The Contemporary Novels - Mrs Hartley and the Growth Centre, Perfectly Correct, The Little House, and Zelda's Cut

In theory, I would not expect to do research for contemporary novels but I always find there are things that I need to know or that intrigue me. Mrs Hartley's useless husband is a lecturer at Suffix University and Louise Case also teaches there. The liberal eccentricity of my fictional university is not a million miles from where I took my BA in three happy years: The University of Sussex.

Nobody could research for Mrs Hartley and the Growth Centre, but I must confess to a deep affection for many new age therapies and dolphin.

Perfectly Correct was going to be a straightforward novel about Louise Case. When Rose Miles turned up and announced she was a child of the suffragette movement I laughed aloud. I had not planned her, and did not really invite her. She camped her van on my story as she did in Louise's orchard, and we both had to deal with her. I read books about the suffragettes and consulted my nieces about the etiquette of raves.

Zelda's Cut is based on my rather cynical appreciation of the publishing world where literary merit sometimes comes a long way second to publicity. It is almost wholly fiction, except that many women come to me and tell me that they are unfortunately married to the dreary husband. I do not, in general, suggest that they adopt an alter ego, and have a love affair with a homosexual literary agent.

The Little House very rapidly became a dark study into post natal depression and the rivalry between a woman and her mother in law for possession of 'the boys'. I knew I would need to understand post natal depression in order to write Ruth's experiences convincingly, and I was reassured that I had told her story fairly by the number of letters I received from readers who said that they recognised her symptoms, and that her story had helped them. I must say, I also have had a lot of feedback from mothers in law who tell me that their husbands have wives who are as ineffective and troublesome as Ruth, and young women who tell me that their mother in law from hell is just like Elizabeth.

I visited my local bookshop to buy books on depression, mental illness, addiction to anti-depressants, and the law on admitting people to mental hospitals against their will. I checked out my pile of books at the till and slid over my credit card. 'Philippa Gregory?' the sales assistant queried, recognising the name of an author. Her eyes flicked to my dismal pile of books, clearly the selection of a woman on the brink of despair. 'Are you sure you want these? Are you quite all right?'