Coffee with Lucy Foley (not real)
Imagine this: I’m perched at a rustic café table, the kind with wobbly legs and a faint whiff of cinnamon in the air, facing Lucy Foley. Her latest thriller, The Midnight Feast, sits between us, its cover practically pulsing with mystery. I’ve got a steaming cappuccino, she’s got a black coffee, and I’m ready to dig into the deliciously twisted world she’s crafted. Let’s chat.
“Lucy,” I start, grinning, “you’ve got this knack for locking people in creepy settings—first a hunting lodge, now a luxe retreat in Dorset. What’s with the obsession with trapping folks in fancy cages?” She laughs, a little wickedly, and leans in. “I love the tension of a closed circle,” she says. “This retreat, The Manor, with its woodland vibes and dark history—it’s like a pressure cooker. Everyone’s got secrets, and there’s nowhere to run.”
I sip my coffee, eyeing her. “Okay, let’s talk about that midsummer feast. Without giving too much away, it’s wild—folklore, food, and a dash of chaos. Did you ever think, ‘Maybe I’ve gone too far with the creepy vibes’?” She smirks. “Oh, I leaned into it. I wanted that primal, pagan energy—think bonfires and old tales from the West Country. It’s not just a party; it’s a reckoning.”
Unpacking the Layers of The Midnight Feast
“Speaking of layers,” I say, “you juggle multiple perspectives again—guests, staff, even a bit of the past creeping in. Was it a nightmare to keep all those voices straight?” She nods, sipping her coffee. “It’s a puzzle, for sure. I wanted you to feel the guests’ unease, the staff’s resentment, and that slow drip of something sinister from years ago. It’s like braiding a rope—each strand’s got to hold.”
“Let’s get nosy,” I tease. “Your characters—like Francesca, the glamorous host, or Eddie, the kitchen guy—they’re all hiding something. Who was the most fun to write?” She lights up. “Eddie, hands down. He’s rough around the edges, stuck in this posh world, and he’s got this dry humor that sneaks out. But they all surprised me—secrets have a way of taking over.”
“Last one,” I say, leaning back. “The ending—it’s a punch. Did you always know it’d twist that way, or did the story drag you there?” She grins, mysterious as ever. “I had a hunch, but the characters decided it. I love when a book feels like it’s alive, pulling you somewhere dark and unexpected.”
We finish our drinks, and I’m left buzzing—not just from the caffeine, but from the thrill of her storytelling: a midsummer night gone gloriously wrong, wrapped in suspense and secrets.
