Giveaway: (eBook Copy) The Last Time I Saw You by Eleanor Moran
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Drawing literary inspiration from Melissa Bank’s warm-hearted insights into contemporary life in The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing, and from Daphne Du Maurier’s passionate, classic melodrama Rebecca, Moran’s The Last Time I Saw You offers a gripping plot, deepened by a heartfelt, relatable examination of friendship and love.
A Conversation with Eleanor Moran
Q. What was your inspiration for THE LAST TIME I SAW YOU? How did you first get the idea for the story?
A. The Last Time I Saw You came out of two experiences – a hypnotic, seductive friendship I had at university which exploded in my mid twenties. It took me a long time to process the viciousness of the ‘break up’ and I wanted to write about the ambiguity and treachery of female friendship gone wrong. I also wanted to write about the ‘haunting’ that can take place in relationships we have in our thirties and forties. Livvy’s sister tells her “men move on, they can’t stand the silence” and I think it’s true. I wanted to write about that.
Q. Do you have a favorite character from the book? One who was a pleasure to right? Difficult?
A. I love all my characters! I fell in love with William, despite him being such a stuffed shirt. I sort of have to when I write a love interest. I loved the complexity of Sally, and I loved her, despite her selfishness and how bad she was for Livvy. She is mercurial and a trickster, and in drama those characters are vital. She can do unexpected, wild things. Livvy has a lot of me in her, as all my heroines do.
Q. If you could give just one piece of advice to fellow writers what would it be?
A. Gosh, I wouldn’t presume to advise other writers at my stage, but to newbies I would say… Do you know, I don’t know! Understand the market, but don’t be handcuffed by it, as you need to find your own voice.
Q. Who are your favorite authors? Who has inspired your writing?
A. I adore Rebecca. Daphne Du Maurier found something universal, and then wrote a deeply specific story. Beautiful Ruins. Loved that. The Fault In Our Stars. The Help. Heartburn. The Time Traveler’s Wife. For me it’s the books about rounded, flawed characters doing their very best in believable ways. If you look at my website – eleanormoran.co.uk – I wrote about my 10 favorite love stories. And romantic films.
Q. What’s next? Are you working on your next book?
A. I am hard at work on book 5. It’s about a young female psychotherapist who is forced to confront her past.
Visit Eleanor Moran’s Website: http://www.eleanormoran.co.uk/
Follow Eleanor Moran on Twitter: @EleanorKMoran
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When I think about it now, I realize that she always did make sure she had backup, even while she tried to keep my options to an absolute minimum. I remember bursting back through the door one This Life night, my stint in the library longer than I had intended. “It’s starting!” I shouted, running into the living room, only to ? nd Lola, stockinged feet neatly tucked underneath her, sitting on the sofa.
“Hello, Livvy,” she said, giving me a brief, polite smile devoid of any warmth.
“Oh . . . hi! Lovely to see you.” I walked toward her, hoping she’d let me hug her, but she might as well have been wreathed in barbed wire.
“We’ve got a house guest!” said Sally, sailing back in, a bowl of Pringles in her hand, not a trace of discomfort. I don’t know what she said to her, I never asked, but she somehow managed to lure her back into the fold. But now the fold was only big enough for two. They would hug and shriek and go for drinks, and occasionally I would go along, but it was abundantly clear who was making the bed sag in the middle now. Lola would tolerate me, but no more than that, and to go out with her on my own and lay it on the table would somehow have felt like going behind Sally’s back. Neither of us would have dared do that.
It wasn’t just Lola. It sometimes felt like she got crushes on people, girls as much as boys, and she’d suddenly want to see them all the time. She might invite me along, but it was always in a way that told me she was doing me a favor rather than relishing the idea of my company. After the ? rst couple of times I learned not to be jealous. These people were like ? re? ies, their tenure brief, the friendship burning out before it gained any real momentum. And then it would be me and her again, almost as if I’d imagined it.
That apartment left me broke. The rent was sky high, and that was before you took into account how much it cost to survive the cold of a Yorkshire winter. We’d divided up the bills when we ? rst moved in, putting a few in each of our names, but Sally would leave hers until they were red and angry, ? nal demands and threats of court action. I’d beg her to pay them, and she’d laugh.
“They’re messing with us. They won’t do anything. I’ll pay it next week.” She was right, of course, but I didn’t like the menace of it, the sense that we were in trouble. It gave me a feeling of living in the last days of a dying empire, like we were squatting in Buckingham Palace.
I dated a bit that year, but it was halfhearted. The real roman- tic punctuation came from my time with James. His visits got more frequent as the year rolled on, and any remaining awk- wardness trickled away. It was still a pose on my part, but like I said, I was craven.
It wasn’t just me who was excited when a visit was immi- nent. “I love James,” Sally would say, and I would try and be pleased that my two favorite people liked each other so much. It seemed petty to not be happy about it, but I couldn’t help but resent the way she’d never give us any time alone. I knew that if I asked there’d be all manner of trouble, and even the act of asking seemed to contradict my breezy assurances that we were no more than friends.
She hardly ever invited Shaun on our nights out with James, even though it seemed obvious to make it a foursome. Instead we’d be a sharp-c ornered little trio, jumping on a virtual trampoline, competing to see how high the fun could take us. One time we somehow ended up in a house club, full of bare-c hested ravers sweating all over us and blow- ing whistles in our faces. It was the last place I wanted to be. Sally disappeared off somewhere, and after an hour me and James started to get worried. I ? nally tracked her down in a corner by the loos, snogging someone I could barely see, beyond knowing for absolute certain that he wasn’t Shaun. I waited until I started to feel like a Peeping Tom, then gave up. When she got back I managed to make myself heard over the bass line.
“What were you doing?”
She looked at me, blank- faced, and then danced a little bit harder. Once we got home, I tried again. We were in the kitchen alone, waiting for James to sort out the music.
“Who was that guy?” I said, trying to stop myself from sounding disapproving. I didn’t think Shaun was the love of her life, but nor did I think he deserved her cheating on him. He’d wanted to come out with us, but she’d claimed it was a girl’s night. She’d told us conspiratorially, said how much she was looking forward to us being the three musketeers, and I’d swallowed my irritation at the way she acted like she’d been there from the beginning.
“The one you were snogging.”
“I dunno what you’re talking about,” she said, pouring boiling water into our mugs, her eyes refusing to meet mine.
“You so do!” I said, trying to keep it light.
“Why are you saying that?” she said, blue eyes ? ashing ice.
“I saw you.”
“Shut up, Livvy,” she hissed, spotting James coming back into the room.
“Hello, You,” she said, honeyed. “Cup of tea, or shall we go for one last cheeky vodka? You know it makes sense.”
It wasn’t really working. I’d always longed for me and Sally to be more like sisters than friends, which just goes to show, you should be careful what you wish for. Sally saved her worst behavior for her family, and I think that, once we’d moved in together, that was what I’d become in her eyes. Living with her made me anxious, the whole atmosphere dictated by the violent seesaw of her moods, and my grades were suffering as a result. I’d got a part-t ime waitressing job to help fund my rent, which made it even harder to focus. I started to won- der if my rackety ? nances might provide me with the life raft I needed. Perhaps I could plead poverty, move back into a shared house, and keep the good bits of my friendship with Sally and slough away the bad.
“That sounds like a fantastic idea,” said Mom, when I told her, her relief palpable. “You’re only a student once in your life, so you should jolly well be one.” It was nice to feel that my family was there too, that not everything was dictated by my relationship with Sally, each experience taken back and pored over in the lab of our friendship. I put off mentioning it for a couple of weeks, rehearsing it again and again in my head. In the end I broached it on one of our sofa supper nights, hoping that the chilled domesticity would soften the blow. As soon as she grasped what I was say- ing she burst into hysterical sobs. “You’re my best friend,” she said, burying her face in the cushions. “Why wouldn’t you want to live with me?”
“It was only an idea!” I said, helpless in the face of her grief. “I just thought, we’ve only got a year left. It might be fun to share again.”
“If it’s about money I’ll pay more! It is about the money, isn’t it?”
I paused, trying to muster up enough courage to tell her that it was about more than that. That I couldn’t give her every- thing. That if I did there would be nothing left for me.
“Forget it. Forget I said anything. It’ll be ? ne.”
Eleanor Moran is the author of three previous novels: Stick or Twist, Mr Almost Right and Breakfast in Bed, which is currently being developed for television.
Eleanor also works as a television drama executive and her TV credits include Spooks, Being Human and a biopic of Enid Blyton, Enid, starring Helena Bonham Carter. Eleanor grew up in North London, where she still lives.