I finished my second romance novel last summer, only to have it rejected by my now ex-publisher. Was it the prologue that put them off? Was it the duel POV? Or the time frame (1996-2008)? Whatever it was, I feel this is my best novel to date, and the characters (especially Raphael Star) are to die for. I’ve had some interest in the novel from agents and publishers, but nothing firm as yet, so I may end up self-publishing. Here’s the prologue and first few paragraphs. I’d love to know what you think….

Prologue

Leni

2009

I have spent half a lifetime waiting for Raphael Star. Am I destined to wait forever, or will this be the day he chooses me?

Rafe, where are you?

Meet me at our place, you’d said, please, Leni, I’m begging.

Our place.

A beach on an island, an afternoon when the fragments of a storm linger. The taste of chocolate and mint. He’d stashed treats in the glove compartment of his car; we’d marvelled at how the flavours complemented each other.

But this isn’t Rafe’s car, and it isn’t mine. I turn off the engine and sit quietly for a moment. Welcome to how a heart breaks. Quietly. Pieces scattered across the pavement, the pebbles, the sand. No one knows. No one picks them up because they don’t know.

Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? I don’t want him; I want him. He is nothing; he’s everything; the brightest star in the sky. For a moment, I am back at the beginning, same location, different storm.

Through the windscreen, I scan the waves, search for the place where answers lie. The sea and freedom. They bind our lives. Diamond-clear yet murky, yearned for but dangerous, vivid blue and spectre grey. The waiting. Will I die from it? Will he finally arrive to find fragments of navy-blue crêpe are all that’s left of me?

Navy blue crêpe. Perfect for the funeral we were attending, formal, neat, but not me. The heels of my shoes won’t cope with sand. I reach down and pull them off. Nude court shoes. What was I thinking?

I was thinking of the traveller boy and the vicar’s daughter, the fairground and the vicarage, dark and light, truth and lies. Of the day I’d first set eyes on Raphael Star and knew my life would change forever. Of a truth buried deeply, protected fiercely.

I clamber from the car, the wind tearing at my neatly braided updo. Who cares. The moment is pivotal; stylish hair won’t matter. The hem of my dress flies upwards. I grab a handful of fabric, secure it around my knees. You’ve taken my time again, Raphael Star, stolen it. The thief of time. I should be back at the funeral, standing with people who’ve given me time, smiling graciously, answering their questions.

I have questions, Raphael Star. So many questions.

But you’re not here. 

Chapter one

1996

Leni

Questions, questions. Always questions.

‘Tell me again why your dad hates gypsies, Leni,’ Elise asks as we walk the stretch of island beach in our floaty summer frocks and sandals. ‘I’ve never seen him so angry. Good job your mum was on our side. She’s not bothered by gypsies.’

‘Don’t keep saying gypsies. Reminds me of that horrible poem we had to do for the folklore unit. Miss Christopher explaining goose feather bed like it had a hidden meaning. It’s just an eiderdown, isn’t it?’ Those draggy English lessons, old words in older books, smelling of the stock cupboard. But school is over for the summer, and I don’t want to think about it.

Elise is giving me the look. ‘God, Len. You must know why Chrissy went bright pink when she was talking about bedroom stuff.’

‘No. Why?’

‘Forget it. I’ll tell you when you’re sixteen.’ She crouches to remove a stone from her sandal. ‘Anyhow, if I can’t say gypsy, what do I say instead, Miss pigging Prim-and-Proper?’

‘Not gypsy.’ Telling Elise her business isn’t something I’m used to. When she waits, I add, ‘Traveller, maybe? Whatever. Either way, my father doesn’t think it’s respectable to be crossing the country in wagons. It’s not a proper job, he says. It’s lazy. You know what he’s like.’

‘He’s a vicar. I thought he had to love everyone.’ Elise presses her hands together in mock prayer, flashes her dimples.

I link my arm through hers. ‘Everyone except … gypsies.’ The joke fails. In truth, my father’s frown and downturned smile made no sense. Elise has a point: God loves everyone, so vicars must, too. But I’m not letting worry get in the way of our fun. Not tonight.

Twilight wraps around us as we whisper about the ways her life will transform now she’s sixteen. She will walk into pubs on her own; stay by herself while her mum goes away. Sleep with boys. I have a few weeks to wait until my transformation, but those things won’t be on my list. Not at sixteen; not ever, if my father has his way.

It isn’t our first time visiting the beach; we’ve picnicked on wind-bleached grass and soared on the swings, but we’ve never set foot inside the travelling fair.

Elise is wearing makeup, a light brushing of mascara, a smear of rouge across her cheekbones. Another thing I’d never be allowed. She is carrying an embossed leather handbag, a birthday gift from her mother, complete with a ten-pound note in the pocket. She pulls it out and waves it at me. ‘Guess what? The dreaded gypsies are going to get my money tonight, whether Stephen Fox approves or not.’

‘Don’t call him that. I wouldn’t dare call your mother anything but Mrs Jackson.’

‘It’s his name, Leni. Why are you in a funny mood? What’s going on?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Smell that, though.’ Her nose twitches. ‘Candyfloss. Mum said we were to try everything. Sod your dad.’

The sharply sweet aroma wafts from a pair of makeshift gates. We lurch towards them, Elise dragging me by the hand. The shabbiness of the rides, the dizzying mayhem of bodies pressed together, the laughter and muffled screams, make me more determined to thumb my nose at my father’s disapproval. Time to show the world your real self, Leni Fox. And if it doesn’t suit, tough.

In the dodgems queue, Elise applies lip gloss, eyeing each boy that passes. Pink and yellow cars whiz by, smashing against one another, their drivers hunkered down and wild with laughter. Fear dampens my excitement. Are we really going to be given control of a spinning vehicle? And us nothing more than girls, according to my father, though my mother has allowed me a dab of Estee Lauder on my wrists. When Gina G’s tinny voice fades and the cars judder to a halt, Elise squeals with delight.

A boy approaches from the operating cabin in the centre of the rink. He twists his long, dark hair into a ponytail and tucks it into the ragged neckline of his T-shirt. Along his jaw is a whiskery shadow. Full lips, a hooped earring. On my fifteenth birthday, I’d asked my father if I could have my ears pierced. We’d sat at the kitchen table, eating buttered toast and exclaiming over the thoughtful gifts sent by his parishioners. One card contained a crisp five-pound note. When I asked about going to Scorpio Piercing in town, my mother gasped, and my father snatched the money from my hand. It was to go into the bank, he said, and not into the till of an establishment that promoted seedy body art. My mother gasped once again, leaving me to wonder what my father was getting at.

‘Are you ladies wanting a car?’ The boy’s voice is soft as a prayer. ‘It’s a quid each.’ The T-shirt has a faded slogan. Around his waist is a filthy money belt. Elise hands him the ten-pound note. Our eyes meet. My stomach churns like the sea on a stormy day. ‘You’ll get your change at the end.’ He pulls an empty car towards us. ‘This one do you?’

Elise wiggles. ‘It’ll do me perfectly.’ She climbs with practised elegance into the seat behind the steering wheel. Her body is flirting, but her face is turned away. I search for something clever to say about the car, wanting to sound witty, wanting to impress, wanting … My mouth opens on pink and shiny but I don’t let the words escape. You idiot, Leni Fox. Who do you think you are? My cheeks redden. The boy puts one hand on the pole and gives us a shove. His arm is all tanned muscle and bony wrist. Light pulses through my body. We are pressed against the seats as we spin away.