The Pink Sofa

by Ginny Swart 

Email: ginny@ginnyswart.com

“You didn’t tell me it was pink!”

Tom’s outraged tone made Val wince. Defensively, she stroked the smooth shininess of the pink sofa.

“Well, it is leather. You know we’ve always wanted a leather sofa. And it was so cheap- I couldn’t let it stay where it was!”

“Well, I don’t think you can let it stay in the sitting room either. Not without covering it with something. It’s awful.” Tom glared at her.

Oh dear. She knew she should have phoned Tom to come and have a look before she bought it on impulse at the Hatfield Market. But it had been so reasonable and the nice little man had even thrown in free delivery. 

“Maybe with a few cream cushions to soften it …”

“Then it’ll look like a strawberry ice-cream.”

Privately, Val had to admit the bright pink sofa was a bit out of place next to their old beanbags and the floral armchairs Tom’s mother had given them. But it was divinely comfortable and lying back against the warm leather was like being embraced by a soft pink marshmallow. 

The next day she found a faded Indian cotton throw and draped it over the offending colour, then leaned back on the sofa to open the post.

The gas bill and three rejections.

“Thank you for your submission but….” Always a “but”.

“The Editor regrets ….” That made the seventh identical one from that regretful editor.

The most promising rejection, clipped to her returned manuscript of Lady Anne and the Count of Bohemia had a handwritten sentence added to the printed formula: “Engaging writing style but we’d like more emotion, more passion.”

Oh dear. Val knew that her stories were missing some vital element. But emotion? Passion? She didn’t feel confident writing steamy scenes at all.

Three years of submitting period romances to all the women’s magazines didn’t make rejections any less depressing.  She sighed and wondered where to send Lady Anne’s story next. Maybe she should try submitting The Chatsworth Castle Affair instead. She started rummaging in her desk drawer to find the twice-rejected manuscript.

Then suddenly the sitting room door was flung open and a ravishing young girl in a robin’s-egg blue Regency dress stormed across the room, a diamond comb restraining a tumultuous mop of blond curls. 

“By my troth! I’ll see him damned before I submit to his evil intentions!” Tears of rage sparkled on the long dark lashes that fringed her sapphire-blue eyes, and she wiped them away impatiently. There was a peremptory knock on the door and she swung round, her small chin tilted defiantly to meet the gaze of the tall, handsome man who stood there, breathing heavily.

“Lady Anne! You will learn that you cannot trifle with my affections!” The Count, magnificent in a brocaded jacket and tight moleskins that did not disguise his virile manhood, strode across to her and swept her into his arms in a crushing embrace.

“Indeed, sir…!” Anne resisted with spirit but his passionate kisses could not be denied…

“Mum, I need bus money for soccer practice.” Brendan stood next to her. “Were you asleep? It’s only nine o’clock!”

“No…er, no.” Yanked back into the present, Val sat up. “Here, in my purse.” Stunned, she  waited impatiently for her son to leave the room.

I’ve got to get that down on paper, she thought, that’s exactly how I would have filmed the scene with Lady Anne and the Count. But where did it come from? I know I wasn’t asleep.

With shaking fingers she wrote what she could remember and sat back and re-read it with satisfaction. Perfect, she thought. Loads of passion!

That night, when Tom was in bed, Val switched on her computer and started to rewrite the story from the beginning.

“Waiting for the London coach, the beautiful Lady Anne Cheveril anxiously paced the floor in her hired rooms at the Brideswell Tavern.”

Then what? Nothing flowed. She stared at the blank screen for over an hour before giving up and going to bed. Where were the perfectly chosen words that had rushed out onto the page that morning?

The next day she woke with a sore head. Thank goodness it was Saturday, with Tom and Brendan going off to watch soccer together. As soon as she’d seen them out of the door and done the breakfast things, Val retired to the pink sofa with the weekend paper, enjoying the peace.

Not for long.

Horses whinnied loudly as carriage wheels crushed the gravel below her window and a gruff voice shouted, “All change for Brideswell Tavern!”

Lady Anne stood by the window, biting her lip and peering anxiously through the grimy lace curtains. It was time.

“Now remember what you have to tell her, Mabel.” She turned to her faithful maid who was standing by the portmanteau, wringing her hands. “On no account is Lady Worrall to concern herself over my little expedition.”

“Oh, Lady Anne, your mother will be uncommonly vexed, indeed I fear things will not go well with me if I tell her you are gone to London by yourself. Without even a chaperone or companion.”

“Fiddlesticks, Mabel, she knows full well how I feel about Lord D’Arcy’s attentions. I will be perfectly safe at Lady Caroline’s house in Grosvenor Square . I shall write to her when I arrive. Now assist me with my portmanteau and let me be away.” Without a backward glance at Val, Lady Anne left the room and descended the stairs, Mabel hurrying after her.

As the door clicked shut, Val sat up excitedly. It had happened again. It was all there for her to write down, quickly, before she lost it. She picked up her notebook and started writing furiously.

***

 “Don’t laugh Tom, but think it’s got something to do with this sofa,” she said a few evenings later as they were relaxing on it in front of the television.  “Every time I sit here I’m inspired. It’s as if the story is happening right in front of me and it’s so much better than my own writing.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said comfortably, putting his arm around her and drawing her close. “Your writing’s lovely. It’s going well because you’re getting more experienced. Just wait, you’ll have a story accepted soon. They’ll be lining up to buy your stuff.”

“I wish.”

He kissed her cheek and then turned her face to his. Surprised, she saw a look in his eye that had been missing for a long time. Too long.

“Val love,” he murmured, folding her in his arms and kissing her eyes and nose and finally, her lips. “Val …”

“Tom! Not in here! What if Brendan…”

“Fast asleep,” said Tom confidently. But he got up and locked the door anyway.

***

It was definitely the sofa. Every time Val sat down on it, her story became alive. Words tumbled out, perfect phrases that came from nowhere. A thousand words a day somehow found their way onto her computer screen and she could tell they were exactly right. Her story expanded into a full-length novel and it was nearly ready to be sent off to a publisher.

And every time Tom sat down next to her after supper, he seemed to shed years and become the urgent young lover he once had been. Sometimes they skipped coffee entirely and almost never bothered to switch on the television any more.

“I wonder if it’s possible for furniture to be bewitched?” Val asked her friend Rose. “That sofa seems to have some sort of power over me.” She didn’t like to mention the effect it had on Tom.

“You’re starting to write fairy-stories now, are you?” Rose grinned. “I know! It’s an antique sofa that’s being haunted by its first owner. A young girl called Lady Ann. D’you think that’s possible?”

“Not really, I suppose.” 

But the next time Val was at the Hatfield Market she looked for the man who’d sold her the sofa.

“You want old Henry?” The man at the next stall laughed. “He’ll be away for a while, Henry will. Her Majesty invited him to spend a little time as her guest.”

“What? Oh!” She realised what he meant. “What did Henry do?”

“Nicked some stuff from that larny place outside the village. You remember that famous writer lady who died? Wrote all those love stories and romances, dripping in diamonds and so on? What was her name now…Barbara someone… Anyway, old Henry helped himself to a few bits and pieces that he found in an outside storeroom and the coppers didn’t like it. Six months without the option.”

Val went home numbly and lay back on her lovely pink sofa. Was she guilty of receiving stolen goods? No wonder Henry had been in such a hurry to deliver it the same day. Should she tell the police?

The door opened. An elderly woman, ablaze with diamonds, entered. A vision in pink silk chiffon and white furs, her perfect, silvery coiffure set in a ripple of waves and curls, she crossed the floor and stood imperiously at the foot of the sofa.

“Don’t waste time, gel,” she said crisply. “I started when I was twenty and I managed more than seven hundred books. You’ve got a lot of writing to do.” She stroked the sofa affectionately. “You’ll find when you’ve written about ten you will be able to afford a secretary. Dictating from this is so much easier than sitting hunched in front of a computer. So bad for the posture. Keep in mind that a man prefers a woman who has a straight back. And remember, dear: romantic love is the most important thing when telling your story. Always bring in lots of romance. But nothing too… well, you know.”

She walked out slowly and turned at the door, her white-gloved hand giving Val a discreet wave.

Val sat up, straightening her back. She could hear Lady Anne and the Count of Bohemia conversing in low, passionate whispers as they entered the room, Lady Anne radiant on the arm of the Count.

Val reached for her pen.  The pink sofa was staying.

©2008 Ginny Swart

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