By Dan Neal, Palm Beach Post Staff Writer
Friday, March 12, 2004

My wife, Nicole, is in charge of the "Gal Friday" pages, but I confess I've never been able to read them. I've tried, but even a motivated man has little chance in a section that bandies about mystery terms like exfoliate and emollient as glibly as guys talk about torque.

Nevertheless, marriage eventually takes us to places we never thought we'd go. JoAnn Fabrics, for instance. Or, in my case, to this other everyman's hell: a tiny table festooned with flowers, heavy linens and clanky china, for an hour of fancy breakfasting and small talk with some grandma romance novelist I'd never heard of.

At least that's what I thought was in store for me one recent morning. Nicole woke up sick -- shivering, achy, flu sick -- but she didn't want me to run to the store for drugs. She needed me to get to the office and cancel her interview with Barbara Taylor Bradford at Northwood University. The meeting was at 9:30. By the time I reached anyone, it was 8 o'clock.

"Oh my," Susan McCreery said over the phone. The Northwood PR director spoke with a tremor that told me panic was banging at her door. "Can't someone else please come? Mrs. Bradford is en route, and, well, everything's all set up."

Yikes! Nicole hadn't told me this was a Big Deal. She hadn't told me Bradford was a favorite of Princess Diana and one of the most popular women's novelists in history. She didn't tell me that Bradford's books have sold more than 70 million copies and that 10 of her 19 novels have been made into movies or TV miniseries.

Worse, although Nicole had croaked something about a "breakfast meeting," she hadn't told me students at Northwood had made a special breakfast, set an elaborate table and even placed "Welcome Nicole" and "Welcome Barbara" signs in the parking lot!

There was no way out. The "Grande Dame of modern women's literature" was on her way, and she must be interviewed by someone. A man -- yes, even an insensitive, unromantic, unwilling and utterly chick-lit-ignorant man -- would have to do. So I was off to dine with a famous lady writer, and -- grr! -- we would be talking about love.

Or maybe not.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know much about romance novels," I told Bradford as we sat down to twin mushroom omelettes. I would have offended her less if I'd called the Queen Mum an old bag.

"No, no, no!" Bradford exclaimed, buttering toast furiously, screwing up her face and shaking her head. "I am not a romance novelist. Oh, there's sex in my books, of course, but I am really a family saga writer."

Whereupon she launched into a lengthy recitation of the plot of her latest book, Emma's Secret, to put my ignorant assumption to rout.

It worked. The complex story of how the histories of three English clans interlock over generations sounded more Dickens than Harlequin to me, and Bradford, exquisitely groomed on the outside but as tough as a side of mutton at heart, was anything but gooey. I don't know how good she is in print, but in person Bradford is a clearheaded, hardworking, no-nonsense practical woman that many a man, myself included, could take a lesson from.

The biographical part

She's 69, born in Yorkshire, England. At age 10, she begged for a pony, but her dad refused, so she got even with her pen -- and found her calling. Her short story Katie and Her Little Horse, about a girl whose father did buy her a horse, was purchased by a children's magazine.

"I got a letter back from them along with 10 and sixpence!" Bradford said, "My destiny was sealed."

She continued to contribute to local papers in her youth, and at 15 she landed a job as a typist with the Yorkshire Evening Post. At 18 she became the newspaper's Woman's Page editor, and at 20 she left for the big time in London, where she became fashion editor of the magazine Woman's Own.

In 1963 she married movie and TV producer Robert Bradford and moved to New York, where she continued working in journalism. After a career's worth of accomplishments (her "Designing Woman" column ran for 12 years in more than 100 American newspapers), she turned to books.

She wrote eight volumes on interior design, a couple of children's books and then, in the mid-'70s, turned to fiction -- and bombed. When her first four novels ended in unfinished failures, she sat down with a yellow legal pad and refused to get up till she had a plan.

"I asked myself, 'Why don't I like these books?' and wrote down the answer," she said. "And then I kept going: 'What kind of book do I want to write?' 'Who will it be about?' 'Where did she come from?' 'What's her problem?'

"And then Emma (Harte) sprang into my head as a little girl, 10 years old, going to work as a kitchen maid in Farley Hall."

Emma (she was originally called Emily, but Bradford ditched the name, because "it wasn't masculine enough") became the heroine of A Woman of Substance, the tale of an impoverished but iron-willed shop owner who makes it in a man's world. It is the book that launched Bradford's literary career, and it is one of the most popular works of fiction ever, having sold more than 20 million copies.

So far, four of her 19 books have included Emma in some way. A fifth (Unexpected Blessings) is all but written (Bradford is back in New York this month, writing the final 50 pages), and a sixth is planned (Just Rewards). Both continue the story line introduced in Emma's Secret.

Today, Bradford still writes in longhand on a legal pad, or on an IBM Lexmark typewriter, and she plots whole novels before she begins writing. Whether the details will be mentioned in the book or not, every main character gets a whole life: parents, a birthday, a hometown, strengths and weaknesses, friends and enemies, motivations and more.

"It's something I read that Graham Greene said," Bradford said. " 'Character is plot. Character is destiny.' When I heard that, I understood about writing fiction. That was why my early books failed -- I always started with a plot and tried to fit characters to it."

OK. I had the biography. I had some insight into her work. And I'd had breakfast. As a guy, I'd had enough.

Channeling Gal Friday

It was at this point that I believe a miracle happened. I can't swear to it, but I believe Nicole contacted me Radar Love-style from her sick bed. Otherwise, there's no accounting for what happened next:

"Enough about your books, Barbara," I said. "Who made that gray suit you're wearing?"

The skirt and jacket, she said, were by Robert Quaglia. (She also likes Pierre Balmain, if that means anything to you.)

I continued: "You must stoke your imagination with some wild living to be able to come up with 19 plump novels packed with convoluted drama. Dish it up! The women of Gal Friday want to know!"

"There's nothing, really," she said, laughing. "I have no children, and I've been married to the same man for 40 years. My books are turbulent, but I don't have a turbulent life. I have two dogs!"

Bichon frisés Beaji and Chammi sit under her desk while she writes.

Channeling my inner Barbara Walters, I also extracted these details: She lives in a Manhattan apartment that overlooks the East River, where she works five days a week. ("Wearing what?" A T-shirt, flat shoes and scrungy pants.) She loves cooking (especially "cottage pie" and "a really proper English lamb stew") and dining out on fine French food (Le Circe is her favorite spot in Manhattan). She also likes to go to Puccini operas and classical concerts (Mozart and Rachmaninoff), but her passion is English history -- she's a fool for the Tudor period and the Wars of the Roses.

Her story's a stunner

In a last-ditch bid to retain my self-esteem, I resist Nicole's telepathic insistence that I peer into Bradford's purse, but I can report that that purse was a whopper, certainly big enough to tote an adequate lunch or a fairly complete set of hand tools. Fascinating, no?

Perhaps, but something was still missing. Tell us a story, Barbara. Something from your books that's personal, maybe?

In 1981, Bradford's elderly father, Winston Taylor, died in England while she was in New York. She flew back home, grieved with her mom and tried to persuade her to move to the States with her. When her mother refused, Bradford flew back to Manhattan.

"It was very traumatic for me," Bradford said. "To be away, to leave her alone."

Four weeks later, her mother's housekeeper, Brenda, called from England. She said Bradford's mother was ill and wanted to speak with her.

"I don't feel well, Barbara," her mother told Bradford weakly over the phone. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Bradford replied. "Do you want me to come over?"

"No, no."

"And that was it," Bradford said. "She put the phone down. I waited for what seemed like forever -- I didn't dare hang up and call back, because I knew the line was open, I'd heard her set the receiver down -- and then Brenda came back on.

" 'I don't know how to tell you this,' she said, 'but your Mummy just died.'

"And I just lost it with Brenda, I'm afraid," Bradford said. "I accused her of not taking care of her properly, terrible things. I was awful, but I was distraught.

"I think she died of a broken heart, you see. She didn't know how to live without this man who at times she hated, at times she loved. They spent their whole lives together, either in each other's arms or at each other's throats."

When Bradford returned to England to bury her mom, she learned that a neighbor, Rose, had been with her mother when she died.

"Mummy was sitting in her chair, Rose said. When she put the phone down, Rose said she asked her, 'Freda, are you all right?'

"She said, 'No, I want to go to Winston.'

"Rose said her eyes then turned so very blue, and Mummy said, 'I can see Winston.' And she died, with a smile on her face.

"When Emma dies in Hold the Dream, she dies just like that -- with a smile and with her eyes so green.

"So there you have it -- I guess I do recycle some of my life in my books, and now you've made me cry!"

dan_neal@pbpost.com

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