My first novel, French Relations, was published on 7th July 1994, which makes it thirty today. Shocking to realise that it is now older than I was back then.

I started writing it in my early twenties to pass the time whilst recuperating from illness, returning from a hectic London house-share to my parents’ Berkshire cottage for a break. What began as a short story grew to 800 pages over the course of a year’s feverish writing, interspersed with part-time work at a local saddlery.

The book has a vast cast of characters, all gathering in a gorgeous turreted cream manoir in the Loire Valley for a family holiday that culminates in a riotous al fresco party. Amid the suncream and apéros, Citroens and Chablis, my heroine Tash falls head over heels in love…with the wrong man. It was a pure escapist joy to write, two parts Jilly Cooper to one Jane Austen and a quarter Gen X daydream.

Mine was a star-crossed publication journey. The first agent I submitted it to loved it; the first editor she shared it with also loved it. Before I knew it, I was in Hodder and Stoughton’s Bedford Square boardroom being introduced to the team over champagne and canapes. I was signed for two more books and, as the cliché would have it, I ‘never looked back’.

Except I do look back quite often, especially now that the publishing world is so different. And I’m continually stunned and humbled by how lucky I was to get my break the way I did.

My introduction to life as an author came in a haze of two-bottle lunches in Bloomsbury and glamorous nights out wooing key buyers in the Café de Paris or partying with booksellers in swanky hotels. The publicity my debut received was amazing, although in my naivety I didn’t appreciate how rare it is for a new author to have a full-page photograph in the Sunday Times magazine or be interviewed on Woman’s Hour. I just went with the flow and loved every minute.

Looking back, I can see how kindly I was treated for being so young, particularly in an era when few writers emerged in their twenties, fewer still in commercial women’s fiction. These were the years before Bridget Jones slid down her fireman’s pole to spark the Chick Lit revolution. Publishing was still entirely analogue: no internet, no Amazon, Kindle, social media, blogs, metatags, algorithms or TikTok trends. Just page-turners, thumping good reads…and giveaways.

Hodder gave away a pair of espadrilles with every hardback of French Relations sold out of a ‘dump bin’ (the glorious name for the now-outdated promotional cardboard bookshelf displays offered to bookshops for certain titles). The warehouse soon filled up with footwear and, much to their alarm, poor booksellers found themselves asking each customer’s shoe size to go with their summer read. It drove them mad, but it worked; copies of French Relations raced out of shops as fast as those woven soles could carry them.

By the time I celebrated my own thirtieth birthday, I’d written half a dozen more novels, including a sequel to French Relations in which Tash got together with the right man. I’d also toured and promoted around the world, met a host of amazing authors, sold over a million books and had the time of my life.

That was more than half a lifetime ago. The perks may be far fewer these days, but I still write exactly as I did then – often late at night, fuelled by caffeine, typing ever more addictively and feverishly as deadlines approach, borrowing from real life, falling in love with my cast, and giggling at with glee when funny moments land. And the fictional parties are just as riotous, although confess I bump off the odd guest now. (But only the really annoying ones).

I’d love to one day return to that dreamy cream manoir in the Loire to see how they’re all doing. Meanwhile, I will never underestimate how lucky I was to find myself in the right place at the right time thirty years ago and to have enjoyed such a lucky run.

Bon anniversaire, French Relations. Thank you for starting it all. Je croise les doigts pour que je fasse un retour (meme si je dois tuer pour le faire).