Two signed books - I've pictured a couple of recent ones but the winner can choose from my backlist - and some truly scrumptious raspberry infused Belgian chocolate from Choc On Choc, a company that produces amazing chocolate a couple of miles up the road from me in the historic village of Rode.
Do click on the link and take a look at some of the amazing stuff they make!
For a chance to win, all you have to do is leave a comment. Maybe tell us about your most special |(or awful) Valentine's Day. Or favourite chocolate. Or romantic movie. It's international so spread the word! I'll pick a winner on Tuesday (9th)
Meanwhile here's the famous -- make that infamous -- first date with my own best beloved, written for a Valentine's Day feature in a newspaper here in the UK. (We’ve been married for 43) years.
Liz was late. She
very nearly hadn’t come at all. Despite the fact that the annual Cinema Club
Ball was the social highlight of the year, a blind-date was always a risk. But
the manner of the invitation had been intriguing. The torn half of a double ticket to the Ball delivered anonymously by messenger suggested a man with imagination,
passion.
A man of mystery.
And she was a sucker for a mystery.
She glanced again at the torn card she was holding, the part
that said, “The St Valentine’s...”
Someone had written “9
pm” in bold script across the corner. You could tell a lot about a
man from his handwriting. This said ... strong, purposeful, determined.
But who was he?
She’d spent all week trying to figure out who could possibly
have sent it. Who had the other half? The piece that said, “...Day Massacre
Ball”?
She paused in the entrance to the Ballroom. The only
lighting came from the strobe effect of the film projected against the walls that offered momentary glimpses of faces, features flattened out by the flickering monotone images making them hard to recognise. And the clothes didn’t help.
Everyone had taken the 1920s Chicago theme to
heart. The girls were shimmying to the Charleston
in their beaded flapper dresses, the men were anonymous, almost unrecognisable
in gangster-era suits, their faces shaded by wide-brimmed hats.
Touching the band around her own forehead a little
self-consciously, she peered into the darkness.
She still had time to cut and run, but even as she took an
uncertain step back, a man’s arm reached out of the darkness, placing the
matching piece of the ticket against the one she was holding. The hand that had
written “9 pm”, matched the
script. Strong...
‘I knew you’d come, doll,’ a voice, pure Humphrey Bogart,
drawled out of the gloom, breaking into the thought and she looked up.
For a moment she didn’t recognise the figure in the
pinstriped suit, fedora pulled down at a rakish angle. Then the light caught
his face. It was vaguely familiar. She’d noticed him at a recent club meeting. John something....
Despite the pitch-perfect Bogie impression and darkly,
handsome looks, her date didn’t quite match the actor’s dangerous aura. But
then who could? And heck, it could have been a whole lot worse.
He could have been Edward G Robinson.
Don't forget to leave a comment -
I'll pick a winner on Tuesday.
