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In a word: Incline

When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.

I’ve been on a few of those in my time.

And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.

For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.

Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.

It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast

But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.

An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?

There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.

But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

Hang about. Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?

I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!

Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.

I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?

Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.

Right now.

I pick up the pen.

Character number one:

Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing. Still me, but with a twist. Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance. Yes, I like that.

We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons. It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated. There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.

Character number three:

The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.

Oops, too much, that is my old boss. He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him. Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him. Last name Benton. He will play a small role in the story.

Character number four:

Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 31

It’s past five o’clock in the afternoon, and I haven’t had a look at working on the last few chapters.

I looked at it last night and made the changes I thought I needed to continue working the next day.

But…

The day started with the Maple Leafs playing some other team, but it didn’t matter. It was at Scotiabank Stadium, our home ground, so the odds were in our favour to win.

Of course, the day before we lost. It was disappointing, and if anyone had been following the trials of living with Chester, my cantankerous cat, you would know he was happy they did.

And still getting his least favourite food.

He knows the deal. Barrack for the Maple Leafs or there will be consequences.

Today we won in overtime. Good, we’ve been winning since we changed coaches, and the loss yesterday was an aberration.

The game ended in the early afternoon, our time.

Then we switched over to one-day cricket, and this will run till about ten tonight, which means not much work will get done.

I have been forsaking cricket to finish the NaNoWriMo project. Now that the pressure is off, I have a few things to catch up on.

At least the next hockey game is not till Wednesday.

The cricket for us, at least, is over for a day or so.

In the meantime, now that there is a lull in sports, I will get back to work.

What I learned about writing: Characters can be the sum of our experiences

Our view of life, love, relationships, and marriage comes from our own experiences. This is basically the same for all of us for everything that happens to us through life, as young children, at school, at work, at leisure, and as we grow as a person.

Our ideas about life will come from the experiences of having our children, watching over our children as they grow up, from our relatives, both our own and those acquired by marriage or relationships, and from our friends.

No two life experiences will be exactly the same. There will be similarities but differences, which may or may not give us a different perspective, whether that might be for the better or for the worse. Not everything that will happen to us will be good or bad, but just an experience that we will remember or forget, take notice of or ignore, helps us grow, or cause us pain.

There will be the experiences we have when interacting with others that are outside our family sphere, but have an influence on us directly or indirectly, like politicians, doctors, government officials, and police. There will also be experiences involving those at work that we interact with in a professional manner, and others who have influence in ways that sometimes can be unimaginable.

These interactions will influence our feelings, thoughts, and how we react and behave, the highs and lows of having children and grandchildren, and interactions with aunts, uncles, and our parents. Equally, there will be moments of despair, of losing a job or missing out on a promotion, of dealing with people in the workplace that make life difficult, dealing with relatives who are not very nice, in short, all of those interactions with all these people around you, and more.

Yes, your life is steered by all of these influences, and your views are often coloured by any or all of these people. They make up the sum of who you are, who you will be, and what you want to be. Those dreams will seem, sometimes, within your grasp, but quite often they will seem as far from your grasp as touching the moon.

But all of this, while it makes up who you are, will also make up who your characters are in a story.

They will be people you know, people you’ve met, people you’ve interacted with, people you’ve seen.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 104

Day 104 – Writing Exercise

…

He brushed the curtain to one side and looked out the window.

There had been no reason to. Usually, he just arrived at a hotel, checked in, partially unpacked, had a shower and went to bed.

His employers didn’t believe that he should arrive in the morning, get settled, study up on the details for the meeting the next morning, and be ready, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Instead, because he was usually on the last plane, it was always late, arriving at the destination just before the airport closed, and often, it was almost impossible to get a cab into the city.

Which invariably made him tired and angry by the time he reached the hotel.

He would be lucky to get three hours of sleep, if at all.

And lucky enough, this time, to get a room with a balcony. He decided to get some fresh air before turning in. The day had been hot, but the night was cool with a gentle breeze. The room was cold from the air conditioning, which he had turned off.

He should be looking at the agenda for the following day. Instead, he took a bottle of beer from the bar fridge, turned all the lights off behind him, and went out into the night.

After midnight, darkness had settled. Office towers had only some areas lit, some floors in darkness, making the view look like a patchwork quilt. Some floors were ablaze, perhaps waiting for the cleaners, or people were working back.

The neon advertising lights, glaringly bright, vied for attention, from the brighter colourful blinking advertisements atop buildings, standing out starkly against the black backdrop, to those static signs at ground level.

In the distance, a large stadium still had all the arc lights going, and it looked like a patch in daylight. Had someone forgotten to turn the lights off?

In the morning, he would be hard-pressed to see any of it.

…

There was no rhyme or reason why his eyes ended up on a dull glow of a desk lamp in an office in a building almost across the road, on a diagonal line from his balcony.

He was standing in the darkness, the lighting of the room in the darkness, except for the bedside lamp, which was just visible from where he was standing. It was dark on the balcony, and he would’ve been invisible to anyone looking his way.

The glow of the lamp showed a man and a woman in an office. She was sitting on the desk, and he was sitting in his chair. They had a look of familiarity about them, perhaps a pair in a relationship, perhaps married, perhaps an affair, his mind turning over the scenarios.

She was stunningly beautiful, still in her work clothes; he guessed she might be a lawyer or accountant, she had that university-acquired air of authority. The man was all too familiar to him, the smartest man in the room type, the one who commanded attention.

Politicians, law practice partner or management. Definitely management.

The way she looked up at him, not the way a wife or girlfriend would. There was something else going on there.

She laughed, that sort of laugh that changed her manner. She was madly in love with him, and then he stood and came to her; she melded into his arms with a practised ease of long-term lovers.

Then, suddenly, the lights came on; someone had flicked a master switch. They were suddenly apart, and the whole atmosphere had changed.

Very businesslike.

The cleaners had arrived.

She collected her coat and handbag, gave a coy wave and headed off. The secret assignation was over.

It was true, he thought, that the janitorial staff were almost invisible. The things they must know, if only they knew who they were.

…

I shrugged. Enough of inventing the lives of others who were so much better off than I.

A third-year law clerk whose lot in life was to handle the small legal issues of our clients when we had to liaise with out-of-state matters.

This one was a deceased estate that the client’s mother had left behind, and a minor dispute over who had the final will.

The client claimed to have the last true will and testament of Agatha Bernadette Williams, the lawyers who claim to represent the caretaker and his wife had what was a later will.

It was suspicious in the sense that the son, and rightful heir, according to him, had a detailed record of the last time his mother had made her will, with signed documents and statutory records of interviews and letters between the son and his mother.

The second will was simply writing on a piece of paper and was supported by two witnesses, not the caretaker and his wife, leaving everything to them.

It might not have been a problem if the estate were worth 50,000 dollars rather than fifty million, give or take.

The son considered the claim to be fake, my boss believed what the client told him, so they sent me. I had very specific instructions. Prove they were lying. The problem, the lawyers, the caretaker and his wife had selected were very reputable and charged very high fees for one reason only. They very rarely lost.

I had to wonder why they sent me into a legal minefield.

I had a copy of the new will, the old will, reports from a handwriting expert, and a deposition from the son saying that the other will and the manner in which it was created were not done by his mother.

There was another document, the caretaker’s criminal history, and it didn’t make pleasant reading.

Why was it that money, particularly large chunks of it, brought out the worst in people?

…

I was staying in the hotel I was in because it was not far from the offices of our affiliate lawyers. It was another reason why I was annoyed. The affiliate lawyers could have sorted the problem, and I would not have had to get on a plane.

I hated planes.

I wanted to come by train, but my boss, Horace Aloysius Jacketine, the third, mind you, senior partner, determined this matter had to be settled now, today, no excuses, and no delays

I tried to argue the case for the local office, and failed. One of us had to oversee it. The lawyer handling the matter, Jennifer Joan Rickerson, herself from a long line of distinguished legal people, was disappointed. I don’t blame her. She was overqualified for a matter this small.

She did not play the female lawyer card, but I knew Horace had a low opinion of female lawyers, perhaps because he had been beaten by one once, and I suspected that had been his wife. He married her, and she was no longer a competition.

Horace was a strange and remarkably out-of-date sort of man. More than once, I thought he belonged in the late 1800s and had arrived here through a portal. As you can appreciate, reading science fiction was almost the perfect escape from heavy legal matters.

I rose early and quickly scanned the documentation. I was supposed to leave with the affiliate lawyers and request that they go through it before I left to return home. Lawyers never moved that fast, but in this case, there seemed to be a rush for a result from both parties.

Something was not right.

…

My sixth sense got me the job at the law office. That year, the candidates were given a case file and told to find what the key issues were so that a winning case could be prepared and executed.

Based on an old case that they had lost? I had heard from a previous intake candidate that it was a case that set the candidates up to fail. No one had cracked it, and it was rumoured to be one of Horace’s old cases, and he refused to let it go.

I didn’t blame him. The billable hours would have been worth a fortune.

We were given an hour, sat in a small, stuffy room, with a big binder of papers that hadn’t been filed properly, a fact that I realised later, but there was no need. Discovery and document collection, and their collating, were always very messy.

I also learned a valuable lesson that day, that it was not a good idea to simply overlook something because it did fit a set of parameters. The exercise in part was to sort out those who probed and those who glossed.

Five pages in, and my nose was twitching.

On page 397, I had the answer and wrote three lines on a sheet of legal note pad paper with the number they gave me, and I gave it to the receptionist, the same one who had looked down her nose at me when I arrived.

I doubted it would ever reach the person responsible and left feeling rather dejected.

But it did, and I got the job, the only one out of 29 candidates, and my first job was to write up the case in a way that we would have won.

After that, I got to work for Horace, which had its perks and its problems.

…

I took a dedicated elevator up to the 20th floor, where the law firm lived, atop the building. It was that floor that cost a small fortune for the uninterrupted views, and the impression it made on the clients, that this was a law firm that consistently won.

We lived in the original historical building where the first law office was, our message being that we had been around for a long time and were reliable and resolute. I thought the place creaked and groaned like an old sailing ship.

Clients like glass and concrete, not musty dark wood panelling that retained centuries of cigar smoke and carpets, well, I was never quite sure what that aroma was.

This office had lightning-fast elevators, an open layout where everyone had stunning views, and offices with glass walls. There was nowhere to hide. The breakout area was nothing less than spectacular.

It was where the receptionist left me, and where I made a cup of coffee with a machine that had a TV screen and lots of pictures of different types of coffee, but not one of just coffee.

Back home, our office had instant coffee in a large tin; you boiled the water and scooped sugar out of a large piece of vintage crockery. I didn’t have milk.

I was waiting for Jennifer Joan Rickerson. She had an interesting voice on the phone, and I was eager to see if my imagination matched the reality.

“Mr Pargeter?”

The voice. I turned and nearly dropped my cup. It was the girl from the late-night office, in different clothes but just as stunning. I noticed the slight wrinkle of her nose, a sign of disapproval.

I guess I was not her idea of lawyer material.

“I am.”

I was not sure if we shook hands, so I didn’t move, except to put the cup on the sink.

“I think you equally agree with me that there was no reason to send someone from your office.”

“I do. But you try making the point with my boss. It’s a dotting the i and crossing the t exercise.”

She gave me one last disapproving look before saying, “We’re set up in the conference room. The Caretaker’s lawyer will be coming in about an hour.”

I followed her into a large, very bright room surrounded by glass, with distracting views.

She sat at the head of the table, and I sat in the cheap seats. I knew a lot about strategic seating, positions of power, and the place where the poor client, if necessary, was placed at a disadvantage. She was obviously well-versed in strategy, especially when faced with a third-year legal representative.

The worst seat in the room was my biggest advantage. That was why they could never see me coming.

“The Catetakers’ legal representatives had sent over their latest documents, which are in the blue folder.”

There were five folders, all different colours. Their notes on the case were in the yellow folder. Documents we had sent were in the green and purple folders. The grey folder was empty; that was for today’s notes.

I took a plain manila folder out of my ancient satchel and slid it across the table.

“Another affidavit from the son. He’s adamant that his mother would never create such a document, given how structured her life had been for so long. Oddly, and with no relevance, my father was the most orderly man I ever knew, and in the last year of his life, that all fell apart. I guess we don’t want to believe that it’s possible.”

Another of those rather interesting expressions that covered a multitude of thoughts. If only I could read her mind…

“Anything is possible, but as you know, we only deal in facts, not possibilities.”

“Exactly. What do you make of this case, based on the latest information supplied by the Catetaker?”

It would be interesting to hear what she thought. I had made an assumption based on a single glance at the top page of the yellow folder.

“They have a strong case. It’s going to come down to the court deciding the outcome. Take a look at the documents and see what you think. It’s going to be a battle to get any form of closure today, contrary to what is expected.”

“And if it was over fifty thousand dollars?” I asked, in my non-confrontational tone.

The look said it all.

…

Searching for Locations: Venice, Italy

Venice is definitely a city to explore. It has an incredible number of canals and walkways, and each time we would start our exploration at St Marks square when it’s not underwater

Everyone I have spoken to about exploring Venice has told me how easy it is to get lost. It has not happened to me, but with the infinite number of ways you can go, I guess it is possible.

We started our exploration of Venice in St Marks square, where, on one side there was the Museo di Palazzo Ducale and, next door, the Basilica di San Marco. Early morning and/or at high tide, water can be seen bubbling up from under the square, partially flooding it. I have seen this happen several times. Each morning as we walked from the hotel (the time we stayed in the Savoia and Jolanda) we passed the Bridge of Sighs.

Around the other three sides of the square are archways and shops. We have bought both confectionary and souvenirs from some of these stores, albeit relatively expensive. Prices are cheaper in stores that are away from the square and we found some of these when we walked from St Marks square to the Railway station, through many walkways, and crossing many bridges, and passing through a number of small piazzas.

That day, after the trek, we caught the waterbus back to San Marco, and then went on the tour of the Museo di Palazzo Du which included the dungeons and the Bridge of Sighs from the inside. It took a few hours, longer than I’d anticipated because there was so much to see.

The next day, we caught the waterbus from San Marco to the Ponte di Rialto bridge. Just upstream from the wharf there was a very large passenger ship, and I noticed there were a number of passengers from the ship on the waterbus, one of whom spoke to us about visiting Venice. I didn’t realize we looked like professional tourists who knew where we were going.

After a pleasant conversation, and taking in the views up and down the Grand Canal, we disembarked and headed for the bridge, looking at the shops, mostly selling upmarket and expensive gifts, and eventually crossing to the other side where there was a lot of small market type stalls selling souvenirs as well as clothes, and most importantly, it being a hot day, cold Limonata. This was my first taste of Limonata and I was hooked.

Continuing on from there was a wide street at the end and a number of restaurants where we had lunch. We had a map of Venice and I was going to plot a course back to the hotel, taking what would be a large circular route that would come out at the Accademia Bridge, and further on to the Terminal Fusina Venezia where there was another church to explore, the Santa Maria del Rosario.

This is a photo of the Hilton Hotel from the other side of the canal.

It was useful knowledge for the second time we visited Venice because the waterbus from the Hilton hotel made its first stop, before San Marco, there. We also discovered on that second visit a number of restaurants on the way from the terminal and church to the Accademia Bridge.

This is looking back towards San Marco from the Accademia Bridge:

And this, looking towards the docks:

Items to note:

Restaurants off the beaten track were much cheaper and the food a lot different to that in the middle of the tourist areas.

There are a lot of churches, big and small, tucked away in interesting spots where there are small piazza’s. You can look in all of them, though some asked for a small fee.

Souvenirs, coffee, and confectionary are very expensive in St Marks square.

“Chance Encounter”, A short story

The afternoon rush hour jammed the exit roads, particularly those to the beach. Nearly everyone was heading for relief from the heat wave, now in its tenth consecutive day. What had started out a novelty was now just tiresome, with no forecast respite.

A light breeze tried to fan away the afternoon heat, but it had little impact. The temperature was still hovering in the high 30’s when Bill left the office at 6:30 that evening.

On the road it was little better, and hotter in the car than out. There was no point running the air conditioner in those conditions, as both he and many others had discovered. The stop-start traffic made it worse, and people who had already suffered enough were close to breaking point.

Once again, the traffic stopped, and tempers frayed to the point of blowing horns and yelling forlorn abuse at some unseen driver or cause. It was a no-win situation, and to Bill, a waste of time and energy. His time and energy, he thought, was best directed at analysis. Yet how different had the afternoon been to what was currently happening?

In charge of the Customer Service centre for the area’s electricity supplier, it had been difficult to say the least. That afternoon had seen the highest consumption of electricity since the heat wave began, since time immemorial for that matter, and had started to affect the functionality of the grid, with the first failures occurring.

It had been predicted, but was not expected quite this early, and as parts of the city were beginning to feel the effect of temporary blackouts, his, and his staff’s work had begun to receive the full effect of the community’s contempt and hatred.

The traffic disaster was not a patch on the abuse both he and members of his staff had received that afternoon, and he instinctively knew it was not going to improve.

Normally he would stay on and help the incoming supervisor. This time, someone else could handle the problems. Doing the usual Friday afternoon desk clean up, he’d found the invitation to Wally’s stag party and as best man, he was obligated to go. One of the other and more compelling reasons was to see which of his colleagues would make a fool of themselves.

…

It didn’t take long to get home and change into what he considered proper party attire. He smiled at the thought of being an anachronism from a bygone age, and of what others thought of him. He was too old to change.

Before leaving, he lingered over several glasses of champagne, and strawberries, trying to get into the mood. At the same time, he surveyed the ravages of middle management pressures. Just a year in the job had aged him five, and a tinges of grey beginning to appear at the sides.

A wave of tiredness came over him. The thought of staying home and immersing himself in classical music and another bottle of champagne crossed his mind, but he said he would go. Wally was one of the few he could call a true friend. He would go, but not stay long.

…

As usual, he was late.

Groups had spilled out onto the front veranda, and the front lawn. He knew most of the partygoers by sight, if not by name. Acquaintances, not friends. Not the sort of people he usually mingled with. He exchanged greetings, accepted drinks, and tried to maintain appearances.

It didn’t take long to realise it was a mistake. The carnival atmosphere and good cheer all around him made him feel melancholier, as a wave of loneliness closed around him like the night air.

He knew only too well what the problem was but had no idea how to deal with it. Neither his upbringing nor experience was of any use. It would require outside help; the sort Wally had already offered. Just when would he do something about it, if at all? If the truth were known, Bill was too frightened of the consequences, of getting hurt. Perhaps a few more drinks…

Making his way through the crowded rooms towards the back of the house, he felt the deadening effect of the alcohol beginning to fight off the empty feeling within.

He made desultory conversation with a secretary he knew was high on the dating list for most junior executives, deriving some pleasure in the thought she talked to him, then to another young lady who worked his shift, whom he thought both intelligent and charming, and whose behaviour didn’t shatter his assumptions as some others had.

As the night wore on. it became evident few had noticed his arrival, even fewer his sudden disappearance to the back veranda, overlooking the ocean. He had seen Wally on one occasion when he was trying to drink about 10 gallons of beer in one attempt and thought it wise not to interrupt.

It was, he thought, all part of the game, to drink so much he would forget how it was when he was single, though Bill doubted he could do it in a single night. Bill could hardly wait till the wedding the next afternoon.

…

He looked back momentarily at the apparent abandon of the other guests, hearing the muted murmur of endless conversations, and loud music. Everyone was having a good time, as it should be.

The gentle, soothing, lapping of the tide on the beach beckoned him. He put his empty glass on a ledge and went quietly down the stairs onto the sand. A refreshing, cool breeze rolled in with the tide, immediately improving his mood.

At the water’s edge, he paused momentarily to soak in the calming atmosphere, then put his hands in his pockets and headed for the pier. A leisurely stroll there and back would be a sufficient break to enable him to endure the rest of the evening. Yes, he would stay, if only to see that Wally didn’t overindulge. After all, some duties did fall on the incumbent best man.

Occasionally he kicked the sand with the toe of his shoe, once for a thoroughly detestable human relations consultant, and another for a particularly annoying assistant. It scuffed the high polish, but he didn’t care. This was a time when near impeccable would be good enough.

He was alone, and in more ways than one but it was more by design than by accident. He had recently been involved in a relationship that was doomed before it began. Work had always pushed that side of his life into second place because he let it. Now, having thought about it rationally for the first time, he realised it was time to place less importance on work and more on giving any sort of relationship a chance.

Wally had offered to find him someone, but knowing Wally as he did, Bill had declined. Of course, to Wally ‘no’ really meant go ahead anyway. While at the party, he had surveyed those he thought Wally might have invited as potential matches, some voluptuous, some half-naked, some painted, some all three.

There was no doubting their intent, and he had seen the same in the singles bars when on the town with Wally when they had nothing better to do with a Friday night. Yet, none of those he’d seen, then or now, matched his criteria. Were his standards set too high? Wally never said it, but the fact he didn’t, said more than if he had said it out loud.

Bill sighed. Perhaps he was too set in his ways and unable to change.

…

Adjoining the pier was the old amusement centre, which burnt down several years before. It was the reason for the closing of the beach, and its recent exclusivity to those nearby backing onto it. All that remained was the scorched concrete floor and parts of the walls. It was these remains he had just gone under.

Beneath them, the sounds of the sea and the night were more pronounced, creating an eerie, sinister feeling. The smell of the burnt timber still hung in the air, despite the intervening years.

“Hi!” A feminine voice came out from the shadows, behind one of the pylons nearby.

He started violently, not expecting anyone else. It took a moment to collect his thoughts, then turn to see who she was.

“Oh,” was all he could say to the now visible girl’s outline etched against the distant city lights.

Both came out the other side together into the half-light, leaving the gloom behind. She began, “I hope I didn’t scare you back there?”

“Only half to death.” He brushed the non-existent wrinkles out of his dinner suit, more a reflex action, then put his hands back in his pockets, composure regained.

“I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

He was a little angry, and turning to her, said quietly, “Then what was….” He stopped suddenly, surprised at what he saw. Tall, well-proportioned, dressed in expensive eveningwear, much the same as he was. He instantly realised she could almost pass as an exact replica of Venus except for the untidy, waist-length hair.

“I don’t know. I guess I wanted to talk to someone, you were handy, so I just said ‘hi’.” Her tone was apprehensive, with a slight tremor in it.

She smiled nervously, yet in a way, he noticed it totally changed her appearance, and his heart missed a beat.

“Oh,” he said again, subconsciously feeling she had put him in his place. He shook his head and looked again, disbelieving what he saw.

“I hope you don’t mind?”

“Don’t mind what?” He’d lost track of the conversation and realised he was quickly moving towards looking and sounding like a gibbering idiot. It was, he realised, just like every other time when faced with a beautiful woman.

“Me talking to you.”

He took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. He could feel a runnel of sweat slide down the side of his face, “No. Not really. It’s just the diversion I need”. He looked at the sand, the sea, then her. “I have a feeling I’ve seen you before.”

He moved on, and so did she, both in unison.

“Staring at you from the pages of magazines?”

“I guess so. What did you do? Rob a bank? Divorce a Prince or millionaire?”

“As if. Nothing quite as exotic, or exciting, I’m afraid. Just draped in clothes or plastered in make-up. Boring huh?”

“No. Not really.”

“You’re a bit hard up for new lines?”

He shrugged. It was difficult talking to this woman, and, lacking in confidence, he was starting to feel a little embarrassed.

She changed the subject. “Do you live here?”

“No….”

“Don’t say it, not really!” she interrupted.

He sighed, trying to regain composure. “OK. I was at a party.”

“Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Then she gave him a curious look. “Was?” Then, after he didn’t answer, “How come you’re not with the others, having a good time?”

“Perhaps I’m not cut out to ‘have a good time’. Actually, I thought I’d take a time out from the frenetic pace and get some fresh air.”

“And now the fresh air had lost its appeal?”

“I didn’t say that.” Did that come out sounding flustered? It was how he felt inside. He was going to have to try harder if he was to keep her interest. “It’s beginning to get interesting. And I still can’t place where I’ve seen you before.” He shook his head. “No matter. What brings you here?”

“Someone told me about this place a long time ago. I thought I’d come and check it out.”

He turned and headed back, deciding the diversion had exceeded the time limit he’d set, and it had now become an elongated absence. She did the same.

“And what do you think?” he asked.

“About what?”

This conversation would sound very strange if anyone else was nearby listening to them. Luckily, there wasn’t. “This place.”

“Very peaceful, secluded, interesting, as you said.”

“Interesting in what way?” Damn, had he asked that already?

“Well …” She shrugged, then asked, “Do you always walk around with your hands in your pockets?”

Simple answer, yes. “Can’t think of where else to put them.”

What did it have to do with her anyway? And, in that instant, he realised that it was he who was the problem here, not her.

“What if you were to hold a girl’s hand?”

“I don’t know of any who would want me to.”

“Would you like to hold mine?”

“Why? Is it going to run away?”

She smiled. “More than likely.”

He stopped. She stopped. He surveyed her with a critical eye.

“Aha. The eye that asks, ‘Who is the disreputable and outrageous person who dares to ask such a thing?’

He smiled and took her hand in his. It was soft and warm and sent a slight tingle up his spine.

“I talk too much. Don’t I?” she asked suddenly after they started walking again.

“No.”

She sighed. “Here we go again.”

…

On the other side of the pier, there was an old car park, no longer used. Along the beachfront was a long, low stone wall, and they headed towards it. Once there, they sat down to watch darkness finally settle in, the last of the sun’s rays melting in a glorious display of reds, oranges, and yellows.

Without speaking, they were content to listen to the waves, feel the cooling breeze, and watch the sea glisten in the moonlight.

Nothing happened for an indeterminable length of time, during which he nearly forgot she was there. He suddenly snapped out of it when he heard a match rasping.

He turned to see her trying to light a cigarette, but her hand was shaking so much, the match went out. She tried again, but the same thing happened. She savagely threw the cigarette away and pounded her hand on the cement as though it was something she hated.

He took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his coat pocket and offered her one.

“No. It’s reason enough to try to give it up,” she said quietly.

He returned the items to his pocket and took her hand in his, looked carefully at it, then kissed it. “Trying to dent cement is not wise unless you are Superman or Supergirl. I know. I tried once and broke three fingers. Fortunately, nothing is broken.”

She moved closer. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Making me feel silly.”

“But … I didn’t mean to … I mean …”

She leaned towards him and kissed his lips. “Hush.”

He held her hand up and looked at it, rather than her, trying to get a grip on his emotions, and saying, a good dead steadier than he felt, “I need a third hand. Do you think I could have it?”

“With pleasure. It’s apparently no good to me anymore.”

“Why?”

“Shakes too much.”

“Perhaps I could use it to massage my face.” He gently moved her hand down the side of his face and again felt a tingle up his spine. Again, he kissed it gently where she had hit it, not knowing why, just that it seemed like the right thing to do.

“Perhaps not. Seems to me you have a case of bad nerves. These are familiar symptoms. You need a rest, perhaps a holiday, and complete relaxation. That will be a five-dollar consultation fee.”

She smiled. “Will you stop it.”

“Why? It makes you smile.”

“Your right, of course. I need a rest. The last six months have been horrible, working day and night, and a failed relationship on top of it.” She sighed. “I feel sleepy.” She leaned against him, putting her arms around him for balance.

“Hey, no. You can’t do that.” He fended her off gently. “I’ve got a party to get back to, and by now I think I should be missed. God knows what Wally will think.”

He stood and she rolled sideways. “Oh, come on.” He looked up towards the sky. “Why did you make some women like this,” he muttered. Then he put his arms around her and lifted her to her feet. She leaned back against him and he could feel how warm and soft she was. It was a battle just to make sure he kept his hands in the right places, and she wasn’t making it easy for him.

He held her up then moved around to the front and caught her just as she began to fall forward. It was exasperating, and yet amusing. He let her go and she began to fall down, so he caught her again.

She was smiling.

“Beware the smile on the face of the tiger,” he muttered. His face was level with hers and just then an idea came to him. He kissed her forehead, nose, chin, then finally her lips, and she came to life.

It was just what she was hoping would happen. Instead of surprising her, she surprised him by responding in kind; leaving him with a feeling he’d never experienced before. And a heart rate that was off the chart.

“Now, if only you’d tried that earlier,” she said.

He looked her straight in the eye. “Just who are you?”

“Me.”

“Does ‘me’ have a name?”

“Do you want ‘me’ to have a name?”

“Yes.”

“Claire.”

“Then you may call me Bill. Do you often pick up strange lonely men on secluded beaches?”

“No.”

“Infuse life into otherwise dead souls?”

“No.”

“Just happened to be the one thing I needed right now?”

She smiled; a smile that made his heart do double somersaults.

“Perhaps a yes.”

“Can I see you again? I have to see you again.”

“Have to?”

“Like to, then.”

“Perhaps.”

“When?”

“Soon, perhaps sooner than you think. Do you have to go back?”

“Yes. If I don’t, Wally will be mad at me.” He pulled out a notebook and pencil he always carried with him. “Where do you live?”

She told him.

“If I come by Sunday may I take you out, a drive, somewhere up the coast? Fresh sea air, total relaxation.”

“Part of the therapy I’m paying five dollars for?”

He brushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes, feeling her warm soft skin under his hand, then kissed her. “Indeed. Until the next time.”

She smiled again. “Until the next time.”

He turned and headed back to the party, not looking back.

…

No one noticed his absence; despite the fact over an hour had lapsed. He resumed his place on the veranda, new drink in hand looking vacantly towards the pier, wondering if he would see her again, if she were just a figment of his imagination. It was just too good to be true.

“Ah, Bill. I thought I would find you here. Thinking about a walk. No, I see you’ve already been.” Wally sounded sober and looked it. Perhaps this was all just a dream.

He looked down. His shoes still had sand on them. He looked at Wally and smiled. “Fresh air. Contemplating the human condition. You know what I’m like at parties.”

“Better than you think. What did you think of her?”

“Her?”

“The so-called blind date. I didn’t think a formal introduction would work.”

Bill shrugged. “Very nice, but a little…”

Wally smiled the same unique smile of hers.

“Your sister?”

Wally nodded. “Take exceptionally good care of her my friend. She’s very vulnerable at the moment, and I couldn’t think of anyone better to look after her.” He held up his glass. “Cheers.”

…

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

What I learned about writing – Just what are you saying?

So here’s the thing.

We all have points of view, nurtured from the day we are born to the day we die.

Along the way, these views can change, as does our opinion of many things.

Political beliefs, religion, and the weather.

As a rule, I tend to avoid both politics and religion, simply because most people hold very strong views.

As for the weather, I’m an expert. After I look out the window.

But…

Even then, there are people with strong views about that because of or not climate change and secret satellites that change weather patterns…

Yes, yet another WTF moment!

So…

The point I’m trying to make is that our personal beliefs sometimes creep into the characters we create.

At least we think we are creating this particular person, and no matter how hard we try to make them what seems to be the complete antithesis of ourselves, somehow, a little shred is there.

I cannot make a completely obnoxious person, no matter how hard I try, because it’s not me. I don’t know what it’s like to be one. I have to read about people like that, and delved into Freud’s thoughts on psychosis to gain some level of understanding

And, sadly, I want to believe there is good somewhere in everyone.

It could possibly be one of those issues a writer has to deal with in character development.

Of course, it’s all the easier if you have had to deal with such people.

My father was a monster who beat all of us, but that may have had something to do with the war and fighting the Japanese in the jungle.

My uncle was a paedophile who assaulted both my brother and me, and a lot of others, in a time when he could get away with it

My mother had no idea how to be a mother or care for us in the way a mother should.

These people gave me the background for certain types of characters.

So did a lot of the people I worked with over the years. People I saw, people in other countries, people from all walks of life.

All, in their own way, shaped who I am and what I believe in.

And I know enough not to impose my beliefs, such as they are, on anyone.

Jane Austen got it right

“For what do we live but to make sport for our neighbours and laugh at them in our turn?”

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork