I didn’t expect the award but 30 years in, I deserved it!
AND the winner of the Historical Novel category is….’ I looked over at my editor, Rosie, sitting beside me. Her chin was set in that determined, somewhat stern expression I have come to recognise as nerves.
I used to think it was because she thought I was a dreadful writer, but then it only happens just before she gives me a really tough set of notes. She thinks I might melt down. Some writers do, apparently. Rosie was more nervous than I was because she thought I might not win. I wasn’t a bit nervous because I knew I wasn’t going to win. I never win. I don’t mind.
It’s lovely just being nominated. It happens seldom enough that I can wear the same old black evening dress to everything, but not so seldom that I need to wrap the old girl in tissue paper and put her in the attic. So there I was, in London, at the Romantic Novelists Association Awards supper. The ‘Oscars’ of the popular fiction calendar in Britain.
The last time I was nominated was in 2006 — when my husband and I enjoyed a glamorous afternoon at the Savoy. This year it was in the historic Gladstone Library in Whitechapel. I had arrived two hours early to get my picture taken with other shortlisters. The powder room on the first floor had wood-panelled walls and mahogany dressing tables. There were lady novelists lounging on chaise-longes, sharing publishing industry gossip. The glamour was full on frock-tastic. I had even dug out my high soft-sole Clarks court shoes for the occasion.
Arriving early meant I didn’t know anyone there, but gone are the days when I feel socially awkward and nervous on my own. I was just happy to be out of the house and standing, or better again, sitting, in the corner of a room, watching. After all, that’s what we writers do. People-watch.
After a while, I saw a few familiar faces. Lovely Ann O’Loughlin was the only other Irish writer on the shortlist this year with her wonderful book, The Judge’s Wife, and I was delighted to chat with my fellow Irishwoman. We caught up and then sat down for the awards. There were three of us from my publishing house, Head of Zeus. Me, my editor, Rosie, and a delightful young publicist, Blake, who was dutifully snapping us for Instagram. The older I get, the more I appreciate people giving me their time. Time is so precious for everyone these days and I am pickier about who I spend it with. Here I was, the centre of attention for these two great women. Winning did not occur to me. It never does. I was a published novelist, wearing a silk dress, eating canapés on a Tuesday evening. I was already a winner. Nonetheless, as the words were spoken by Prue Leith (famous romantic novelist/ cookery writer — filling in Mary Berry’s Bake-off shoes) I set down the crispy-duck canapé I was about to shove into my mouth. Just in case.
‘….Kate Kerrigan, for It Was Only Ever You.’ ‘Blimey!’ I said. Actually, I let out a shocking string of expletives. I launched myself out of my seat with such speed it must have looked as if I had been waiting all my career for this moment. Perhaps I had. As I walked up to the podium and took my award off Prue, I felt remarkably composed.
I thanked Rosie. That was what I was there for. She had turned me from a short-listed writer to a winner.
No-one else. Rosie is my hero. She is the woman who faces the wrath of a writer with her kick-ass post-it notes. She has a huge reputation, for her uncompromising honesty as well as her results. Earlier in the evening a couple of writers had asked shyly, ‘Is she really as scary as I’ve heard?’ ‘Scarier,’ I said, proud and delighted. ‘But then, I like an editor with teeth.’ On my own, I’m good. With her, I am unstoppable. We’re a team.
‘I feel quite emotional,’ she said when I sat down and plonked the glass star in front me. ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Wow. I was not expecting that,’ I added, smiling. My face was the epitome of demure modesty but, inside, every inch of me was shouting, ‘I WON! I WON! Yesss! I finally WON!’ I wasn’t expecting it but, thirty years into a writing career and ten novels under my belt — I knew I flipping well deserved it.
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