men too, flicking biros with their thumbs and ruffling through impressive piles of paper. Some were dragging laptops out of smart bags; others had notebooks and pencil cases. A couple, sitting like the class swots at the front, were clutching what looked like full manuscripts. Were they hoping to give them to Marnie to read?

      At exactly one minute to eleven Marnie swept centre stage, closely followed by the miserable-looking assistant who was carrying everything: a laptop bag, bottle of mineral water, glass, box of tissues and a cushion.

      After a few minutes the screen flicked into life and the high-vis man blew an audible sigh of relief. Marnie turned to the audience, her megawatt smile flashed on and her miserable assistant took the opportunity to scarper stage left. The theatre dimmed a little and someone turned on the spotlights, placing Marnie in an attractive circle of light, her red hair glossy and glowing. She was wearing artfully ripped jeans and a tiny Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. It looked a bit odd actually, like a child dressing up in its mother’s clothes.

      She sat down in the spotlight with a loud sigh, as though she had been doing housework all morning and her back was killing her. By the look of her immaculate hair and make-up I was guessing she had spent a tiring couple of hours in the spa.

      ‘Ladies! And gentlemen – how nice to see you too! Welcome, all of you writers, to our first little get-together, which as you can see is called Write for Love.’ She waved a hand towards the screen. ‘Well, now, do we have any writers in the house?’

      There was a bit of shuffling around at this point and some uneasy laughter as several keen types put their hands up.

      Marnie smiled. ‘I can reassure you; you are all writers. Every single one of you is a writer. There’s no doubt about it. Yes, come in, come in. Yes, you are a little late but no matter. You write stories, maybe diaries or memoirs, letters, postcards, birthday cards, your kids’ homework?’

      More laughter.

      ‘A few of you will have written a book: sixty, seventy, eighty thousand words. Others won’t have picked up a pen since high school. But you are all writers.’

      There was a noticeable straightening of shoulders at this point as people enjoyed the scent of success already, imagining themselves posing with their bestseller or signing autographs in the bookshop.

      ‘The question we need to ask is: are you good writers? Do you Write for Love? For the love of writing? Yes, do come in, sit down, there are plenty of seats. Yes, yes, over there are a few spare seats. If you want to write solely for yourself it doesn’t matter quite so much. But if you want to see your book next to mine in Barnes & Noble or Waterstones, you need to be a great writer.’

      Marnie carried on in this vein for some time and then started telling us about how she was first published. You could almost feel the atmosphere charging with optimism. I’ve no idea how she did it. She’d even made me think I could write a bestseller by the time she’d finished her introduction. Was it her personality? The vivacious way she darted across the stage, making each of us, sitting there in the gloom with our laptops, notebooks and chewed pencils, feel we were the most important person there?

      To try and get into the spirit I had bought a rather cute notebook decorated with embroidered seagulls and starfish in one of the shops on board the ship, and I opened it and started doodling. I’d bought a very stylish pen too, and some propelling pencils decorated with pictures of shells just to keep the nautical theme going. Perhaps in future years these would become precious artefacts? I could just imagine it.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the very notebook in which Alexa Fisher began her writing career on board the Reine de France. I have several commission bids and there has been interest from around the world, including the Bodleian Library and the Smithsonian. I shall start at twenty-five thousand pounds …’

      I wrote my name in my best handwriting inside the cover and then doodled a flower underneath it. Perhaps this would become my trademark? Maybe there would be a flower on the cover of each book, hidden somewhere for my devoted readers to discover?

      She told us about her search for success, how many times she had been disappointed, and then the breakthrough of Falling into Leaves, the fifth book she had written while still working full-time in a Worcester building society.

      She had been signed by the most successful agent of the day, who had organised a bidding war and a six-figure advance. We could almost feel the stardust falling on us as we sat there. Then she told us about her wonderful husband, Leo – at this point she put up a picture of them on their wedding day, a golden couple under an arch of white roses in a haze of glamour, and a lot of the ladies cooed and sighed with pleasure. I smiled as well. I’d forgotten Marnie was married; of course she was, and to that golden-haired, blue-eyed paragon of gorgeousness … Gabriel was just a friend then, which meant he was ‘available’, as Mum would say.

      Oh, stop it, just stop being so pathetic.

      I tried to pay attention again and stop remembering Gabriel’s dazzling eyes.

      This could be you, Marnie seemed to be saying when I tuned back in. You too could be successful, size six and beautifully groomed, with a perfect manicure and a husband with a faultless profile, flashing Osmond teeth and cornflower-blue eyes. Just write that bestselling book and everything will fall into your lap.

      ‘I could do this, I know I could,’ India sighed.

      ‘What would you write about?’

      ‘Me, my life,’ she said.

      Up on the stage Marnie was in full flow.

      ‘But here’s my first warning: people’s lives can be quite similar sometimes. School, marriage, jobs, the occasional holiday, kids, house decorating; there are a lot of dull days in an average person’s life. Even I sometimes have to take a break, sit back and draw breath. I am not just a successful life coach and speaker; I am also a brand. Do you see the difference? I travel thousands of miles a year promoting my work, researching, spreading joy in ordinary people’s lives. My readers don’t want to read about the days when I’m decluttering my wardrobe. Or meditating on my balcony overlooking the lake. They don’t want to know how I look when I’m slouching in my cashmere joggers! They want to escape through my work to somewhere different. Somewhere exciting and new.’

      ‘That’s telling you,’ I muttered, ‘’cos your life is really boring and pointless.’

      ‘Oh, shush!’ India hissed.

      Marnie held up a notebook and pen. ‘These two are the best friends of any successful author. Whether you are writing a memoir, a cookery book or a book on Christmas crafts. Now mine just happen to be Aspinal and Mont Blanc but you can jot your ideas down on anything. You might have a notepad from the supermarket. The blank pages in a diary. The back of an envelope.’

      ‘Or I could just scrape in the mud with a stick,’ I muttered, earning myself another dig from my sister.

      ‘So how do we find ideas? Where do they come from? That’s the question I get asked a lot. Where do I get my ideas? Well, the idea for Falling into Leaves