Today I have an extract from the new novel by Jane Lambert to share with you. You can order The Start of Something Wonderful by clicking here.
You can watch the book trailer here.
And here's what it's all about:
Previously published as Learning to Fly
It’s never too late to follow your dreams…
Forty-year-old air stewardess, Emily Forsyth, thought she had everything a woman could wish for: a glamorous, jet-set lifestyle, a designer wardrobe and a dishy pilot boyfriend. Until he breaks up with her…
Catapulted into a mid-life crisis she wishes she’d had earlier, she decides to turn her life upside-down, quitting her job and instead beginning to chase her long-held dreams of becoming an actress!
Leaving the skies behind her, Emily heads for the bright lights of London’s West End – but is it too late to reach for the stars?
Are you ready for the extract?
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
‘Hayyaa’ala-s-salah, hayya ’ala-l-falah
…’ came the haunting call from the mosque across the square,
summoning worshippers to evening prayer. It was almost time to meet up with the
crew to mosey around the souk – again. Too hot to sunbathe, room service menu
exhausted, library book finished, alcohol forbidden, and no decent telly (only
heavily edited re-runs of The Good Life, where Tom goes to kiss Barbara,
and next minute it cuts to Margo shooing a goat off her herbaceous border), so
the gold market had become the highlight of my day.
Donning my abaya
(a little black number that is a must-have for ladies in this part of the
world), I scrutinised myself in the full-length mirror. No wonder Nigel was
leaving me; far from looking like a mysterious, exotic, desert queen, full of
eastern promise, it made me resemble a walking bin liner.
I read the fire
evacuation drill on the back of the door and checked my mobile for the
umpteenth time, then cast my eyes downwards, studying my toes. I know, I
thought, giving them a wee wiggle, I’ll paint my nails. It’s amazing what a
coat of Blue Ice lacquer can do to make a girl feel a little more glamorous,
and less like Ugly Betty’s granny.
As I rummaged in
my crew bag for my nail varnish, there, stuffed in between Hello! and Procedures
To Be Followed in the Event of a Hijack, was an old copy of The Stage
(with another DO NOT PHONE HIM!! Post-it
Note stuck to it). Idly flicking through the pages, my eyes lit up at
the headline:
DREAMS REALLY
CAN COME TRUE
Former
computer programmer, Kevin Wilcox, 40, went for broke when he gave up his
50k-a-year job to become a professional opera singer. ‘My advice to anyone
contemplating giving up their job to follow their dream is to go for it,’ said
Kevin, taking a break from rehearsals of La Traviata at La Scala.
That was my
life-changing moment: an affirmation that there were other people out there –
perfectly sane people – who were not in the first flush of youth either, but
were taking a chance. That’s what I’d do. I’d become an actress, and
Nigel would see my name in lights as he walked along Shaftesbury Avenue, or
when he sat down to watch Holby City, there I’d be, shooting a
doe-eyed look over a green surgical mask.
‘What a fool I
was,’ he’d tell his friends ruefully, ‘to have ever let her go.’ Hah!
But revenge
wasn’t my only motive. Faux designer bags and expensive makeovers were no
longer important to me. I wanted the things that money can’t buy: like
self-fulfilment, like the buzz you get on opening night, stepping out on stage
in front of a live audience. Appearing through the galley curtains, proclaiming
that well-rehearsed line, ‘Would you like chicken or beef?’ just wouldn’t do
any more.
Inspired, I
grabbed the telephone pad and pen from the bedside table, and started to
scribble furiously.
Apply to RADA/CENTRAL any
drama school that will have me.
Hand in notice.
Sign up with
temping agencies and find part-time job.
Sell flat, shred
Visa, store cards, cancel gym membership, and Vogue subscription
(ouch!).
Ever since I’d
played Bill Sikes in a school production of Oliver! I’d wanted to act.
Being tall at an all-girls school meant I never got to play Nancy, Maria, or
Dorothy. But I didn’t care. Even having to kiss Kirstie McCallum who played
Fiona opposite my Tommy in Brigadoon hadn’t deterred me.
I’d write my own
shows, which I’d perform for Mum, Dad, Sammy the dog, and the neighbours. I
loved to tell stories; to share, to feel, to emote. I was a shy, gawky kid with
a vivid imagination and acting allowed me to disappear into a role.
My bedroom walls
were plastered with posters of Breakfast At Tiffany’s, Pretty Woman,
Doctor Zhivago, and Dirty Dancing.
I’d dress up for
the Oscars and pose on the red shag pile, tell the interviewer what an honour
it was just to be nominated, rise slowly from my seat in disbelief, and accept
my award, fighting back the tears as I thanked my parents, my friends, and God
for making this possible.
So what got in
the way?
‘Drama school?’
spluttered Miss Crabb, my head teacher. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Acting’s not a
career! What about university?’
‘You need to wake
up, Em,’ Mum said despairingly, rolling her eyes. ‘I should never have let you
go to Saturday Showstoppers when you were ten. It’s put silly ideas in your
head. Now, what about the Foreign Office? You’re good at languages …’
Persuaded that
teachers and mums know best, I packed my dream away and scraped through
university, where I spent more time acting in and producing plays than studying
stuffy old Schiller or fusty Flaubert. I wisely left academia behind and joined
Amy Air. If I wasn’t allowed to be an actress then I would at least pay off my
student debt doing something fun and adventurous.
New York was my
favourite route. While the rest of the crew would spend our brief stopover
snuggled up in the hotel with room service and a movie, I’d dash along to Times
Square on West 42nd Street and buy a ticket to a Broadway show. Jet lag
miraculously forgotten, I’d be transported to a magical world far from
turbulence and sick bags.
When the curtain
came down, I’d skip along the shimmering streets of The Great White Way back to
the hotel, reliving the performance in my mind, imagining the scene backstage:
the post-show euphoria, the drinks, the conversation. And a bit of me regretted
that I hadn’t believed in myself enough to ignore the naysayers and pursue the
one thing I felt truly passionate about.
Secretly I never stopped hoping though, that someday, somehow …
Then I met Nigel and the dream was
buried once more. Charming, charismatic, athletic, sophisticated,
dashing-in-uniform Nigel, a modern-day superman, in control of a 747 – and of
my future happiness.
Now in my thirties, time was running
out if I wanted to have children, and though he didn’t say as much, I knew
Nigel and I were destined to be together for ever.
Fast-forward eight years, and here I
am, forty, heartbroken, childless, and soon to be homeless.
But through all the despair, there’s a
little voice deep down whispering to me, telling me to turn this crisis into an
opportunity; to have the courage this time to follow my intuition, to listen to
my heart, take responsibility for my own happiness, and not allow others to
dictate the course of my life.
Okay,
so it’s taken nearly a quarter of a century to reach this place, but this time
nothing and no one is going to hold me back.
* * *
Thanks so much to Jane for stopping by today and sharing this extract with us. You can follow Jane for news about this book and future books by following these links!
