Julie Rosenfield

My journal

Archive for the category “NOVEL”


Q: So, Julie, what is this new novel of yours, The Cupid Business, about?

Julie: It’s about 400 pages, and 100,000 words!

But, seriously, it’s actually about many things. It’s a romantic, comedy novel, written as a sort of a comic monologue with poetry, puns, advice on dating, and at its heart, what I hope is a darn good love story!

Q: Tell us a little more about your main female character, Kate Parkinson.

Julie: Oh, yes, Kate Parkinson. She’s in a bit of a rough place at the beginning of the novel. As the blurb on the back cover of the book says: “Trapped by her demanding, live-in partner, Paul Edmonds on the one hand, and a difficult job as a PA in an insurance company on the other, 37-year old Kate Parkinson has, seemingly, no way to turn.”

I guess a lot of people can feel stuck these days, particularly on the romantic front. However, when it comes to finding love, there is far more choice on the dating scene than ever before. In my day, all we could do is sit and wait by the phone to see if there was going to be another date.

These days, there are so many more opportunities to find love: speed dating, internet dating, matchmaking agencies. And there are so many ways to get in touch: Facebook, texting, instant messaging etc. No wonder, Kate, who suddenly finds herself coming out of a long-term relationship, finds herself overwhelmed at all the options.

Q: So, would it be fair to say that, as well as being a novel, The Cupid Business is actually a bit of a dating manual?

Julie: Well, I guess you could say that. Although I hadn’t intended it to be as such, it was only after I’d read it through for the umpteenth time, that I realised that there is actually a lot of good advice in there for single people looking for love.

Q: Kate’s long-term partner, Paul Edmonds, is a bit of a horror, isn’t he? Is he based on anyone you know?

Julie (laughing): No, thankfully, not at all. All my characters are purely fictional, thank goodness! Can you imagine?

Q: And what about Mark, the romantic lead?

Julie: Alas, he’s pure fiction too. Although I’m sure there are some handsome, single thoracic surgeons out there somewhere!

Q: So where did you get your inspiration to write something like The Cupid Business?

Julie: Well, to paraphrase the famous quote, I guess it was 1 per cent inspiration, and 99 per cent perspiration.

So, in that case, you could say that writing The Cupid Business has been a mixture of love, sweat and tears!

Q: That’s an interesting point. Let’s go through that. Love?

Julie: I wanted to write a novel for the love of writing. I’ve always been a bit of a scribbler but so far it’s been restricted to my blog: short stories, poetry, life writing, articles etc. 

My last publication was in 2002 when I edited a book called Vegan Stories for the Vegan Society.

I’ve tried to write a novel many times in the past but usually I’ve got stuck at chapter three, page three. This time, thankfully, I was able to keep going!

I don’t have a plan when I write. I just get some crazy thought in my head first thing in the morning and try and capture it before it disappears.

For The Cupid Business, it was just a question of turning up at my computer every day and waiting to  see if the characters turned up and if they had anything to say. Thankfully, they did.

For some reason, I thought a love story would be the easiest kind of novel to write. I couldn’t have been more wrong!

Q: Why is that? Is it because of some of the novel’s more racy moments?

Julie: Yes, that was really tough. Personally, I favour the “less is more” approach. When it comes to writing racy scenes, I have to confess I’m less 50 Shades of Grey, more 50 shades of Pink!

One of my proof-readers advised me that the novel was too saucy, another said it wasn’t saucy enough! Hopefully, I’ve redressed that balance now.

Personally, I’d say it was more cheeky than saucy, with a lot of humour thrown in, and allowance for the liberal use of the reader’s imagination.

Q: And, carrying on from your earlier comment, you said the novel involved a lot of sweat?

Julie: Well, yes, it did take 8 years in all to write. Not continuously, of course. I did manage to squeeze in study for an Open University arts degree and a part-time job in that time too.

I imagine most people think the life of a romantic novelist is sitting in a flimsy pink dressing gown, eating chocolates, drinking champagne and dictating words of wisdom to a trusty secretary.

It’s all true apart from the chocolates, champagne and the secretary. A lot of it though was written at my computer while in my dressing gown, so I may, one day, call my autobiography, “Productive in Pyjamas!”

Actually, the hardest part was not so much the writing and the editing, but getting to grips with how to self-publish on Amazon and Kindle. That has been a major learning curve!

Q: Yes, why did you decide to go down the self-publishing route? Didn’t you try sending it out to a publisher first?

Julie: Oh yes, that’s where the tears come in (laughs). I kept on sending it off to publishers and agents and it just kept coming right back at me with a “Thanks, but no thanks” printed rejection slip.

Sometimes, I swear it was on a rubber band, and used to come back to me before I’d even sent it out.

Q: That must have been hard.

Julie: Yes, it was a bit off-putting, especially in the early days. I guess that’s why I kept putting it back on the shelf.

But, thank goodness, for encouragement from friends, and for Amazon and Kindle, which have made self-publishing an affordable reality! Nothing beats the thrill of seeing your own work in print!

Q: So, Julie, after The Cupid Business, what’s next?

Julie: I already have some ideas in the pipeline: a book of short stories, a second novel, and perhaps a book of puns. Hopefully, the next book won’t take 8 years to write!

Q: Thanks for talking to us today and good luck with The Cupid Business.

Julie: Thank you!


The Cupid Business, a romantic comedy novel by Julie H. Rosenfield.

Published on Amazon and Kindle on Valentine’s Day: 14.02.2014.
ISBN-13: 978-1493589661 ISBN-10: 149358966

The Cupid Business on Amazon







Monday morning rush. Overnight sleet. Bad day on the Northern Line. Slush, push, crush…

          “The next station is High-gert.” High-gert? Every day, I want to challenge that clipped, impersonal voice. “High-GATE,” I want to scream.

          Where do they get these announcers anyway?

“Customers in the last carriage, please move towards the front doors to leave the train.”

 When did we start becoming customers? What’s wrong with passengers?

“Mind the Gap.”

 Why don’t they just fill it in? Who builds a platform so narrow that it doesn’t meet the train? Or is “Mind the Gap” just a subliminal advert for a well-known clothes store? It wouldn’t surprise me.

 I’m standing all the way in a carriage so jam-packed with people that there’s no room for me to put my bags down. It makes me wary.

 Once, squashed inside the tube train in this way, with my hands full of bags and umbrella, I suddenly became aware of someone touching the back of my coat and fondling my bottom. And then, I was aware of something hard poking my well-padded behind. And it wasn’t a brolly.

 Trying to swivel round, I caught sight of a well-dressed man, holding a briefcase in one hand and my backside in the other: an opportunist who took advantage of our enforced intimacy.

 And with no room for me to jab him with a pointed elbow, and too tightly pressed up against unseeing strangers to cry out, I had no choice but to endure his unwelcome attentions.

 And I’ve never trusted men with briefcases ever since, which is unfortunate as I work as a secretary – or Personal Assistant – at a large insurance company: Grantham and Slater.

  You’ve probably heard of them or seen their corny ads:

 “Assuring you of our assurance always.”

 “Insuring you all ways – always.”

           How about another subliminal advert?

          “Please INSURE you cover all your belongings with us when you leave the train.”

           It wouldn’t surprise me. These days, nothing does.

          So, is it any wonder then, after fighting against the elements, the London underground, time and my personal inclination to stay in bed, that I arrive bruised and bedraggled at the office desk where I am due to remain chained for the rest of the day?

            And late – ten whole minutes. And it’s noticed…

            “Oh, I thought you’d had a better offer,” sneers Marsha Bray, our stick-thin, eagle-eyed administrator. Time-keeper and office pedant. Loved by all. Not.

Nothing escapes Marsha’s newly-lasered, piercing, blue eyes. Sharp, those lasers – just like her tongue.

“Only ten minutes,” I counter, anticipating her next response.

“Thirteen-and-a-half to be exact but who’s counting?” She is, and don’t I know it!

“Oh, and Mr Sykes wants to see you.”

          An early summons from the boss. Not a great start. I had hoped his Monday morning breakfast meeting might have gone on long enough to cover my late entrance. Alas, not. They must have run out of doughnuts. This is not good news.

I drag my soul and my shorthand notepad into my boss’s office.

My boss, Mr William Sykes, a senior director at Grantham and Slater, started out in the insurance field at the age of 17. Sell, sell, sell. “If it’s worth having, it’s worth insuring.”

Insurance Man of the Year. Worked his way up through the ranks and onto the Board. Big, broad-shouldered, burly; wavy, grey hair; thick, tangled eyebrows. He has one joke which he repeats often. Well, every time he speaks to a new client.
“And it’s William Sykes. William – not Bill. I don’t know what the Dickens my parents were thinking of.” And with that, he roars, as if he’s never heard his own joke before.

Every morning of my working week, Soggy Sykes – my nickname for him because he makes such heavy, wet weather of everything – hauls me into his office and loads me with dictation.

Some mornings, unlike Dickens’s hero Oliver, I actually want to shout: “Please Sir, I don’t want any more,” but, of course, I never do. Perhaps I’m just quietly going round the Twist.

On this mundane Monday morning, I emerge from Sykes’s office two hours later, weighed down with the fruits of the morning’s dictation: my humble shorthand pad a glorious testament to the British person’s need for insurance.

“Run for cover – to Grantham and Slater.”

“Your life insurance in our hands.”

It often amazes me how these light, dancing, pencilled shorthand squiggles are sturdy enough to convey such heavy subject matter as endowment policies, remortgages, life cover and all risks policies…

All risks? How about the risk of me dropping down dead of boredom in the middle of one of Sykes’s dense, dictation sessions? How about the risk of me surviving just one day without being lashed by the acerbic wit of Marsha Bray? What about the risk of me exploding with shock at the thought of typing out just one exciting letter?

“Don’t risk your all without our All Risks policies.”

            Shorthand. What an amazing skill that is. Thanks to Sir Isaac Pitman for that one. It took me a while to get the hang of learning the phonetic sounds and symbols; reading them out aloud over and over again: chay, jay; kay, gay; pee, bee….

And, talking of pee: just my luck, ten minutes later, I’m cornered in the Ladies’ by our HR manager, Annabelle Lomax.

“Oh, darling. How are you? Must tell you about my fabulous weekend,” she breathes.

This could take some time. I look in the mirror. It might be wise to take a moment or two to repair the ravages of the morning. Frosted pink lipstick in hand, I gaze at my reflection: long, mid-brown, tousled hair; snub nose; a freckle or two and, as for those messy eyebrows…

 And, next to me, Annabelle: tall; big hair: dark and curly; Roman nose; dazzling red lipstick; huge, porcelain, white teeth.

“Nick took me to quite the best dinner dance on Saturday night. Tickets cost a fortune but he managed to wangle two freebies for us. Contacts, you know,” she says, tapping her generous nose.

            I pretend to be both impressed and interested. I even remember to make the obligatory, complimentary remark on her latest fabulous outfit. Yellow two-piece suit with black polka dots. Perfect for a cocktail party but for an insurance company HR department?

“Oh, I’m glad you like it. Charity shop, you know.”

Inwardly, I groan. Charity shop! How come I never find the latest Dior creations in my local Oxfam? The best I’ve ever done was to find an orange summer skirt which “makes you look like a plump tangerine,” according to one of my kinder friends.

Thank goodness, I didn’t canvass Marsha.

“Still, darling, must fly. People to interview, that sort of thing,” and, with that, Annabelle’s gone.

What a morning. Definitely time for a break. I make my way to the drinks machine. As always, Tony Ross, the IT guy, is there. This explains why no-one can ever get him on the phone – perhaps they should call him the High-Tea guy.

Tony is tall and lanky, with short brown hair and owlish spectacles, and sports his perennial checked shirt and grey cords. Boy, it’s good to see the first friendly face of the morning. Time for a breather and to talk about the weekend and Tony’s latest online dating exploits.

“Hang on, Tony. You actually told someone you’d seen online that, in her profile photo, she looked as if she had good, child-bearing hips?”


“And you haven’t heard from her since?”

“Well, no …”
“And you’re surprised?”

“Yes. It was meant to be a compliment,” he shrugs.

Tony never fails to amaze me. Some men just have a talent for that sort of thing. If there was an Olympic event for Shot-Putting-Your-Foot-In-It and Curling-Up-Your-Toes-With-Embarrassment, he’d be an Olympic gold medal winner every time.

“But you hadn’t even met the girl.”

“But we’d chatted on the internet. I’d virtually met her.”

It’s a mystery to me what people see in the internet. OK, it’s useful to check the weather forecasts, catch up with the news and book last-minute holidays but as for those netheads who spend hours and hours surfing… What a waste of time.

But then, Tony does work in the IT department so I guess it’s not too surprising. At least, this way, he gets paid for it.

“And how about you, Kate? How was your weekend?”

“Don’t ask. Just don’t.”

It had been a bad one – just like most weekends these days. Paul and I fighting. Again.

What had sparked it off this time? Oh yes, I remember. I’d forgotten to unpack one of the bags of shopping from Saturday’s supermarket spree. And the next day, Paul had retrieved a soggy bag of melted, frozen peas from the unopened, plastic carrier bag, left lying on the floor.

Someone didn’t unpack the shopping,” he declared, pointedly.

“Really? Well, what was to stop you doing it, then?” I retorted.

 “Well, at least, I put the tofu away,” he countered.

 And there we were, straight into another bickering session. My usual accusation of how he never helps with the housework, and his standard defence that he looks after the car and that the house is my domain.

On and on – all day Sunday. Both actors knowing their lines so well that neither was willing to change, to improvise, to be spontaneous. Or even say sorry.

Ah well, no use crying over soggy peas except that I did. Silly me. Silly, silly me.

It seems to be happening more often these days. Is it my age? At 37, am I too old for boys and too young for the men-o-pause? Or is it, I wonder, just time for a change of a different kind?

I’ve often wished that men could be like library books. You pick one you like the look of, take it home, spend time with it for a week or two and when you’re done, you take it back to the library and exchange it for another one. No questions asked, no hurt feelings and, if you like it, you have the option to renew.

Why aren’t marriage licences renewable? An old man once told me that it used to cost seven-shillings-and-six-pence to buy a marriage licence which was the same price as a dog licence. I wonder which was the better value. At least, with a dog, they never complain about burnt dinners or erroneously defrosted vegetables.

Although to tell the truth, Paul and I aren’t actually married. Although these 15 years we’ve been living together, it certainly feels like it. I don’t know why we’ve never married. Somehow, I’ve never felt able to make that final commitment.

Maybe Tony, although he doesn’t realise it yet, is actually better off. Stay single, stay free, keep your options open. Sometimes, my heart feels as frozen as those wretched peas.

Still, try telling Tony that. He’s desperate to find someone, to be in a relationship, to settle down. Too desperate, I think, and it shows. Still, he’s a nice guy and that’s why I like to encourage him when I can.

Still, no-one can doubt his prowess on the computer. Just as well, for the number of times my machine breaks down. That’s how we’ve got to know each other so well, really. So many times he’s rescued me when old Sykes has had a deadline to meet and I’ve been faced with a computer which won’t do as it’s told. I just dial extension 369 and he’s there in a flash drive.

And, for that sort of service, a little coddling and advice about women is well worth it.

Recalling Tony’s earlier remarks about his disastrous online date, I start to tease him as he reaches for the chocolate digestives: “Go easy on those biscuits, Tony, or else people will be commenting on the size of your hips too.”

Smiling to myself, I manage to duck the empty plastic cup he hurls in my direction.

For all his faults, Tony does make me giggle. And, at Grantham and Slater, you need to laugh a lot – just to get through the day.

             “So, how was your day?” I ask Paul when I arrive back at home in Finchley this evening. Although seeing his face crumple as he collapses on the settee, I have a fair idea. It’s a shame because I was hoping to broach the subject of me maybe giving my job up and taking on something part-time and, if possible, a bit closer to home. It’s something we’ve talked about before but I’m not sure how much he’s taken in.

“Today was tough, Kate. Look, I know you want to jack in your job at the insurance place, but things are really tight at work at the moment. We do need you to keep on working there for a little longer: just till we can be sure of Athens…”

Athens. Paul’s work is a mystery to me. Lots of wheeling and dealing from what I can tell. Building contracts mainly but who knows what else goes on? But although Paul wears a sharp suit, he never seems quite sharp enough to land the one big deal that will give us the financial freedom for me to pursue my own thing. And with a mortgage weighing heavily round our necks, there’s no choice but work, work, work for the pair of us.

            “Dinner’s nearly ready,” I soothe, removing the cardboard sleeve from the Just-Heat-It-Up Chilli ‘n’ Rice ready meal and piercing the plastic cover with a fork.

Is there an art to cooking these things or does everybody else end up with the same burnt bits inside the plastic container? Ah well, who’s got time to cook proper meals these days?

I fantasise about baking my own multi-seeded, granary bread; laying the dinner table with candlesticks and solid silver cutlery, and serving up some gorgeous, golden-orange, butternut squash soup for starters; an exotic, saffron-infused, wild mushroom medley, wrapped in home-made puff pastry, accompanied by new potatoes and a julienne of vegetables for the main course and an enchanting, hot raspberry soufflé for dessert. Ah, those TV chefs have a lot to answer for. Dream on!

“You want bread with yours?” I shout through the hatch, reaching to open the wrapper of the cut-price, sliced white bread. Oven-ready, ready-sliced, nearly ready.

And, after what I laughingly call dinner, a night in front of the box. We generally catch up with one of the TV soaps while we balance our dinner on our knees. I found a couple of those cushion trays in a pound shop recently and they’re just the job.

One thing about watching TV together, though, that really annoys me is how, every time the ads come on, Paul reaches for the remote control and switches channels: just to make sure he isn’t missing anything on the other side. And, despite my entreaties, he always manages to clip the second half of the serial. He really is a remote control freak.

Tonight, as he usually does after dinner, Paul gets ready to go upstairs to our spare bedroom – his office – to spend the evening on his computer. I remember to grab him before he disappears.

“Remember, I’m seeing Suzie tomorrow night. I’ll be meeting her straight from work. You’ll have to get your own dinner.”

Always best to give him a bit of notice so he can pop into the chippy and get his dinner on the way home. Ah, modern life, so many conveniences yet so much inconvenience.

I hope the Northern Line will be working tomorrow, I think, as I iron my sensible white blouse ready for the next gripping day at Grantham and Slater. At least, let me get there early for once, just to see Marsha’s face.


Extract from the novel, The Cupid Business by Julie H. Rosenfield

Published on Amazon and Kindle 14.02.2014  The Cupid Business on Amazon The Cupid Business on Kindle
ISBN-13: 978-1493589661



The following is a short, edited extract from my forthcoming novel, The Cupid Business.

On a trip to Toronto, Kate meets Jake and gets more than she bargains for ….

Afterwards, I tucked into the first of several of Jake’s excellent pancakes. They were so fluffy and light to the touch.

“Jake, these are gorgeous and the maple syrup is so delicious. How do you make them?”

“Ah, an old family recipe,” he responded, tapping the end of his nose.

Jake was cute and he did make exceedingly good pancakes. He was tall and slim with long, glossy, dark  hair; shiny black jacket and black cords. And there was something very appealing about that Canadian accent.

Jake kept his earlier promise and hauled me all over Toronto. We had such fun. There was an exhibition of painted fibreglass moose in town. And, wherever we went, there was an appropriately painted and attired moose. So, in front of the law courts, there was a lawyer moose, and in front of the art gallery, an artist moose, and even:

“Doctor and Nurse Moose,” I shouted excitedly, at the pair in front of the Toronto General hospital.

And, to top it all, Jake insisted that I join him on a sightseeing coach tour of the city but not just any coach tour: a Moose Tour. I howled with laughter when I realised that we had to wear special cardboard moose antlers for the whole of the trip.

“And if you get called up before the law while you’re in Toronto,” warned the guide, “Whatever you do, don’t turn up in court wearing your moose antlers.”
After the tour was over, Jake said: “Come on, Kate, there’s still more moose to come,” and he led me to a  health and juice bar in Bloor Street.

“Now here’s where they do the best moose of all,” he announced with glee, “Chocolate mousse.”
And he was right. As I tucked into a huge bowl of creamy, mocha chocolate mousse, I realised that Toronto had quite a lot to offer. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice Jake’s hand coming towards me.

“Kate, you’ve got a mousse-tache!”

And with that, he dragged his forefinger across my lip. And then, to my surprise, placed the mousse-covered finger in his mouth and licked it seductively.

“Glad you came?” he asked, suggestively.

And I laughed. Truly, if I hadn’t already been attached, I could have seen myself falling for Jake in a big way. He seemed such a nice guy and so charming. He was a freelance artist, he told me. He’d even had a go at  designing one of the fibreglass moose himself.

“But to tell you the truth, Kate, I couldn’t bear the thought of giving it away. They were all being donated to charity which is great  but I got a bit attached to the one I designed. So I bought it myself and it’s sitting in my mom’s backyard instead.”

“What kind of a moose was it?” I asked, curious.

“Oh, a fruity one with lots of oranges, apples and bananas painted on it. And, of course, grapefruit.

“Grapefruit?” I asked.

“Yes, well, in French Canada, they’re called Pamplemousse. And my mum lives in Montreal, so I figured Monsieur  Moose would be very much at home there.”

He was so funny, I just couldn’t help laughing. I was almost going to be sorry when it was time to head home – although not quite as, of course,  I couldn’t wait to get back to see my partner.

“You know, I have a best friend called Suzie,” I told him with a grin. “You’d like her and I know she’d like you. You should come over and meet her. I think you two would really get on.”

And then, he stopped laughing and looked serious.

“Kate, I’m sure that she’s great but, to be honest, there’s someone I’m much more interested in right now.” And he looked at me intently.

And there in the middle of the Bloor Street Health and Juice Bar, and in front of all the mousse eaters, he kissed me.

Of course, I was absolutely appalled. This was all so wrong. My partner away on the other side of the Atlantic and me here with a stranger in a strange land.

Well, maybe this was how things were done in the land of the moose but not how things were done in London. Well, not my part of London anyway.

I pulled away. “I think,” I said firmly, “That there’s been some sort of moose-take!” …

Extract from  The Cupid Business by Julie H. Rosenfield  to be published on Amazon and Kindle later this year.

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