We're back from the frozen north. And I don't mean that
figuratively. I woke up on launch party day (31 March) to find the
moors that inspired Blood Harvest had turned white as far
as the eye could see.
Immediate panic. Partygoers needing to cross the moors probably
wouldn't make it. The Transworld train would freeze to the track
somewhere south of Birmingham. Husband, child and dog would get
stuck in a motorway snowdrift. I needn't have worried. As younger,
infinitely more glamorous sister (who looks surprisingly like the
rest of us in her dressing gown) points out, the bin-men have just
been round and, if they'll brave the roads, just about anything
else will sail through.
She and I and Sam, my eldest nephew, spend the next few hours
chopping salads, carting boxes of champagne, washing glasses,
arranging flowers, stealing ivy, getting stuck in lifts and being
rescued by burly policemen. (OK, he was a PCSO who'd popped in for
a coffee, but he was still macho enough to make it a pleasurable
experience) It is feeling increasingly like a wedding, only without
a sulky, difficult groom to worry about.
Chief page boy, I mean son, arrives with a massive wad of
chewing gum stuck in his hair. I leave them alone for five minutes!
Still, I suppose I should be grateful. Last time I left the men in
my life to their own devices, one of them got electrocuted. Chewing
gum will not be removed without kitchen scissors. Son now looks
like he has mange.
Air in the kitchen is taking on a decidedly blue cast. The
glamorous one, whose language is frequently worse than mine, cannot
set her jellies. I don't mean that figuratively either. Delia's
summer fruit terrines (six of them) are currently Delia's sloppy
red mush and glam one's cheeks are turning a very similar
colour.
We get regular reports from the Transworld contingent. They've
missed their connecting train so cancel the lift from the station.
They made their connecting train after all but have jumped in a
taxi. Taxi is lost somewhere on the moors. They've arrived in the
village and are ensconced in The Black Dog.
'The Black Dog!'
Brother-in-law is slack-jawed with disbelief. 'You've sent three
posh London publishers to the roughest pub in the area?'
Like I had anything to do with it!
The party is at 7.30 and I plan a dramatic film-star entrance at
7.27pm. 'Get real,' says the
formerly-glamorous-but-now-with-her-hair-in-rollers-one. 'It's
Lancashire and you're offering free drinks. They'll be banging on
the doors by 7pm.'
Publicist Lynsey, currently going down a storm in The Black Dog
according to later reports, phones to say that Lancashire
Life want to interview me and send a photographer to the house
the next day. 'Shit and corruption!' yells the
one-now-resembling-a-drug-addled-harpy. 'We're knee deep in crap
here and Lancashire Life are coming!'
Zero hour arrives and we head down the moor. Sure enough,
people are waiting for us and I have to start the meet and greet in
my track-suit bottoms and jelly-stained tee shirt. Sam's Champagne
Bar moves into top gear and his Blood Harvest cocktails, a
fabulous red-gold blend of champagne and pomegranate syrup go down
surprisingly well among folk who think a drink not called
Boddingtons is for southern puffters.
I squeeze into my new Karen Millen oyster satin number and
glamorous one (looking very fetching herself, despite being up to
her elbows in poached salmon) graciously concedes defeat.
The party is filling up. Four old school friends arrive and
promptly start entertaining Editor Sarah with stories of how I once
ran through Blackburn Town Centre in my nightie. Even I'd forgotten
that. Bless 'em, before they leave they promise to dig out the
footage and post it on YouTube. And to think I'd had my doubts
about inviting people I haven't seen for twenty years!
Publicist Lynsey is now going down a storm with every man in
Crawshawbooth under the age of 21. Probably most of the older ones
as well, they're just being more subtle about it. Note to self -
Lynsey at the cash register boosts sales by about 50%. Transworld
Nick and brother-in-law have bonded over tales of Northern beer and
start hatching plans to tour the local hostelries once the party is
over. Glam one puts her foot down.
Four hours later, it's all over with. Everyone's gone to bed but
glamorous one and I are sitting at her kitchen table sharing a
left-over bottle of wine. It has been my biggest, glitziest launch
party yet and, nightie-in-Blackburn-town-centre stories aside,
difficult to see how it wasn't a fabulous success. Food eaten, wine
drunk, speeches made, books sold and signed (I really have to start
taking a pen to these things) and no fights broke out.
All we have to do tomorrow is a whistlestop tour of Waterstones
northwestern branches and a photocall with Lancashire
Life.
'Blood and sand,' says tired and emotional one, 'Get your pinny
on Shazza. We've got cleaning up to do!'
A massive thanks to everyone who came, to the Crawshawbooth
Community Association and Lancashire Libraries for allowing us to
use their beautiful building, to the two Louises for superb
organization and fabulous food, to the Transworld folk for braving
the weather and Northern hospitality, to Grant for taking
photographs, to Transworld Martin for his time and kindness the
following day, to the Waterstones managers who made me welcome and
to Amanda and Kirsty, two charming ladies from Lancashire
Life, who pretended not to notice the crap swept hastily under
the carpet.
I'm so glad these launches only happen once a year. But
not nearly as glad as I am that they happen at all.