Born in Ayrshire in 1972,
Jenny Colgan worked in the health service for six years after graduating from Edinburgh University, moonlighting as a cartoonist and stand-up comic.
Her first novel, Amanda's Wedding, published in 1999, was an instant bestseller, and has been followed by three further bestselling romantic comedies, Talking to Addison, Looking for Andrew McCarthy and Working Wonders.
Jenny Colgan lives in London.
Born in Edinburgh, Isla Dewar now lives in Fife with her husband, a cartoonist, and two sons. Her first novel, Keeping Up with Magda, published in 1995, has been followed by a string of bestsellers: Giving Up on Ordinary, It Could Happen to You, Women Talking Dirty, Two Kinds of Wonderful, The Woman Who Painted Her Dreams, and, most recently, Dancing in a Distant Place.
Muriel Gray is a well-known media personality, the creator and presenter of numerous radio and TV shows, including The Tube, The Media Show and The Snow Show. She is also the author of three chilling novels of the supernatural, The Ancient, Furnace and The Trickster.
Muriel Gray lives in Glasgow with her husband and three children.
True Romance Shari Low
Friday morning. The Kilcaidie Advertiser Daily Horoscope. Sagittarius: Despite a bumpy start to the day, positive aspects will forge a new beginning mid-afternoon. Don't turn away from new ideas or challenges as your future happiness might just depend on them.
Dee placed her cup of tea and bacon sandwich down on her desk and switched on her PC. There was no putting it off any further. In the last hour she'd considered and dismissed every conceivable excuse to avoid sitting down and doing some work today. Excuse number one: raging hangover. Dismissed on the grounds that it was self-inflicted so therefore not a credible reason to avoid doing paid labour. Number two: a mountain of ironing so high that a Sherpa would get vertigo just looking at it. However, ten minutes searching for the iron had proved fruitless. It was probably underneath the pile. Desperation started to creep in. Number three: it was nearly a fortnight since she'd visited her mother. She could nip over for a couple of hours. After all, she was already feeling atrocious, how much worse could it be? She sighed in resignation, then gritted her teeth. Sod it. It would be less painful to sit down and put in a few hours' work. Her mother's dulcet tones on top of the hangover from hell would have her speed-dialling the Samaritans.
She blinked hard, trying to clear the fog. Which of her literary hats would perch most comfortably on her pounding head today? Did she feel like being Desdemona White, the True Romance Book Club's novelist of the month, esteemed author of such romantic classics as He Came, He Conquered and His Throbbing Heart? Not for the first time, she gave an involuntary shudder. How had she managed to assume the identity of someone whom her mostly aged, single readers imagined lounging on a chaise-longue, wearing an apricot kaftan and patting a shitzu while she wrote her love classics on parchment with an antique fountain pen? If they could only see her now...She'd be evicted from the House Of True Romance quicker than a bigamist with body odour.
A flashback seared through her trance-like state. It had all been Trudy's fault. But then, everything always was. It had been Trude's idea to write romantic slush to supplement their meagre grants at uni. It had been Trude's theory that creating personas in keeping with the True Romance Book Club's average reader would give their manuscripts a better chance of being accepted. Thus Dee became Desdemona White, a fifty-year-old spinster who passed her days in a picturesque cottage in a blustery Scottish village, tending to her four cats and her petunias as she awaited the arrival of her God of Love, who would one day, she was sure, come and conquer.
It was also Trude's fault that even now, ten years after leaving university at the age of twenty-two, Dee was still penning her fluffy pink prose for a paltry income, instead of being the hard-hitting investigative journalist that she had always aspired to be. Well, okay, so that wasn't Trude's fault at all, but in her present tender state it made her feel better to pretend it was. In more lucid moments she would admit that the truth of the matter was that she just hadn't wanted it enough. No matter how many times she'd planned the move to London or composed applications to the more respectable tabloids and the lofty broadsheets, she never quite made it to the train or put her CV in the post. Finally, in a moment of clarity on her twenty-fifth birthday, she'd grudgingly acknowledged what everyone around her had always known: she was staying in Kilcaidie. And what's more, she was happy about it.
Three train stops and thirty minutes on a good day from the centre of Glasgow, Kilcaidie was notable only for the fact that, defying a long Celtic association with the merits of alcohol, it was the only dry village left in the West of Scotland. Not a pub for fifteen miles. It was therefore completely understandable that Dee was in this fragmented condition today, she reasoned. After all, you had to make the most of a trip to Glasgow and that's exactly what she and Trude had done on yesterday's shopping-cum-eating-cum-drinking-cum-rousing-three-other -passengers-and-a-dog-into-a-sing-song-on-the-last-train-home excursion. At her age she really should have known better. But then that was the story of her life, she mused. Common sense had never been her strongest personality trait. If it were, then she wouldn't have a career pretending to be a post-menopausal spinster on heat, earning a salary that was barely above the poverty line (not including, of course, a heady £100 bonus for being voted Author of the Month in September 1998), which she had to supplement by being Auntie Diana, author of the Kilcaidie Advertiser's agony column, and the in-house astrologer, Madame Donatella, predictor of the population's daily fortunes. Multiple personality disorder was more a career choice than a mental condition.
Indecision furrowed her brow. Auntie Diana it was. It was a warming thought that reading about other people's trials and tribulations would undoubtedly make her feel better about her present sorry condition.
Bacon sandwich in one hand, she manoeuvred the mouse to the Outlook Express icon and clicked. It pinged as it opened the program. Ouch! Good God, when did that ping get so loud? It was vibrating round her head so violently that her eyelashes started to tremble.
She quickly slid the mouse to the volume control and reduced it to mute, before switching to the "Advertiser -- Auntie Diana" profile and clicking send/receive. The screen flashed up its progress. Dialling. Verifying password. Checking mailbox. You have twelve new messages. Dee groaned. Kilcaidie was a troubled place this week. Normally there weren't more than three or four letters in a week and they generally consisted of a lonely heart, a couple of neighbourly disputes and a complaint from George the hypochondriac about skateboarders on the high street inducing his panic attacks.
She automatically clicked on the most recent arrival.
Dear Auntie Diana, I'm very concerned about my best friend. I think she has a serious drinking problem -- every time she indulges in alcohol she has an irresistible urge to sing Beach Boys songs really loudly on public transport. Is there a support group for this condition? Please advise as to the best course of action.
Yours in deep concern,
Trudy
An amused snort escaped as Dee started typing.
Dear Trudy, Pretend she's a horse with a broken limb and put her out of her misery -- with the severity of her current headache she'll thank you for it. And thank you for your concern.
Auntie Di
Two minutes later the phone rang. Ouch. Dee snatched it from the table. The caller spoke before she did.
"Sorry, mate, I haven't got a gun. How's your head?"
"Don't ask. And stop bloody sending e-mails to Auntie Di -- she's overworked as it is. How are you feeling this morning?"
"Like I've spent two weeks marinating my head in gin." Pause. "But enough fantasizing. I've got a proposition for you."
Dee groaned out loud. "Whatever it is, you can forget it. I'm not going to start yoga classes at the community centre, donate my eggs or do a sponsored slim in aid of Save the Whale. No matter how ironic that is."
"Nope, it's none of those. Although, and I'm telling you this strictly in the spirit of a best friend who only wants what's best for you -- your thighs could definitely benefit from a session or six of Ashtanga. Anyway, the proposition. How would you like to join Dave and me tomorrow night for a veritable feast of dishes from around the world as featured in the new Jamie Oliver bible of home cooking?"
"What's the catch?"
"Why does there have to be a catch? Can't I just invite my best friend for dinner without there being some dark, ulterior motive? I'm so offended."
"It's a proposition, Trudy, therefore there's a catch. Who is he this time?"
"Okay." Trudy sighed in a tone pitched somewhere between resignation and defeat. "It's Dave's new boss. He's just moved up here from London, so we thought we'd do the hospitality bit and invite him over. Can't beat a bit of grovelling to authority in the name of career advancement."
Dee put her head in her hands. Or at least she tried to, but her aim was off and she succeeded only in imprinting her keyboard on her forehead. This was the last thing she felt like doing this weekend. Dave, Trudy's fiancé of four years (he didn't like to rush things), worked in some obscure department of Glasgow City Council. He had told her about his job a couple of times but Dee's tendency to zone out after the first two minutes meant that she was none the wiser. Another internal groan. Dinner with the remnants of a hangover (this was definitely a three-day headache) and two civil servants, one of them trying to impress the other -- was this some cosmic punishment for over-indulgence last night?
Trude sensed her hesitation and resorted to blatant pleading. "Come on, Dee, if you do this, I'll never mention your cellulite again. Please."
"Okay, okay. But I'm warning you, this had better not be a set-up. The first whiff of a blind date and I'm out of there, Trude."
"It's not a set-up, I promise. It's just a fine example of good old Scottish hospitality."
Somehow, Dee doubted that.
Saturday morning. The Kilcaidie Advertiser Daily Horoscope. Sagittarius: Today is a day for rest and recuperation and taking quiet time to recharge your batteries. For those Sagittarians who do have to venture out, avoid new social interactions arranged by friends -- despite their well-meant intentions, they don't always know what is best for you.
Dear Auntie Di, I'm very worried about my best friend. She is in her thirties now and is still single despite numerous attempts by me to introduce her to suitable men. In fact, she was downright rude ...
