One of the questions I’m often asked is whether the storylines and characters in my novels are based on real life people or events. The truth is that most things that happen to me, good or bad, find their way into my writing, and this book was inspired by a true story that will live with me forever.
Last year, I was flying from my home in Glasgow to Los Angeles. I’d barely slept for days, because I was juggling lots of fun work things – launches, edits and writing two new books – while also dealing with some not-so-fun stuff: family health issues, two devastating bereavements and building work on my home that had me living in cold, dusty rubble for almost a month.
When the taxi came to take me to the airport that morning, I’d been awake for twenty-four hours, and I’d packed my case in a chaotic, sleep-deprived rush at some point between typing words and chucking out all perishables from the fridge.
I say none of this for sympathy, only to set the scene for my huge mistake. Giant. One of the most colossal errors ever.
I never wear jewellery when I travel, so, as always, I popped the things I love most into a little black velvet pouch. Included in the little parcel of treasure were four irreplaceable rings: the engagement and wedding set my husband bought me to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, another precious ring that I was gifted more than thirty years ago, and… I still can’t even type this without tears… a smoky Quartz stone on a gold band that belonged to my late and oh-so-beloved grandmother, Betty. I’m not materialistic. I’m not particularly a jewellery person. But those four rings were among the few possessions in life that I truly adored.
I tucked the pouch into the back compartment of my handbag and that’s when the mistake happened – I didn’t zip the pocket. Instead, I chucked in my passport, purse, hairbrush and a dozen other things, closed the bag’s magnetic catch, and dashed out.
That’s when the unimaginable happened. Dear reader, when I landed in LA, I discovered the pouch was gone. I was distraught. Devastated. And I could think of nothing else. So of course, I had to write about it, and the story could only be told by one of my favourite characters, my darling Val.
Over the years, Val has popped in and out of most of my books and her huge, fierce, loyal heart was inspired by the gran who wore that smoky quartz on the hand that once held mine. What unfolds in the pages of the book is Val’s tale, not mine.
But by the time you turn the last page, you’ll find out just how that One Long Weekend ended for both of us. And I hope you’ll love the journey from the first moment until the last.
Much love, Shari x