Celia Reynolds [Reynolds - Finding Henry Applebee

Heartfelt thanks, first and foremost, to my wonderful agent and wing woman, Rebecca Ritchie, for believing in me, for taking such good care of me, and for quite simply, being a dream come true.

A huge hug of gratitude to everyone at HarperCollins who has embraced this book so warmly, especially Kimberley Young for taking a chance, and my big-hearted editor, Charlotte Ledger, whose guidance and enthusiasm led me back to the coalface and encouraged me to give the story a bright new pair of wings. Thank you, too, to Sophie Burks, for consistently helpful and attentive editorial insights, and to my copyeditor, Laura Evans, for having such a keen eye.

To my friends Samantha Wakefield, Sarah Duggan, Michael De Lucia, and Lindy Shufflebotham thank you for your mighty and tireless support, good-humoured pep talks, and for keeping me smiling and sane, no matter what. And to my friend (and dedicated dream chaser!), Sonja Vilsmeier, I have to add to the above a rallying cry of Fortune favours the brave! My world wouldnt be the same without any one of you. You are all heroes.

I am grateful to Maggie Hamand of the Complete Creative Writing Course for her expertise and for giving me crucial feedback on a very early draft. Additional thanks to Faber Academy for their valuable comments on a significantly reworked later one

A special (musical) note of gratitude to Laurie Lewis, whose generosity in sharing his knowledge of jazz was instrumental (pun intended!) in bringing the jazz references to life.

Warm thanks, also, to Ian Johnstone, for his very helpful and timely writerly advice.

I am indebted to the following people for their friendship, positivity, and world-class encouragement: Todd Huntley who, in addition to being a brilliant human being, created a genuine pivotal moment by giving me the tickets that set the wheels in motion; Shelley Atkin a human dynamo, whose awesomeness knows no bounds; Jeff Rowland greetings to tutta la famiglia (ci sentiamo, va bene?); and the lovely Lynne Davies, Gareth Davies, and the entire Mumbles Coffee crew thank you with all my heart for cheering me on with epic smiles and such great coffee.

I am lucky to have had the support of Michael Forero (photographs!), Kristen Francis, Samantha Russell, Barbara Thalhammer, Mick Passeri, Stuart Baldwin, Emma Evans, Jo Warring, Hayley Morgan, and Alyson Mellin. And for 360 degrees of wisdom I am indebted to Jacqui Bastock, and the exceptional Dawn Brown.

Blockbuster-sized thanks to everyone who was part of the Fox family for the laughter, and for still rooting for me after all this time.

I am humbly grateful to the London Library a place of magic, where the early drafts of this novel were written.

Lastly, to Joy Reynolds, thank you so much for never doubting me.

This book would not have come into being without the encouragement and support of my sister, Caroline, and my father, Brian. They are no longer here to read it, but somewhere, perhaps, theyre smiling at me and waving. For this, and for so much more, Im forever grateful.

Celia Reynolds was born and raised in Wales and worked for almost twenty-five years in the film industry in London, and briefly Rome. In 2012, she left her job as European Marketing Director at Twentieth Century Fox to enrol in the Complete Creative Writing Course held at the Groucho Club in Londons West End. Later that year, she was awarded Runner Up prize in the London Writers Club/Hush Short Story Competition. She is now based on the Gower coast in South Wales.

@CeliaRWriter

@celiareynoldsauthor

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A Pollock on the Floor

KINGS CROSS STATION, LONDON, DECEMBER 6: DEPARTURE, 8:33 A.M.

Henry

W hat it all came down to, in the end, were the contents of a small brown suitcase, stored within stretching distance under the bed.

By Henrys own admission the case itself was unremarkable. Scuffed and shabby, it had mouldered, half-hidden in the semi-darkness on a slightly dusty, carpeted floor. The handle, which was made of a robust, finely crafted cowhide leather, had grown ragged, and the once shiny metal clasps designed to spring open with a conspicuously satisfying click were tarnished and dull. And yet , Henry reminded himself, appearances can be deceptive ; what mattered to him lay meticulously preserved within.

He kept a firm grip on the suitcases handle as he made his way onto the teeming concourse at Kings Cross train station. It was still early, the air charged with a melee of arrival and departure announcements, the throb of engines, the irritable drone of traffic from the nearby Euston Road. Henry felt a carousel of emotion crank into gear inside him. Focus! he told himself. Dont let yourself get distracted until youre seated on that train

He drew to a stop in the centre of the concourse and placed his suitcase at his feet. Overhead, an indistinct mass of words blurred and flickered on the electronic departure board. Henry rubbed his eyes and tried desperately to remember his Mantra of the Day:

Applebee, he mumbled under his breath. My name is Henry Applebee

Steadying himself with his walking stick, Henry lowered his gaze to the granite-grey concourse floor. Tiny spots of blood were raining down upon it, just inches from his black Derby shoes. It took him a moment to grasp where the blood was coming from, then he raised his hand to his face and realised with a start that it was trickling from his nose.

Henrys heart sank. The sharp slick of red struck a violent chord of colour amongst an uninspiring sea of grey and black, navy and taupe flat, wintry hues which hovered like low-lying clouds around the shoulders of the commuters who stood transfixed before the overhead departure board, or scurried backwards and forwards, zigzagging continuously across his path.

Whatever you do next, he said in a valiant attempt at calm, DONT PANIC!

Henrys eyes darted to the dizzying conveyor belt of faces sailing past him. One or two of his fellow travellers turned and cast a cursory glance in his direction. The majority, he noted, barely seemed to register him at all. He wondered if they were repelled. Perhaps they were just far too absorbed in the busyness of their own lives to notice an old man with a bloody nose?