When I was a little girl, my governess made a deal with me: for every story I told her, she would tell me a new fairy tale. Needless to say, I came up with a lot of stories of my own, because I was so keen to hear a new tale. The Arabian Nights, Hans Christian Andersen, the Brothers Grimm – I thrilled to every new story.

Of course, it was the romance that most inspired me in the stories. The kiss that awoke Sleeping Beauty, the dance of Cinderella and her Prince at the ball… I was swept away by the moments of romance, and the sense of security and joy they gave me.

But other aspects of the stories did not enchant me. There is no denying the undercurrent of darkness in many fairy tales. The witches, the evil stepmothers, the Beast who trapped Beauty – all of these frightened me as a child. ‘The Red Shoes’ by Hans Christian Andersen particularly disturbed me; for a child who loved to dance, this was more horror story than comforting children’s tale.

Perhaps it is no surprise that the little girl who loved the romance in fairy tales grew up to write her own romance novels. But something of the darkness prevails too. As a child, I longed for the world to be only sunshine and rainbows and happy-ever-afters. As an adult, I understand that real romance is multi-faceted, and there is a danger in indulging in fantasy.

When Catriona, heroine of my novel Concerto, first meets Umberto, she is only eighteen and is very innocent. He is older than her and far worldlier, as well as suave and charming. The romance between them is heady and exhilarating, and in her nativity Catriona allows herself to be swept away. I write:

Umberto held out his hand. She put hers in the strong palm, a thrill of pleasure running through her as they walked down on to the beach. Glancing down at her hand in his, Catriona knew then, all warnings aside, that she had met a man to whom she could lose her heart … forever.

The silence of the night was stupefying. No sound broke the frozen hush except the soft crunch of their steps and the waves whispering gently as they slid up on to the sand. The sky was a deep, unclouded mirror above the moonlit ocean. Catriona’s feet were cold but she felt nothing now except the exhilaration of being alone with the virtuoso in this magical setting. There was a curious calm within her and she felt as though she was entering some enchanted enclosure where Umberto was the nucleus. Yes, the earth here was too beautiful indeed for anyone but lovers, she found herself thinking, its wanton loveliness by rights for them alone. She belonged in this fairy-tale setting with Umberto Rolando Monteverdi; it was a love story she was living.

‘Magical’, ‘enchanted’, ‘fairy-tale’ – Catriona has slipped into fantasy, lost in the very idea of them. She has known Umberto only a very short while and she is so young, yet she is thinking ‘forever’. She is idealising their relationship and their future; she is, without realising it, hazarding her heart.

Catriona’s romantic bubble must burst, and so it does. Sharply and painfully. The morning after they share a night of passion, Umberto tells Catriona there is no future for them; he is leaving to go on a world tour for his music. Catriona has given herself to him entirely, and she is left alone – and pregnant. Her dreams of becoming an opera singer are shattered overnight; instead, she must forge a new life as a single mother.

Catriona lived the fairy tale, with the light but also the darkness. Ten years later, when Catriona and Umberto meet again, her heart will be guarded. Having navigated the perils of the fairy tale, can she find a way to love again – to strive for a real relationship, with all the hard work and sacrifice that will mean; to build for herself a happy-ever-after where happiness is grounded in reality, not fantasy?