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It had been three weeks since my trip to Paris, but I chatted with my aunt on the phone daily. Though she was cheerful, I could tell she was tired and needed time to recover so I kept the calls short. On the last evening, she wrote a postcard for me to leave hanging around for Nora and Camellia to discover. It was dated in the spring to tie in with the blogposts. She tempted them with: I am going to Paris to find Bella. But I do hope to meet up with my former lover. Who knows what will happen? If I go missing, you will inherit my money and your gran’s recipe book. It makes me happy to know I gifted Tanglewood Cottage to you. Be happy in your new home and good luck with the teaching job.

I left the postcard from Paris on the kitchen table to get them hot on the trail of my aunt’s disappearance rather than Bella Caron. Aunt Ada told me to spray some of her perfume around in the potting shed to confuse them.

Shutters in Danny’s cottage were still closed and dust and cobwebs were evident on the windows in the bright sunshine. He sent the occasional photo of France, various hikes and adventures. In a text, he said: Convinced Laura not to sell her share of the business for now. She will live in the apartment in the hotel. Back soon to sort out some stuff. Missing you.

Missing you seemed like an afterthought. He had talked about sparks and a special feeling when we were in Paris, but those comments had vanished. I sent him photos of his garden that was simple for me to maintain as it did not have any lawn, only a couple of huge plants and grasses that needed to be watered. I preferred my garden packed with flowers and even adored the sight of the moss between the stones on the pathway. We were very different in our tastes, so a relationship probably would not have worked anyway. I imagined Danny and Laura sharing his apartment in France, drinking a bottle of wine on the terrace. Letting out a big sigh, I chastised myself for thinking of Danny yet again.

Rumours that Danny’s house was going to be up for sale had spread around the village, so I told myself to move on because he had probably decided to give the relationship with Laura another go. I was an idiot for ever thinking Paris meant anything to Danny. But I loved the way I could talk to him, and he listened. Matt had stared at the TV screen, mumbling a half-hearted grunt until he wanted food. When Matt went away on business for a month, I hardly missed him and preferred to have the flat to myself.

I sent my opening chapters and synopsis to my aunt’s literary agent but hope dwindled daily and the flutter in my stomach became more of a knot. Because I wanted to get my submission to my aunt’s agent as soon as possible, I had not passed it on to Felix first. In truth, I did not want him to judge my work because I sensed he would be brutal. An editor would guide my writing because I read online that too much feedback can send a writer into a spin.

My mornings now started with Greek yoghurt, nuts and a dash of Manuka honey before a brief jog through the village and a climb up towards the pub situated on Heatherbridge Hill. Jogging up the hill with Bronte running beside me, it was no longer necessary to stop at the mid-point to catch my breath. When I completed my stretches in the pub car park a van beeped me. I ignored it and hoped they would just drive on. Purple heather adorned the mountains above Heatherbridge, and I felt so happy as I reached the bottom of the hill without feeling pain in my legs. In my front garden, I admired the geraniums and noted the wheelbarrow was empty. Bronte’s growl announced the arrival of the postwoman who handed me another stash of parcels for Heatherbridge Book Group. I had set up the book club in the village hall, and I blogged the reviews on Pages of Other Worlds, making them delight in seeing their words online. My suggestion had gone down a storm, particularly when they realised they might get their reviews on book jackets. The group waited anxiously for their book requests and adored the reading club, but they returned their books to the wheelbarrow for others to read, and each book was borrowed in exchange for a review. Nora and Camellia competed to write the best reviews.

I stacked the book parcels in the study and then opened up my laptop to discover there was an email from Henri Duvall, my aunt’s agent, waiting in the inbox. This was it, maybe it was a contract, and I would have to go part-time in school. My hand shook as I hovered over the email. Your writing is not ready for submission to publishers at this time . How on earth would I explain I failed to take on my aunt’s legacy? The plot is a great concept, but the synopsis shows you are a little confused. I’ve made some suggestions. So, it was over. I had the chance of a lifetime to be a bestselling author and had dropped at the first hurdle. My aunt had practically lined it up for me. I am sorry to disappoint you. I had a first-class degree in Women’s Literature and could not even get myself a book deal. I bowed my head. Come back to me in the future when you have had time to develop your writing voice. Great! My career as the bestselling author of Bella Caron mysteries was down the pan. I knew I should not have spent so much time dreaming of book signings and literary awards.

When I looked up at the list of emails, I noticed another had appeared from Charlotte my mentor in school. If possible, please give me a call to discuss your schemes of work and a few other matters before the term starts. Perfect. Now, my schemes of work were rubbish, and she was probably putting me on the support programme for newly qualified teachers. Great news. I closed the laptop.

To clear my head, I went into the garden to deadhead the roses, and each time the petals fell I imagined my dreams drifting away. I snipped another but grabbed it before the petals scattered. Then I remembered, Aunt Ada had told me not to worry if it did not work out and not to put myself under pressure. But then she expected me to make a go of my job as a teacher. Still, I had a roof over my head and there was a modest income from the royalties of books she had already published. Even if I had to get a job in one of the local shops, I would do it to survive. Now, I really wished I could chat to someone face to face. Grant was too loved up with Chris to care, but Danny would have listened to me. Bronte ran over to the fence next to Oak Cottage and started to scratch and whimper. ‘What is it, girl?’ She licked my hand then slumped on the floor. ‘I know, I know. I miss Danny too. Sorry, lass. So, what am I going to do about my failed career, hey? Can you help me, Bronte?’

Now she wagged her tail and scratched my legs with her paws. I threw her plastic cat to the bottom of the garden, but she ran towards the house and peered into her food bowl.

When I had fed Bronte, I wandered into the living room and turned on the TV. I could not abandon my dreams of becoming a writer and had to take the criticism, but rejection twisted in my gut. It had been two weeks since I had read my manuscript, so I needed to read it again. The printer purred away, and I stacked each sheet carefully on the floor. If I read this like a book to review, I would get a different perspective. Pen poised; I annotated a page of the script and realised some scenes did not add anything to the novel, then I phoned Aunt Ada but Robert answered.

Hearing the distress in my voice, Robert asked if I was OK and I told him everything.

‘Dear girl, never, ever send the first draft. There was no need to rush something out in a couple of weeks. You should’ve let Felix comment first. All manuscripts need changing so there’s no need to be ashamed. The agent has not turned you down completely.’

‘Yes, but Aunt Ada fed me with a lot of ideas for the plot.’

‘All writers deal with rejection but learn from it. Use the agent’s points to rework the rest of manuscript. You’ve got something to work on and can fix it during those long, dark winter evenings. There’s no need to rush. You’ll learn to cut and shape your manuscript like Ada. Don’t forget, Ada started to write decades ago.’

‘But I’ve let Aunt Ada down. She gave me a legacy and I’ve smashed it to pieces, and now the school probably wants to sack me before I’ve started.’

Robert listened to my concerns and even on the phone I sensed his calm presence. He told me to phone Charlotte and get Felix’s support.

‘Give me the phone.’ Aunt Ada’s voice sounded as if she had just woken up. ‘Darling, you can do this. Many writers don’t even hear from agents. It wasn’t an out and out rejection; the agent’s given you time to develop and rightly so. Be strong! You have to learn the craft like everyone else. Believe it, visualise it and then write yourself happy. How many times have you edited it?’

‘Lots of times! At least three times,’ I said.

‘It’s not enough! I edit about twenty times before I send off a manuscript for publishing. You’ve done well not to get a complete rejection.’

‘Thanks, Aunt Ada,’ I said, feeling as if she was just being kind to me. The agent’s letter had extinguished that little flame of hope that had kept on burning throughout the summer. I returned to the desk, continued to annotate the opening chapters, and fought a lump in my throat. I would phone Charlotte first thing in the morning because now I had to write.