosophy, Politics & Social Sciences, Popular Science, Productivity & Time Management, Psychology, Reference, Religion & Spirituality, Science, Sex & Relationships, Society & Culture, Sports & Outdoors, Technology & the Future, Travel, YA Non-Fiction, Science Fiction & Humour Worldwide |
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Happy Self Publishing
100 copies • Completed manuscript. Service publisher Children Fiction, Literary Fiction, Mind & Body, Mystery, Thriller, Horror & Suspense, Romantic Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, YA Fiction, Biography & Memoir, Business & Money, Career & Success, Cookbooks, Food & Wine, Health, Fitness & Dieting, History, Journalism, Personal Growth & Self-Improvement, Politics & Social Sciences, Religion & Spirituality, Science, Society & Culture, Sports & Outdoors, Technology & the Future, Travel Worldwide |
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Here are the opening chapters from You Take Yourself With You. I hope you love them! And please make sure you place your order now to get these one-time-only rewards. x Clare
NOVEMBER
Autumn’s siren call
Marches us into winter
The final leaves fall
Tonight, I’m taking the biggest risk of my career. It could get me promoted. Or arrested. For running a male brothel. All in the name of market research.
“We’re nearly ready,” I say to Lucy, as her nearly-on-maternity-leave bump walks through the door several seconds before the rest of her, “Are they all here?”
I’m asking about the 10 women for tonight’s focus group. It’s the first one that I have run without Lucy in the background. I know I can do it, but that doesn’t stop me feeling nervous about going solo. I ignore the tightness in my stomach and try to drown out the thoughts about everything that could go wrong.
“It’s all fine, Sophie,” Lucy replies, “You’ve done a great job. I have complete faith in you. I’ll just pop into the back room for a moment to check everything’s ready in there and then I’ll head off home. I’m done in. I can’t wait for my maternity leave to start. Only two more weeks!”
I smile politely. I’m not looking forward to Lucy leaving. She is my best friend, as well as my boss, and the thoughts of a whole year without having her to bounce ideas off fills me with a heavy emptiness. I don’t want to think about how being a mum will change her - will change us. Right now, I have to concentrate on this evening first. It’s my Big Chance To Shine. I haven’t told Lucy this, but tonight is my last-ditch attempt to impress Harry - the owner of our agency - so he will change his mind and let me cover for Lucy while she’s on maternity leave.
Over the past few years I’ve run focus groups on everything from cars to condoms, but this one is different. We’ve got something extra-special planned. To get the client the answers they’re looking for, so we know which direction to take the ad campaign in, we’re pushing the boundaries of what we would normally do with our research. And I’m praying it’s going to work. Or I might be out of a job in the morning.
The wine is chilled. The bowls are full of nibbles. The notepads and pens are on the table. The sound and video recording is all set up. Thank goodness the client isn’t sitting on the other side of the one-way mirror, for once. The last thing I want is to have ‘helpful suggestions’ or ‘spontaneous questions’ being passed into the room by a blushing intern every ten minutes, destroying the flow and rapport. And I want to trial out tonight’s approach without an invisible audience. I hate that feeling of being watched - analysed - second-guessed - even criticised by the faces I can’t see behind the mirror.
Lucy has been encouraging me to take on more responsibility, to get me ready for her maternity leave. Some guy called Stuart is going to cover for her, apparently, but Lucy wants to get me ready to step up to lead the team - to be a Planner, like she is, in an advertising agency. Her job is to do the research before we pitch for an advertising contract and then to do the research and testing, once we’ve got the contract and have ad ideas. Ever thought those ad-memes got into your brain by accident? Think again! It’s a deeply scientific process, which then gets gloriously muddied by the artistic temperaments of the ‘creatives’ who do the actual ad design and then watered down by the I-need-my-bonus fears of the marketing director of whichever client is investing millions in raising their brand awareness or flogging the latest hot-idea to people who don’t really know what they want and almost certainly don’t need whatever they’re being persuaded to buy.
So tonight, we’re doing something new. It’s either going to be a raging success and make our agency’s name in the industry, or get me arrested. That’s why I’m feeling nervous. I smooth out the non-existent wrinkles in my skirt with slightly clammy hands and check my reflection in the one-way mirror for the twentieth time. The face smiling back at me looks confident and calm, proving that mirrors can and do lie.
I check my watch - time to get this show on the road. I dim the lighting and plump up the cushions and then invite the ‘delegates’ in.
In come our ten lovely ladies, nervously choosing seats on the sofas, like a game of silent musical chairs. I ask them to help themselves to wine, soft drinks and nibbles. Hardly anyone ever chooses the soft drinks and that first glass of wine is always gone quickly. Being in central London means no one will be driving.
We used to run our sessions in people’s houses, so that everyone would feel at home. But these days it’s hard to find a home with a big enough lounge or kitchen to comfortably seat 11, plus the video and audio recording kit, and no kids bouncing or dogs barking. Lucy and I finally gave up on the idea when a host’s children were discovered to have been eaves-dropping on the stairs during a particularly sensitive focus group on ‘feminine toys’ and we only found out after they had uploaded the whole thing to YouTube. I still have no idea how Harry, the owner of our agency, managed to hush that one up.
When Harry told us we were moving offices, we insisted on having our own focus group space. And it’s kitted out to look just like someone’s home. No office furniture or strip lighting in sight.
Time for the warm-ups, explaining how the evening will work, making sure they know that anything they say is confidential and that what they are shown is confidential, too. Good, they’ve all signed their Non-disclosure agreement forms. The ‘recruiter’ - she’s a gem - did the initial checks on background, lifestyle, attitudes and stuff and, from the initial vibe of the group, she did well.
They’re a mixed group of early-thirties women who look dissimilar - ranging from jeans and goth-black hair to a designer suit with perfectly-styled highlights that cost a week’s rent - but they should all have common educational backgrounds and attitudes to life. Tonight’s group is full of working professional women who are in a long-term relationship with a man, with no children, and they’re opinionated enough to give their man ‘constructive feedback’ on his appearance, with an unspoken veto on his wardrobe choices. Should be interesting.
We do the usual introductions, breaking the ice, some fun stuff, getting everyone used to talking in front of the group. And I let them know that there’s no such thing as a stupid question or comment - that I want to hear all their thoughts on the stuff we’re discussing, even if they disagree with what everyone else has been saying. They nod, obligingly, the first glass of wine working its magic already.
Tonight’s research is for a men’s deodorant spray, I tell them. This is the first time they have heard this and they look surprised. The token Brave Soul asks why the group is full of women. Great. Love it when they ask questions. It gives everyone else permission to speak.
We’re talking to women because our client has a theory that girlfriends and wives have more influence over the purchase decision for male deodorants than men do - they care more about how their men smell than their men do. And, no, they will never be told which brand this is for. But they might guess in about 3 months’ time, once the ads come out.
We do the required ‘brand awareness’ stuff, with magazine and TV ads. We talk about how their partners smell - what’s good, what’s not. It could get a bit awkward here, but the wine helps keep the conversation flowing. I need the detail. The words they use. The facial expressions. The body language.
We do the classic ‘sniff-sheets’ test for different fragrances - the kind of thing you find in glossy magazines that never quite represent the real smell. Everyone is polite. And tipsy. We’re making great progress through the evening’s script.
And now it’s the Big Moment. I wish I could rush to the loo, I feel so nervous, but once I’m in the room and leading the research, I can’t leave my post for the full two hours. One of the joys of this job. Bladder of steel.
Oh God - I’ve been talking to myself in my head and the room’s gone silent. They’re looking at me as though I’m supposed to be saying something. I am. Ok. Deep breath. Here goes. I’m either going to make my career or…
“Ok ladies, now I have a treat for you. If you’d like to look over towards the door in the back of the room, I hope you’re going to enjoy what’s coming your way!”
I’m praying Lucy got this sorted before she went home, as I walk to the door and open it with what I hope is a sense of occasion. I feel ten pairs of curious eyes on me, as though I’m unveiling an invisible plaque.
“In you come, boys!”
Four drop-dead-gorgeous male models enter the room, shirtless, looking like the stars of those iconic 1980s jeans adverts. Two blondes with blue eyes. Two with a decidedly Mediterranean flair. All with rippling abs betraying years of dedication in the gym and biceps that make you dream of them sweeping you off your feet. All four of them shuffle uncomfortably under the scrutiny of these women-turned-teenagers. This clearly isn’t the behaviour they’re used to from photoshoots.
The women gasp. Then giggle. And grin.
“What do you want us to do with them?” asks the Brave Soul.
“Smell them!” I announce.
More giggles. Thank goodness they’ve been drinking.
“Here’s the thing,” I explain, having to talk more loudly because the ladies have started to whisper to each other. The models are looking self-conscious. I wish I had thought of putting on some background music, but that might have made it feel like a Chippendale performance. “Fragrances smell different on real people compared with pieces of card. And our client really wants to know what you think - which you love - which turn you off. So these four gorgeous gentlemen are each wearing one of the fragrances the brand is considering releasing. We need to know what you think - your unbiased opinions. So I’d like you to take it in turns to ‘experience’ the fragrances on our models.”
Waves of embarrassed giggling. I feel my stomach churning. Mike in the office had volunteered to help with this, but his man-bun and beer-gut might have biased the results. It was hard to break that one to him. But he took it like a pro.
“As you know, this is market research and we want to make sure we get your true response, not one biased by the visual appeal of these lovely gentlemen,” the models shift awkwardly. I need to speed this up. “So to make sure no one accidentally chooses based on the model they find most attractive, you’re going to be blind-folded.
I have to let them have their moment to giggle and talk, as they get their heads round this.
“In the bags in front of you on the table, you will each find a blindfold and a medal on a ribbon. In a moment, we’ll move to the empty area at the back of the room and I’ll ask you to put on your blindfold. I’ll guide you to where the models are standing and I want you to experience the fragrance on each of them in turn. It’s up to you how you do that. But please, no touching.”
Eyebrows are nearly meeting hairlines as these 30-something, professional women turn back into sniggering girls at a pop concert. I’m half-waiting for one of them to scream with excitement. I secretly wonder how these models compare with their men back at home.
“When you have ‘experienced’ all four fragrances, I’d like you to hang your medal around the neck of the model whose fragrance most appeals to you. Then we’ll come back to the sofas to discuss which smell you preferred and why. Is everybody clear about what we’re doing?”
Yes. Nods. Good. Ok!
I guide them through the process and, being the only sober and non-blindfolded woman in the room, I have to admit it’s hilarious. The models are getting into the mood. The women keep bumping into each other, with hands stretched out in front of them. There’s a certain amount of tipsy flirting going on as the ladies hang the medal around the neck of their favourite fragrance.
“Please no hugging the models or touching them!” I have to remind them, as things threaten to get out of hand.
There’s a minor moment of panic, as multiple women try to hang medals on the same person at once and a bun fight risks breaking out, but I manage to calm them down. I can see this is working but I’ve got a sense of urgency that we need to finish this and move back to the talking, before I lose control of the group and it turns into a hen night. I need to keep this professional.
We had been to so much effort to make this work. All the women had been told not to wear perfume or strong scents for the evening. Ditto for the models. We even gave them unfragranced shower gels and shampoos to use before the event. One insisted on a very expensive moisturiser, too. Said he couldn’t go ‘on stage’ without it.
We supplied them each with a pair of identical new jeans, too, so there wouldn’t be any laundry detergent or fabric conditioner to contaminate the results. Lucy even had to spray each model in a separate room and then keep them in separate corners of the waiting room, until we were ready, so the fragrances wouldn’t mix and confuse the results. But I have to confess that my favourite part of our preparations was looking through the online profiles at the modelling agency to choose the four most gorgeous men I could find for tonight. Talk about feeling like a kid Christmas shopping in Hamley’s toy department with a blank cheque!
I feel sorry for my favourite model - I’ve always had a soft spot for the Italian types. By the end of the voting, he doesn’t have a single medal. The blindfolds have worked. I take a moment to reassure him, though the dejected puppy dog look in his eyes has a certain appeal and makes me want to take him home. Mind back on the job, Sophie!
I’m in the process of removing one of the women’s arms from around the neck of her favourite model, as she pretends she’s checking if her medal is there when the main door opens, without warning. Everyone jumps.
“What the hell is going on here?” booms a confused and angry voice.
Silence.
Then giggles.
Then silence again.
Harry. The owner of our advertising agency and my Big Boss. He wasn’t supposed to be here. My stomach lurches into my shoes as I realised that ‘promoted’ is now off the table and ‘fired’ is looking the likely winner.
“I thought I’d pop behind the mirror to check everything was running smoothly, before I went home, given that it’s your first time without Lucy. I did not expect to find you running an orgy! Outside please, Sophie. Now.”
Somehow I drown out the blind panic that threatens to make me vomit in front of the group and manage to claw back enough dignity to suggest they sit down and have some fizzy water, asking the models to get dressed and go home, but first to write down how many medals they each got.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell the group. I know I might be lying.
The last time I looked in this mirror Dad was alive and I was free.
I found it in a box of stuff I brought back from the farm last weekend. I have been putting off going through it. I knew how much it would hurt.
I’m back in my flat in Milan, shaving with Dad’s old mirror, the one he had when he taught me to shave, just four short years after Mum left. And I find another grey hair. I wince as I pull it out with a pair of tweezers that had been lurking in the back of the bathroom cabinet. I know I shouldn’t care. It’s vain. But I’m only in my mid-thirties. And it really shows when your hair is dark brown.
Crow’s feet garnish my mother’s chestnut brown eyes like dill leaves on a salad. I didn’t look like this a year ago. That was ‘before’.
Tired eyes. A worry line forming between my eyebrows. My face too thin. My skin pale, despite the Italian sun. When did I last cook a proper meal?
The kitchen in my flat in Milan is sterile and functional - barely used. It’s too easy to grab food on the run in a city like this and I can go weeks at a time not being here, travelling with work. White and black and stainless steel dominate. Tiles that are strangers to the splash of tomato passata. Worktops that have never made fresh pasta. An oven that prefers to reheat than to cook. Such a contrast to the warm chaos of Nonna’s kitchen, back at home on our cherry farm. There I am welcomed by the smell of delicious food, whatever time of day I arrive, and the shelves happily carry the weight of generations of pottery jugs, heavy-based pans, boxes of hidden luxuries. Wall and floor tiles in every shade of terracotta are stained with stories, dripping with the laughter and worries and gossip of nearly 300 years.
The room is dominated by a heavy, old oak table, which my grandparents bought when they got married. It’s strange to think my Dad ate his first ever food at that table. You can still see the scratches he made with his first penknife, shortly before Nonna showed him how much her biggest wooden spoon could hurt, allegedly leaving him unable to sit down for at least two days. It’s strange to think that I ate my first meal there, too, sitting on Mum’s lap and stealing cherries from a bowl, causing blind panic when everyone thought I had swallowed the cherry stone and would choke to death, only for them to find I had already spat it out onto my white baby vest. And it’s strange to think that my parents ate their last meal together there. Before Mum left. But that was too long ago. I was ten. I don’t want to go there again. She was never mentioned by Dad or Nonna or anyone else at the farm, after that evening, as though she had never existed. But I was living proof that she had.
I dry off my face with a comfortingly soft towel and walk towards my kitchen. It’s not far. Flats in central Milan aren’t huge, though I was fortunate when I bought this place - mine is larger than most, with a high ceiling and windows that actually let in a breeze when the sun is stifling, which is most of the summer. And I’m spared the incessant traffic noise by living up a quieter side street, more useful for parking than for driving. So the air is fresher here, too.
I make myself an espresso using Dad’s battered old stove-top pot. It makes me chuckle when I see people spending hundreds of Euros on barista-quality home coffee making machines. I prefer the results from this dented metal contraption, with all its history, that would cost less than ten Euros to replace. As the water hisses its way through the pot, the room gently fills with that slow aroma of the perfect espresso. No rush. No queue. No paying extra for sitting down. I think about the nuances of how to make it, with just the right amount of coffee, compacted just the right amount, with the right surface area, the right speed of the water and the steam, all controlled by the temperature of the hob. Rush it and it’s a weak disappointment. Too slow and it’s bitter and stewed. But I know I’m just distracting myself from other thoughts.
I pour my drink into a small, bright blue china cup, ignoring the saucer - Nonna wouldn’t approve - and take it to my sofa, to sit and enjoy. I lean back with my feet on my coffee table. Its battered cherry wood is warm and friendly. It looks out of place against the modern lines of the rest of my apartment. I rescued it from an old barn at the farm, when I first bought this place. I wanted to bring a piece of home with me. I’d describe my flat more as ‘functional’ than ‘cosy’ - the exact opposite of the farm. But when you’re working and travelling as much as I used to, you don’t have time for fluffing cushions or arranging vases. I like how my it feels calm and clean, with nothing I don’t need. It’s easier that way.
I take the first delicious sip of the espresso. Perfect. Not bitter. Not too strong. No sugar needed. The taste hits my nose before my tongue. But it doesn’t change anything.
Saturday. A day off. First time in I can’t remember how long. I don’t know what to do with it. I feel like I’m bobbing at sea, with no oars and no anchor, craving a breeze to give me direction. I’m not used to freedom like this. Being able to choose. No concrete mission.
For years I have worked all week and brought work home at weekends, on the rare weekends when I was in the city instead of at the farm. But Nonna kicked me out this weekend. Told me I needed to ‘go back to my old life’. It’s my first weekend in Milan since the accident. I don’t want to be here. But I don’t want to be at the farm, either.
I shouldn’t be here. I don’t mean the flat. When Dad’s ancient Fiat left the road and flew down the hillside, I thought that was it. I felt the roof smash as we landed on it. My seatbelt pinned me back, crushing my ribs as it fought to protect me. We rolled. Just like we did as kids when we would lie on our sides and roll down hillside meadows, out of control and crying with laughter and excitement, loving the thrill of it. Before Mum left.
But cars aren’t meant to roll like that. Roof. Side. Wheels. Side. Roof.
I knew Dad was dead, even before I looked over at him. He wore his seatbelt loosely, as a token gesture to road safety. Gravity and momentum killed him.
I don’t remember anything else until I was in the hospital, waking up in a white room with white sheets and white lights and white nurse uniforms and white-coated doctors. I laughed to myself at how it felt like waking up in a cliché of comedy hospital heaven. Then I remembered.
No one will ever know what caused Dad to lose control on the bend he must have driven a thousand times before. The weather was fine. The sun was hazy. The police found no trace of mud or oil that might have caused a skid. From what was left of the wheels, the tyres looked fine. I had been reviewing some financial figures, ready for the meeting we were heading to with the bank manager to talk about getting a loan to rebuild the packing barn at the farm. Dad had been singing to an old song on the radio. Then suddenly we were flying. And he was gone.
And now I’m sitting here. Alone. With nothing to do. And no one to talk to.
Luca, my boss, gave me two months off to get over my injuries and sort out the mess that a person leaves behind when they don’t know they’re going to die.
I had a few cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, whiplash, a few cuts and plenty of bruises. And a decent dose of concussion. That last one was my fault. No one tells you that when your car lands upside down and you take off your seatbelt you’ll land on your head. And it will hurt.
The physical wounds healed soon enough. But the rest of it?
It took weeks before I stopped waking up screaming, reliving the accident in slow motion, suffocating under the fear, racking my brain for anything I could have done to prevent it. Wishing for a time machine. And it took a month before I could get back behind the wheel of my car. Luca suggested counselling. But what good would that do? There are too many boxes from my past that I’ve carefully locked away and I wasn’t convinced that ‘talking therapy’ was the way to keep them that way. I’m not ready to deal with them yet. I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it.
I sip more of my espresso and remember how things used to be. Back when I knew how to laugh.
I used to have friends who, like me, loved to drive to the lakes and the mountains at weekends. We worked hard and played hard. We would go off-road mountain biking, risking our necks on treacherous descents that forced you to pay 100% attention to the slightest movement and change in the track, becoming one with your bike, and regularly being grateful for the safety gear we had all given in to wear.
We would hike for miles up hidden tracks that the tourists never find and go swimming, naked, in secluded glacial lakes. We would climb rock faces and picnic on the cliffs, before abseiling back down. One summer we all got addicted to base-jumping - throwing ourselves off death-defying sheer drops with nothing but some nylon string and a over-ambitious sheet strapped to your back. The feeling of sheer terror as you jump is nearly instantly replaced by a profound sense of total peace and calm, a oneness with the air around you, as you float and glide and, if you’re lucky, catch a thermal to add a few precious minutes to the exhilaration. The jumping was the easy bit. The only tricky part was landing, which we usually got away with.
Life was full of love, laughter, fun. Summer romances would consume your every waking moment, only to peter out before the first hot chocolate of autumn, but no one cared. We were so free. We felt so alive.
Had I known those days were numbered, would I have appreciated them more? I’m not sure. We all started turning 30. And with each wedding I attended, another one left the group, never intending it to be permanent, until the Christenings started. And after a few years, I was the only one of us left.
I’m not sure how that happened. It wasn’t for want of trying. It would be unoriginal for me to say I never found the right woman, but I didn’t. I thought I had with Isabella, but that was perhaps one of the worst calls I ever made.
They all came to visit, after Dad’s funeral, which I missed while I was unconscious in hospital. I hadn’t seen most of them in over a year. And they all offered to help. But what can they do? Really? I’m not even sure I know what I want.
I feel the pressure of the farm. Pietro has run the estate for years - decades - but he’s a manager, not a decision-maker. And he made that clear to me, once the funeral was over. He runs a team of up to twenty people, who come and go through the seasons, doing everything the farm asks of them. And now paying their salaries - keeping a roof over their heads and shoes on their children’s feet and food in their bellies - is my job. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in icy cold sweat, wondering what will happen to them if I mess up. The fact that I survived, and not Dad, puts them at risk. It wasn’t their fault that life chose me, instead of him. I don’t want them to have to pay if I make mistakes.
And Nonna - Dad’s Mum - pretends she’s as strong as an ox, but I know she’s not. Not any more. No woman should have to bury her husband and her son - or raise her Grandson without his mother. But she’s right. I need to get back to my life. What’s left of it.
So I’m back at work in Milan, pretending that everything is ok. And I’m good at pretending. It’s one of the reasons why Luca promoted me to lead the team. Pretending is a core part of our job. Except that the company’s official term for it is ‘building rapport’ - to gain confidences, to hear secrets, to solve riddles and to make the decisions that no one else wants to make.
We’re part of an international business consultancy and clients call us in when they know they’re just heartbeats away from having to close down. Maybe they need to restructure. Maybe someone has been fiddling the books. Maybe their product’s market is dying and they need new innovations to survive. Finding the answers is our job - that secret solution that you can only find if you’re an outsider. I used to love it. Maybe one day I will again.
Luca says he’s got a new project for me, but this one’s slightly different. Not a company, but a ‘business’, in the Southern Italian sense. It’s going to be a stretch for us all, and more dangerous than usual. I wish it would wake me up. Drag me out of this ‘stuckness’. I want to feel excitement again, even if that means feeling fear, too.
I don’t remember the last time I had fun. I need to find a way to get out of this rut. I need to feel the wind in my hair, to blow away the dense cobwebs of pain and guilt. To remind myself that there’s more to the world than my worries.
So I down the rest of my espresso and head to the door, grabbing my keys. I’m going to drive into the mountains, a few hours outside of the city, and walk until I’m too tired to do anything else. I always keep an overnight bag in the boot of my car, because I never know where I’m going to sleep, if I’m in the middle of a case, so all I need to do is to pick up my hiking boots from my lock-up in the musty cellar for my block of flats and I’ll be on the road.
The sky is blue and cloudless, once I escape the City. The roads are busy. The cars are crammed with families and bike racks. The good weather means everyone else in Milan has had the same idea. But they’ll all be heading for Lake Como and the hills around it. To weekend homes and crowded restaurants and overpriced boat cruises and sunburnt tourists.
I’m going an hour further up the valley, skirting Como via Lecco and heading past Sondrio into the start of the Alps. I remember the perfect spot where I can park the car and then walk for hours, uninterrupted, falling in love with those views all over again. Then it will be just me and the goats. Alone with just my thoughts for company. As usual.
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on Oct. 19, 2017, 6:23 a.m.
I love your cover design! Good luck!