In retrospect, it seems like everything in my life led to me becoming a writer. I just didn't realise it at the time.

Gerry?' Laurel had to strain to hear thought the noise on the other end of the line. 'Gerry? Where are you?' 'London. A phone booth on Fleet Street.' 'The city still has working phone booths?' 'It would appear so. Unless this is the Tardis, in which case I'm in serious trouble.

She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.

The happiest folk are those that are busy, for their minds are starved of time to seek out woe.

People might think writing is a hard business, but it's nowhere near acting.

And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun. When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying. She wasn't sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away.

Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.