My husband’s idea of a supernatural summer is Paul the psychic octopus (yes, he really does exist) correctly predicting the results of the soccer World Cup, but we know better, don’t we….?
Mmm . . . supernatural summer . . . just those words alone send a tingle down my spine. I sense mystery, magic, danger, suspense, romance – especially romance!
And golden summer days, full of sunshine and dreams and long hazy nights.
As an English writer it is such an honor to be published in the US by the wonderful people at Harper, but any of you who have ever visited England will know that we don’t always have great summer weather on this rainy little island. But one magical year, when I was about sixteen, we had endless days of sunshine that seemed to last all the way from May to September. I remember wearing the skimpiest of little cotton dresses and denim shorts, and listening to summer love songs on the radio, and having picnics with my friends down by the river, surrounded by tall grasses and scarlet poppies, the buzzing of bees and the glitter of dragonflies. I remember lying in the fields on hot, hot afternoons, the book I was reading discarded in favour of daydreams, and I remember looking up at the high blue sky and wishing that moment could last for ever. It didn’t of course, but the memories of that summer did. The memory of my first proper boyfriend, who was dark and gorgeous and kind, and who played in a totally cool band. The memory of him playing his guitar and singing specially for me. The memory of driving to a gig with him in a white Lotus sports car upholstered in red leather. (Why did I ever let him go?!)
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