Tonight, in a gesture as bold as it is tender, Vivi has secured the Main Hall of the Amsterdam Concertgebouw — a space whispered about across Europe, a hall whose very walls seem to breathe music.

🎼 The Acoustics: A Living Instrument

Musicians speak of the Concertgebouw’s acoustics with something close to reverence. The hall is a classic “shoebox” design, a shape later proven ideal for music because sound can travel cleanly and richly between its long parallel walls. But in 1935, this wasn’t science — it was mystery. Architect Dolf van Gendt, famously “as musical as a cow,” relied on instinct and imitation, modelling the hall on Leipzig’s Neue Gewandhaus. Somehow, through intuition or luck, he created a space where:

• Low tones bloom against thick brick walls
• High notes shimmer, scattered by pillars and ornamentation
• Every instrument finds its place in the air
• A singer can stand anywhere — in front of the orchestra, beside it, behind it — and still hear their own voice clearly

By 1935, the hall’s sound was already considered one of the finest in the world, mentioned in the same breath as Vienna’s Musikverein and Boston’s Symphony Hall.

Prestige in 1935

To perform here was not merely an engagement — it was a credential. The Concertgebouw was the home of Willem Mengelberg and the Concertgebouw Orchestra, famous for championing Mahler, Strauss, and Stravinsky. By the 1930s, virtually every major European musician had appeared on its stage.

A single night in this hall meant:

• Recognition: Only ensembles of serious calibre were invited.
• Visibility: Critics from across Europe watched the Concertgebouw closely.
• Validation: If your music could fill this hall, you belonged to the continent’s musical elite.

For Henri, Eszter, Albert, and Ilona, stepping onto this stage would feel like crossing a threshold — from striving artists to musicians worthy of Europe’s grandest rooms.

What Vivi Has Done

To quietly book the hall — without fanfare, without warning — is an act of astonishing generosity. It is the kind of surprise that says:

“I believe in you. I believe in your music. And I want the world to hear it in the place where sound becomes something sacred.”

The Concertgebouw is not merely a venue. It is a promise — that their art deserves the very best stage Europe can offer.

Today was my first day back at work after being signed off to recover from an illness — and nothing says “welcome back” quite like your colleagues immediately wanting publishing updates. I walked in with a Dropbox full of advertising media, final edits, and the kind of excitement that makes you forget you’re still a bit wobbly.

Naturally, the first question was: “Is your website just your name?”

So they googled it.

The first result: ✔ My author website ✔ My social media ✔ My actual writing life

The second result: ❌ “Eleanor Whitlock, 1871 murder case — husbands buried upright.” On YouTube. With dramatic music.

We laughed. A lot. All afternoon.

Of course, due diligence was required — just to make sure I didn’t have any dormant Victorian‑murderess DNA waiting to activate. Thankfully (and somewhat disappointingly), it turns out the story isn’t real. It’s one of those fictional Victorian murder tales that circulate on YouTube, the kind presented as “true history” but are really just gothic creepypasta with very committed narrators.

So no, I am not secretly the reincarnation of a 19th‑century husband‑burier. I am simply a romance author with an unfortunately atmospheric name.

But honestly? If my pen name is already starring in fictional Victorian crime stories, I feel like my branding is working.

For Ilona and the travelling orchestra, Amsterdam is a new stop on their tour. For Henri, it’s something else entirely — a place woven into his childhood, his brother, and the friends he once roamed the canals with.

Albert, one of the orchestra’s saxophonist, discovers this quickly. The moment Henri slips into Dutch, Albert leans over to Llona and mutters, “He’s arguing with geese again.” Later, when Henri debates the price of sheet music, Albert swears he’s “shouting at furniture.” Henri takes it in stride, rolling his eyes with the kind of patience only a Belgian can muster.

Bookshops & Bitterballen

Henri leads them through the narrow streets like a man returning home. He shows Ilona the bookshops he visited with his brother — the ones with crooked floors and shelves that smell of dust and ink. Ilona trails her fingers along the spines, listening as Henri explains how Dutch vowels work, Albert snickering behind them.

They stop at a brown pub, where the windows fog with steam and the tables wobble on uneven tiles. Bitterballen arrive hot and crisp, and Henri insists they try Belgian jenever, the gin he grew up seeing on every uncle’s table. It burns warmly, loosening the orchestra’s laughter, softening Ilona’s shoulders after a long rehearsal.

Henri’s Amsterdam

He shows them the places he once stood as a boy — the bridge where he and his brother dared each other to jump into the canal, the music hall where he first heard a saxophone and decided he wanted to spend his life chasing sound.

Ilona watches him as he talks, noticing how his voice changes here. He is steadier. More open. More himself.

Albert nudges her at one point and whispers, “Careful. A man showing you his city is never just a tour.”

A City That Shapes Them

By the time evening falls over Rembrandtplein, the orchestra has scattered into cafés and music halls. Henri and Ilona walk the canal’s edge, the water catching the lights like scattered coins. He tells her he never expected to return here.

Amsterdam becomes the quiet hinge of their journey: a place of books, brass, bitterballen, and the soft burn of jenever. A place where Henri’s past meets Llona’s present. A place where their promise begins to take shape.

Today I spent time deepening one of the characters closest to my heart: Ilona, the young Jewish violinist at the centre of my 1935 spring–summer novel. What began as a simple character sketch turned into a far more emotional dive than I expected — because to understand Ilona, I had to understand Budapest, her family, her traditions, and the quiet strength she carries with her.

Budapest: A city of contradictions and beauty

Researching Budapest in the 1930s was unexpectedly moving. It was a city filled with:

• cafés humming with artists and musicians,
• the Danube glittering between Buda and Pest,
• synagogues alive with community and tradition,
• and beneath it all, a growing tension that would soon reshape countless lives.

For Ilona, Budapest isn’t just a backdrop — it’s the emotional foundation of who she is. She comes from a family rooted in craft and heritage, shaped by the rhythms of Shabbat, the warmth of home, and the quiet resilience that so many families carried during that era.

Family, tradition, and the weight of inheritance

Ilona’s character began to take shape when I explored what her family might have passed down to her:

• a grandmother’s necklace,
• a father’s teachings,
• a mother’s careful preservation of ritual,
• and the small, intimate objects that make Shabbat feel like home.

Understanding these traditions helped me understand her. She isn’t simply a musician on a train tour — she’s a young woman carrying her family’s history in her pocket, in her memories, and in the rituals she tries to keep alive even when the world around her becomes dangerous.

Why this research mattered today

Learning more about Budapest’s Jewish history gave me clarity on Ilona’s emotional landscape:

• why she is cautious,
• why she is gentle,
• why she is brave in quiet ways,
• and why her identity matters so deeply to her story.

It reminded me that character building isn’t just about personality traits — it’s about heritage, place, and the invisible threads that tie a character to the world they come from.

Ilona’s journey is shaped by music, yes — but also by candles lit at sunset, whispered blessings, family heirlooms tucked into luggage, and the memory of a city she loves even as she’s forced to leave it behind.

A small insight from today’s work

Sometimes, when writing historical fiction, you think you’re researching a city. But really, you’re learning how a character loves, fears, hopes, and survives.

Today Budapest taught me more about Ilona than any character questionnaire ever could.

And I can’t wait to share more of her story with you.

Over the past week I’ve been deep in the archives researching European trains in 1935 — and I mean properly deep. Old railway timetables, carriage diagrams, dining‑car menus, border‑control notes, even the way steam engines were painted depending on the country. I wanted the orchestra’s train in my novel to feel real, not just beautiful, and the research ended up shaping the entire personality of The Velvet Continental.

What surprised me most was how much elegance and engineering detail existed long before the modern era. A few discoveries genuinely stopped me in my tracks:

Dining cars had full kitchens — tiny but astonishingly efficient

I always imagined a separate kitchen car, but in 1935 the kitchen was built into the dining car itself. Coal‑fired stoves, iceboxes packed with blocks of ice, and chefs who could produce multi‑course meals in a space barely wider than a corridor. It made me rethink how meals on the Velvet Continental feel: intimate, warm, full of clatter and steam.

Sleeping cars were strictly separated by gender

Men and women could dine together, rehearse together, wander corridors together — but sleeping arrangements were absolutely divided. Even touring orchestras followed this rule. That detail ended up shaping the social dynamics on the train: shared spaces for tension and chemistry, private spaces for secrets.

Private salon cars were a real thing — and wildly luxurious

Wealthy patrons, diplomats, and industrialists commissioned their own rail cars, complete with bedrooms, bathrooms, lounges, and even observation platforms. This discovery is what unlocked Vivienne Lockwood’s entire character: her independence, her wealth, her ability to protect the orchestra, and her private sanctuary rolling across Europe.

Border checks were intense, even for prestigious trains

In 1935, crossing into Germany meant inspections, paperwork, and scrutiny — especially for artists, foreigners, and anyone travelling in groups. This historical reality gave me the Berlin scene: the train halted, officials boarding, tension rising, and Vivi stepping forward with the kind of authority only a wealthy American heiress could wield.

Rehearsal cars existed — but only for special touring trains

Some cultural delegations had custom-built rehearsal spaces attached to luggage vans. I had no idea. This discovery gave me one of my favourite settings in the book: a long wooden car filled with music stands, warm lamplight, and the quiet intimacy of musicians practising between cities.

After a whirlwind week of publishing chaos (thank you, Amazon KDP…), I’ve taken matters into my own hands. Five of my novellas are now available free to download directly from my website — no log‑ins, no accounts, just stories.

• The Jazz Club Upstairs — a 1930s Chicago slow‑burn set between music and memory
• Letters to Apartment 4B — a story of connection, longing, and the letters that change everything
• The Songbird of Montparnasse — a Parisian romance of voice, ambition, and the heart’s quiet rebellion

Each novella is presented as a PDF edition, beautifully formatted for easy reading on any device.

Click below to download your favourites and step into the worlds of The Blue Orchid Jazz Club, Apartment 4B, and three of five of the Montparnasse Nights Series