Thank you for reading my novel. I have completed a first draft, and am now in the process of re-writing. Hope you enjoy. Please give me feedback if you wish.

Attic

COTSWOLDS, 20 APRIL 1984

MAISIE GRIPPED THE HANDRAIL of the spiral staircase and turned to Lauren, ‘Be a good girl for Nanna, while I get us some drinks.’

    ‘Okay,’ Lauren replied, then walked her doll along the top of an old-fashioned trunk, and down the edge of an old red suitcase. She noticed its clasp, aged with rust, and pressed it several times until it finally popped open. Red satin fabric spilled to the floor. She grabbed a handful and nuzzled her face into its softness.

    The attic stairs creaked. Lauren’s brown eyes widened as she considered the situation in front of her. She pushed handfuls of the fabric back into the suitcase then, as the footsteps became closer, froze. Maisie appeared at the top of the staircase. She took one look at the suitcase and gasped. She dropped the tray: the glass tumblers tumbled across the floorboards, spilling juice everywhere.

    Maisie stormed over to the suitcase and fell to her knees, ‘Lauren!’ she shouted, and frowned over at her. Lauren ran to the corner of the room and sat, huddled with her arms around her knees. Maisie held the fabric tight to her body, her eyes filled with tears, ‘I told you not to touch that, and what have you done?’

COTSWOLDS, 20 APRIL 2014

LAUREN’S HAND BRUSHED over the red leather of Nanna Maisie’s red suitcase, the pad of her finger thick with dust, shallow breathing as she touched the clasp. Her eyes closed, then opened wide, finger poised on the clasp.

Scarlet Dress

LONDON, 4 NOVEMBER 2014

LAUREN BRUSHED DIRT from a window pane and peered in. The shop sign, Bijou Vintage, creaked above her in the wind. Freshly baked bread wafted from the bakers next door. She breathed in the delicious smell and and stepped inside the shop. Her eyes flitted between the man who shuffled towards her, the vibrant blue and magenta patterned wall-paper, the shelves of dusty books, and the ginormous Victorian doll's house and dresser full of faded postcards.

    ‘Good afternoon,’  he said, and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief, mopping his brow.

    ‘Hello.’

    ‘Can I help?’

    ‘Yes, my-‘

    A woman sprang from behind a decorative japanese screen, smoothing her hands down a 1950s red satin dress, to the chime of a grandfather clock, which stood like a sergeant major with the manners of a sleepy old cat.