Featured

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.

Featured

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.

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers?  No, that’s been done to death.

Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world.  Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people.  That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people!  There will be guns, and there will be dead people.

There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around.  That’s better.

Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.

All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.

Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work.  He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks.  The phone rings.  Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down.  He’s needed.  A few terse words, but he relents.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 93

Day 93 – This is your life!

…

The Art of Timing: When is the Right Moment to Write Your Memoir?

You’ve lived a life full of twists, turns, heartbreaks, and triumphs. You feel the itch to put it all on the page—to organise the chaos of your past into a narrative that others can learn from. But then, the nagging question creeps in: Is it too soon?

We often hear that “everyone has a book in them,” but not everyone understands that a memoir is not just an autobiography—it’s a carefully curated work of art. If you’re wondering when to sit down and start writing, consider this your guide to finding the right moment.

The “Age 20” Trap: Why Gravitas Matters

It’s easy to feel like you’ve lived a lifetime by the time you hit your twenties. Perhaps you’ve travelled, fallen in love, or survived a difficult season. While your story is undoubtedly valid, it may lack the perspective required for a compelling memoir.

Writing a memoir requires emotional distance. If you are still in the thick of the trauma, the anger, or the immediate aftermath of a life-changing event, you are likely writing a diary, not a memoir. Diaries are for processing; memoirs are for reflecting.

At twenty, your life is still in the “active” phase. You are the protagonist, but you aren’t yet the historian of your own existence. Gravitas—the weight, the wisdom, and the “so what?” factor—usually comes when you can look back at your younger self with compassion rather than reactiveness. You need enough time to have passed so that you can see how the dots connected, not just how they hit you in the moment.

The Key Ingredients of a Compelling Memoir

A great memoir isn’t just a chronological list of dates and events. It is a transformation arc. To move your story from a personal journal to a page-turner, you need to infuse it with these three ingredients:

1. The Universal Theme

The biggest mistake aspiring memoirists make is assuming people want to read about them. The truth is, readers want to read about themselves through your experiences. Your memoir needs a universal theme—grief, resilience, the search for identity, or the complexity of forgiveness. If your story can act as a mirror for the reader, you have a winner.

2. The “Reflective Narrator”

Readers don’t just want to see the person who was making mistakes at 22; they want to hear from the person you are today. How has your understanding of the past shifted? The tension between who you were then and who you are now is where the “gravitas” lives. You must be willing to analyse your own motivations, even the ones that aren’t particularly flattering.

3. The Vulnerability Threshold

If you aren’t sweating a little bit while you write, you probably aren’t being honest enough. A compelling memoir requires you to strip away the ego. If you portray yourself as the hero of every chapter, the reader will lose interest. We connect with human flaws, failed ambitions, and the quiet moments of realisation. Ask yourself: Am I holding back to protect my image, or am I laying it all out to serve the story?

So, How Long Should You Wait?

There is no specific year on the calendar that signals “you are ready.” Instead, ask yourself these three questions:

  • Can I write about this without wanting to exact revenge? (If you’re writing to settle scores, it’s not ready.)
  • Do I understand the “Why”? (Can you explain what your story teaches you about the human condition?)
  • Is the wound a scar, or is it still bleeding? (If it’s still bleeding, use your journal. When it becomes a scar, start your memoir.)

Writing a memoir is an act of archaeology. You are digging through the layers of your identity to find the fossilized truths that remain. Take your time. Let the story settle. When the urgency to scream your story matches the clarity to understand it—that is when you are ready to write.

Are you working on your story? What’s the biggest challenge you’re facing in capturing your past? Let’s discuss in the comments below.

Searching for locations: Chateau Tongariro, New Zealand

This chateau was built in 1929 and was originally intended as a hostel for hikers.

It is now near the  Whakapapa skifield on the slopes of Mount Ruapehu and within  the boundary of the Tongariro National Park

chateautongoriro

We had afternoon tea in the lounge several times, and it is very pleasant in winter with the log fires burning.

togariro2

The interior is still as ornate as it had been in the 1930s.  The chairs are very comfortable, and the atmosphere pleasant.

Mount Ngauruhoe can be seen through the window of the lounge.  This was used a backdrop in the filming of Lord of the Rings.

mount-nz

But…

This place is the ideal setting for a murder, and I can see a story being written very much in the mold of Agatha Christie, with a couple of amateur sleuths who are staying there, trying to solve the crime.

Given the sort of shows being produced in New Zealand currently, for Acorn and other streaming services, this could be turned into a very pleasant two hour diversion with some very unique New Zealand, and foreign, characters.

Or just send the Brokenwood detective crew there!

“People have a way of surprising you…” – A short story

Last days were supposed to be joyous, the end of your working life and the start of the rest of your life.

I’d spent the last 35 years working for the company, navigating through three buyouts, five name changes, and three restructures. I was surprised I was still employed after the last, only two years before.

But, here I was, sitting in the divisional manager’s office, my office for one more day, with my successor, Jerry, and best friend, sitting on the other side.

“Last day, what are you thinking?” He asked casually.

It might have been early, but we both had a glass of scotch, a single malt I’d kept aside for an important occasion and this seemed like one.

I picked up the glass and surveyed the contents, giving myself a few moments to consider an answer to what could be a difficult question. To be honest, the thinking had started on the subway on the way in, when I should have been working on the crossword, but instead, I was lamenting the fact that the next chapter of my life would be without Ellen.

We would have been married, coincidently, 43 years ago today, had she been alive. Unfortunately, she had died suddenly about four months ago, after a long battle with cancer.

And I still hadn’t had time to process it. Truth is, it had been work that kept me together, and I was worried about what was going to happen when it would no longer there.

To a certain extent, I was still on autopilot, her death coming in the middle of a major disaster concerning the company, one that had finally, and successfully, been brought to a conclusion with favorable results for everyone.

But what was I thinking right then, at that precise moment in time? Not something he would want to hear, so I made the necessary adjustment. “That I’m basically leaving you a clean slate, so don’t screw it up.”

I could see that was not what he wanted to hear.

He decided to take a different tack. “What have you got planned for the first day of retirement.”

He knew about Ellen and had been there for me, above and beyond what could have been expected from anyone. I owed him more than a platitude.

“Sleep in, probably, but I’m going to be fighting that body clock. It’s going to be difficult after so many years getting up the same time, rail hail or shine. But we had plans to go away for a few months, you know, the trip of a lifetime, then move. Ellen wanted to go back home for a while, now, I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

“Then perhaps you should, or at the very least, go home for a while. You said you both come from there; who knows, being back among family might just be what you need.”

It was something I had been thinking about and had been issued an open-ended invitation from her parents to come and stay for as long as I wanted, one that I was seriously considering.

But, before I could tell him that, the phone rang.

Never a dull day…
The day went quickly, and as much as it was expected I’d hand over anything that happened to my successor, I couldn’t quite let go. There was the proverbial storm in a teacup, but it was a good opportunity to watch the man who was taking over in action. He had a great teacher, even if I said so myself.

But it was the end of the day and the moment I had been dreading. I’d asked the personnel manager not to make a big deal out of my departure, and that I didn’t want the usual sendoff, where everyone in the office came and I would find myself at a loss of words and feel like I had to speak to a lot of people I didn’t really know.

There were only about a dozen that I really knew, a dozen that had survived the layoffs and restructuring, and although there were others, I didn’t have anything to do with them. My last job took me out of the office more than being there, and so many of the other people were from offices scattered all up and down the east coast.

I’d mostly said my goodbyes to them on the last quarterly visit. Sixteen offices, fifty-odd employees who were as much friends as they were staff who worked for me. There had been small dinners and heartfelt moments.

This I was hoping would be the same.

Jerry had been charged with the responsibility of getting me to the presentation; they called it a presentation because I had no doubt there would be a presentation of some sort. I had told the CEO a handshake and a couple of drinks would suffice, and he just congenially nodded.

Jerry had taken the manager’s chair and I was sitting on the other side of the table. We’d finished off the last of the single malt, and dirt was time to go. I closed the door to the office for the last time, and we walked along the passage towards the dining room. It was a perk I’d fought hard to keep during the last restructure when the money men were trying to cut costs.

It was one of the few battles I won.

He opened the door and stood to one side, and ushered me through.

It was a very large space, usually filled with tables, chairs, and diners. Now it was filled with people, leaving a passageway from the door to a podium that had been set up in front of the servery, where a large curtain stretched across the width of the building with the company logo displayed on it.

There were 2,300 people who worked in this office and another 700 from the regional offices. By the look of the crowd, every single one of them was there.

It took fifteen minutes to get from the door to the podium. Faces of people I’d seen every day, faces I’d seen a few times a year, and faces I’d never seen before. On the podium there was a dozen more, faces I’d only seen in the Annual Accounts document, except for the General Manager and the CEO.

“You will be pleased to know everyone here wanted to come and bid you farewell,” the General Manager said.

“Everyone? Why?”

“Well, I’ve learned a lot about this company and its people over the last week, and frankly, people have a way of surprising you. And given the impact you have had on each and every one of them, I’m not surprised. So much so, they wanted to give you something to remember them by.”

A nod of the head and the curtains were pulled back, and behind them was an original 1968 XJ6 Jaguar, fully restored, a very familiar XJ6. The car had belonged to Helen and I had to sell it to help pay the medical bills. It had been a gut-wrenching experience, coming at a time when everything that was happened to her almost overwhelmed me.

“Jerry told us about this particular car, so all of your friends thought, as a fitting memory to you and of her, that we should find it and restore it. Everyone here contributed. It is our gift to you for everything you have done for us.”

So much for the usual sendoff…

—-

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus, but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence.  And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that, he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later, the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk or move; all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact that I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment, was the fact that I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred, the nurse, was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time, I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time, sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Other people, I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off, she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning, the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later, I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring; there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe that if he were, he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with it. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said, noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate that he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason; he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024-2026

A to Z – April – 2026 – Q

Q is for – Quid Pro Quo

…

Perhaps if I’d thought about it long enough, I might have seen it coming, but it was taking that light at the end of the tunnel as a good thing, not the double-headed train pounding towards me at breakneck speed while I was tied to the tracks.

It would be easy to blame my mother.  She was the one who taught us to take everyone at face value, to see the good in the world, and, of course, eight times out of ten, everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

I was on the balcony overlooking the bay, the house that my grandfather had first built as a getaway shack, expanded into a holiday home, and then into my retreat, the place I could hide away from the world.

It was the same for my sister, who was still recovering from a bad relationship, one that she blamed herself for, but the truth was, she was not at fault, not for any of it.

But the scars ran deep, deep enough that in the pit of despair, she did the unforgivable, and it was a sixth sense that sent me to her in her time of need.

Now, she was well on the road to recovery, older and very much wiser.

For both of us.

…

“Did you see the report Jenkins sent?”

She was stretched out on the deckchair, taking in the sunshine that came with early spring.  It was warm but not hot, a gentle breeze rustling through the surrounding trees.

There were white caps out to sea, and there was a ship slowly plying its way past the bay.  It was a busy shipping lane, and it was the perfect distraction to watch the ships go by.

“I did.”

Jenkins was the company’s head of security, and I had asked him to investigate the man who had deceived and nearly destroyed my twin sister.  In an attempt to get justice, he had gotten off on a technicality and walked free.

It wasn’t justice, but justice sometimes could be blinded.

“Did you have any idea?”

I had to say I didn’t.  Who would when the woman of your dreams, a woman who ticked all of the boxes, comes into your life when you least expect it.

At first, I believed it was too good to be true.  Jenkins checked her out, and everything was irreproachable.  It was not that I was the one who didn’t trust her. It was the people around me.

Once the investigation was over, I decided it was time.  We had been dating off and on for over a year, and it had been a slow burn.

Then Alisha discovered just who and what her boyfriend was, just in time to prevent a travesty.  She was worth a small fortune, and Jackson Pearce had very nearly stolen it all.

He only made one mistake.  He told, no, bragged, that he was about to take down the Bernadines, one of the wealthier and blue-ribbon families.

He very neatly got away with it.  He was free, but he was penniless, and oddly not concerned or angry.

I asked Jenkins to find out why.

It was in the report sitting on the coffee table beside Alisha’s deckchair.

About the woman I was about to marry in the wedding of the year, after letting her take control of the preparations and ceremony and spending close to three million dollars.

A lot of that money was channelled back to her brother Jackson Pearce.  Her real name was Milly Pearce.  She’d stuck to the Milly but was using her father’s mother’s birth surname, making it difficult to trace in a first scan of a family tree.

Or lack of one, which matched her assertion, she was an orphan, from an orphanage that no longer existed, and all records of her had been destroyed in a fire.

Only Jenkins thought it was suspicious, but we were all prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“No. She is such a lovely person.”

“So was Jack, until…”  It was still painful for her, but not so much that it hurt that much.  “What are you going to do?”

“Play.  Do you think you’re strong enough to join me?”

“Can I shoot her?”

I gave her a curious expression.  As much as I understood how she felt about that family, it was not worth the jail sentence.

“No.”

“Spoil sport.”

She sighed.  I took her attitude and the determination in her voice as good signs that she was all but over her calamity.

Up to the unmasking of Jack, she had been almost like a sister to Milly.  I had thought it was the sort of bonding one would expect between the women.  Milly had been suitably disparaging towards the dastardly boyfriend, but whatever had been between them had been broken.

Knowing what she did now, it was difficult to imagine how she could be nice to her.

But it would be settled the next day.  I had promised to take Milly to a special lunch with just our family, my mother, who was kept oblivious of the details of Alisha’s breakup and subsequent events, my older brother, Wally, who was the current CEO of the company, the one I would eventually take over, and myself, basically to talk about where she would fit into the echelons.

We had talked about it, and she had suggested a role suited to her standing.  She had also considered that she was part of the family and, therefore, entitled to a parcel of shares. That alone should have set off alarm bells, but since Mother and Wally had suggested it, who was I to disagree?

“Are you going to tell Mother and Walter?”

It was like she was reading my mind.

“No.  Let’s play her game out and see where it goes.”

“Are you prepared for it?”

I don’t think I would ever be.  I had been hesitant to make our budding romance public, and on the eight-month anniversary, we had been ambushed by the media.  She swore she had not told anyone, but she and I were the only two who knew.

It was the catalyst needed to push us to the next level.  Even then, I was not suspicious, accepting her explanation.  It was not impossible that I was being followed by a photographer looking for a scoop.

“What would be the upside for her?”

“Without sounding catty, Henry, if she is cut from the same cloth as her brother, there’s always a reason.”

“Fair enough.  We shall see.”

I rose early and took my time getting ready.  There were a few calls I had to make, one a long chat with Legal, with the only lawyer I could trust, a chap I went to university with, and funded his start in the legal world.

Disillusioned with run-of-the-mill legalities, he took a break, married his childhood sweetheart, and asked if I could find something for him.

I asked the head of Legal to appoint him as my personal lawyer, and he did.  Sworn to secrecy, he was the fourth person who knew about Milly’s perfidy.  Surprisingly, he was not surprised.

I was having a coffee after considering a stiff Scotch.  Perhaps later, when I get back.

Alisha came out, looking like her old self and looking stunning.  She had toyed with the idea of being a model but decided against it after working on a shoot as an assistant.

“How do I look?”

“Like an angel.”

“Then she will not see me coming.  All sweetness and light, Henry.  I’ve been out of the loop, so I can play dumb but not too dumb.  I’ll make her work to restart our friendship.”

“Promise me the secret is safe.”

She smiled.  “You have my word.  I would not want to miss this for the world.”

“Good.  Now I must make the call.  Phase one is about to begin.”  I picked up the phone and made the call.

I put it on speaker.

“Darling, is everything alright?”

Her usual, what I called adorable, tone.  Today, it didn’t give me shivers.

“Just a little hiccup.  I’m running late, so Wally will be collecting you.  I should be there on time, or a few minutes later.  Try not to miss me too much.”

“Will you be staying tonight?”

I took a deep breath.  I had been planning to, but things had changed.  I didn’t think I could keep up the pretence at close quarters for as long as all night.

“We talked about this.  The wedding is in two days.  I think the few days’ absence will make our hearts grow fonder.  Besides, I must complete all the legal formalities of setting you up as a family member.  You’re about to become a very well-situated wife.”

I could hear her considering what that all meant.  Wealth, power, everything her brother had tried to take.  I wondered what her plan was.

She sighed.  “Lunch will have to suffice, I guess.  See you soon.”

Alisha looked at the phone and then at me.  “That was a bit abrupt.”

“Wedding jitters, perhaps.”

“Given the Bollywood production she’s planned, hardly.”

I shook my head.  “You mean there’s going to be elephants?”

She laughed.  “Don’t be surprised if there are.”

There hadn’t been any at the rehearsal.  But the fact that there were nearly a hundred people at the rehearsal was scary enough in itself.  I’d seen the running sheet, and yes, it was a production, being filmed, with a Hollywood director.

Sadly, it was neither Steven Spielberg nor James Cameron.  I would have liked some tap-dancing star troopers or the set of the Titanic as a backdrop.

We flew to the heliport and were picked up by a chauffeur-driven limousine.  I made sure that Mother, Wally, and Milly were in situ before Alisha and I entered the restaurant.

We entered by a side entrance to avoid causing a stir out front or interfering with the other diners.  I had prebooked a private room in a nom de plume.

Only the Maitre’d knew who really made the booking.  If there were any surprises…

It was a priceless moment when Milly saw Alisha not as the broken spirit she had been for the last few months, but back to being a rival.

And taking the position of the real Bernadine, where Milly would only be one by marriage.  The look, if only for a millisecond, was one of pure malice.

As soon as mother and Wally saw her, they were up and making a fuss.  After all, they hadn’t seen much of her since the event.  Nor were they across everything that happened.

I went over to my family and gave them a hug, trying to be my usual self, which wasn’t hard.  In public, with Milly or anyone, for that matter, I was aloof.

Waiting for her turn, Milly gave Alisha a hug, and they spoke briefly before we all sat, and the head waiter appeared, and the discussion about drinks and what was on the special menu.

Orders taken, we settled into the chairs.

Alisha was the focal point.

“It’s so good to see you back to your old self.”  Mother was particularly pleased as she had been at her wits’ end on how to cope with such a distressed child.  That was where I took over, looking after her.

“I couldn’t mope forever.  Henry has been an angel, looking after me.”

“Where?”  It was out before she could stifle it, and not the question I expected.  “I mean, sorry, that came out a little strange.  I had been asking after you,” she said to Milly, “but no one seemed to know where you were.”

“I needed to get away for a while.  No one needs to know, and you’ll understand soon why it’s a blessing to have somewhere to escape from the outside world.  Your life is about to become public property.”

And with that, Alisha avoided the question.  I was sure both Mother and Wally knew where I went to hide and that it was where Alisha had gone.  Mother had trusted me to look after her.  Wally had too many other matters to attend to.

Milly looked at me.  “Perhaps you can take me there. It sounds wonderful.”

I smiled.  “One day, if or when you suffer a malady.  Otherwise, it will be for Alisha until she finally returns to work.  She needs the space.”

Then I turned to Wally.  “Legal tells me they have a lead on the whereabouts of Jackson Pearce.”

It was a calculated move, one I had warned Alisha about, knowing it might have an effect.

I was watching Milly, and it got the expected reaction, one I would not have seen if I hadn’t been looking for it.

“I thought I read he left the country.”  Milly, if she had been smarter, would have left it alone.

“That was a rumour he spread to the media.  I have questions, and I suspect now that Alisha has recovered, she would like five minutes alone with him.”

“Why.  He’s a rat. Why would you want to rake over those coals?”

Alisha smiled.  “I want an apology.  I will get an apology.  One way or another.”

Yes.  Milly looked at Alisha with a whole new perspective.  The determination in her voice was stirring and set a tone for the lunch.

Milly had been caught offside and didn’t recover.  She was caught between brother and sister, where the sister was the priority, and I got the impression she had just realised there was a slight shift in our relationship.

When we parted, she tried very hard to recover our usual easy manner, and I relaxed to the point where she felt she had succeeded.  I could tell she had questions, not the sort she could ask then, but perhaps it would be a call later.

She asked again if we could spend the rest of the day together, but I told her there were too many matters I had to attend to before the wedding. Otherwise, there would be no honeymoon.

She had planned that too, and it was all the places she had dreamed of going, first class or better.  I had been looking forward to it as well, though I had been to a lot of the places, and travelling coach and backpacking as you did when wide-eyed and adventurous.

I had suggested it, and she had laughed.  The Benadines didn’t travel in coach class in any mode of transport.

I shook my head.  Absence, I said, made the heart grow fonder.  After all, we would be spending the rest of our lives together.

After we parted, I was left with the impression I was not going to survive the honeymoon.

It was odd that after two days, and knowing the truth, I felt so cold that I shivered.  Alisha took my hand and squeezed it.

“If it makes you feel any better, she is a very cold fish pretending to be something else.  Even I could feel it, and it made me shudder more than once.  That whole family are monstrous.  They have to be to prey on people like us.”

We went to my city apartment and waited.

Jenkins had suggested that he have a team keep her under surveillance and see where she went or did.  I had told him we were going to make a few suggestions about her brother and see if she tried to call or approach him.

I said she wouldn’t be that stupid.

But if we were close to finding him and telling her, she might think he would drag her down with him and demand that he go away.  It was an interesting theory.

Several hours passed.  I rested; Alisha was reading a Mills and Boon romance novel.  She said it gave her hope there could be a happy ending.

When we both least expected it, the phone vibrated.  A message.  It was an address and a request to come.

“Pearce and Pearce?”

“Possibly.” I couldn’t believe it would be that easy.

When we arrived, there were police outside the building, and Jenkins was with a detective in the foyer.  No one said much, only that I was needed for an identification.

We went up the elevator to the fifth floor, and down the passage to the last door on the left, the one where a policeman was standing outside.

He stood to one side, and we went in.

Milly was standing between two large policemen, and on the floor, being attended by paramedics, was her brother, Jackson.  He had a head wound and was barely conscious.

Milly looked at me.  “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.  Why are you here with Jack?  You said he’d left the country.”

“I said I read he left the country.”

“And yet here you are.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“And what do you think, I think?  Because from where I’m standing, a woman I hardly know has attacked her brother, the man who tried to rob my sister, and contributed to her suicide attempt.”

“He’s not my brother.”

“Perhaps not from the same parents, but for at least a dozen years in the same foster home until you ran away together.”

“Am I getting a family lawyer?”

“You’re not family, Milly.  You’re a thief and a liar, and I have no idea who you are, nor do I want to.  The engagement and the wedding are off.

It turned to the detective.  “Any details you need on Miss Pearce, detective, Jenkins here will give you what we have.  I believe there is new information on her brother’s crimes against my sister.  If that’s all?”

It was.  Alisha looked down at the man on the ground and took no pleasure in what she saw.  It was perhaps justice of a sort.  As we left, I saw her texting.  When I asked who, she said I would find out soon enough.

The late edition of the paper, with a headline, “All that glitters”, and below the story of a grifter and her brother trying to take down the Benadine family, and very nearly succeeding.

It was a story my father would have had suppressed because it made us look foolish.  When I asked her why she did it, she said no matter what the public thought of us, we were transparent, far more than any others in our situation.  But, she said, more than anything else, it ensured no one else would try.

Well, not in our lifetime anyway.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

newdevilcvr6

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 93

Day 93 – This is your life!

…

The Art of Timing: When is the Right Moment to Write Your Memoir?

You’ve lived a life full of twists, turns, heartbreaks, and triumphs. You feel the itch to put it all on the page—to organise the chaos of your past into a narrative that others can learn from. But then, the nagging question creeps in: Is it too soon?

We often hear that “everyone has a book in them,” but not everyone understands that a memoir is not just an autobiography—it’s a carefully curated work of art. If you’re wondering when to sit down and start writing, consider this your guide to finding the right moment.

The “Age 20” Trap: Why Gravitas Matters

It’s easy to feel like you’ve lived a lifetime by the time you hit your twenties. Perhaps you’ve travelled, fallen in love, or survived a difficult season. While your story is undoubtedly valid, it may lack the perspective required for a compelling memoir.

Writing a memoir requires emotional distance. If you are still in the thick of the trauma, the anger, or the immediate aftermath of a life-changing event, you are likely writing a diary, not a memoir. Diaries are for processing; memoirs are for reflecting.

At twenty, your life is still in the “active” phase. You are the protagonist, but you aren’t yet the historian of your own existence. Gravitas—the weight, the wisdom, and the “so what?” factor—usually comes when you can look back at your younger self with compassion rather than reactiveness. You need enough time to have passed so that you can see how the dots connected, not just how they hit you in the moment.

The Key Ingredients of a Compelling Memoir

A great memoir isn’t just a chronological list of dates and events. It is a transformation arc. To move your story from a personal journal to a page-turner, you need to infuse it with these three ingredients:

1. The Universal Theme

The biggest mistake aspiring memoirists make is assuming people want to read about them. The truth is, readers want to read about themselves through your experiences. Your memoir needs a universal theme—grief, resilience, the search for identity, or the complexity of forgiveness. If your story can act as a mirror for the reader, you have a winner.

2. The “Reflective Narrator”

Readers don’t just want to see the person who was making mistakes at 22; they want to hear from the person you are today. How has your understanding of the past shifted? The tension between who you were then and who you are now is where the “gravitas” lives. You must be willing to analyse your own motivations, even the ones that aren’t particularly flattering.

3. The Vulnerability Threshold

If you aren’t sweating a little bit while you write, you probably aren’t being honest enough. A compelling memoir requires you to strip away the ego. If you portray yourself as the hero of every chapter, the reader will lose interest. We connect with human flaws, failed ambitions, and the quiet moments of realisation. Ask yourself: Am I holding back to protect my image, or am I laying it all out to serve the story?

So, How Long Should You Wait?

There is no specific year on the calendar that signals “you are ready.” Instead, ask yourself these three questions:

  • Can I write about this without wanting to exact revenge? (If you’re writing to settle scores, it’s not ready.)
  • Do I understand the “Why”? (Can you explain what your story teaches you about the human condition?)
  • Is the wound a scar, or is it still bleeding? (If it’s still bleeding, use your journal. When it becomes a scar, start your memoir.)

Writing a memoir is an act of archaeology. You are digging through the layers of your identity to find the fossilized truths that remain. Take your time. Let the story settle. When the urgency to scream your story matches the clarity to understand it—that is when you are ready to write.

Are you working on your story? What’s the biggest challenge you’re facing in capturing your past? Let’s discuss in the comments below.

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone.  It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air.  In summer, it was the best time of the day.  When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’.  This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable.  The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day.  So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her.  It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner.  Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner.  There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around.  I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria.  All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?”  She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning.  I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating.  I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise.  I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me.  I have had a lot worse.  I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be.  “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true.  “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head.  “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole.  My grandfather had many expressions, David.  If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her.  Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice.  Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma.  What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much.  Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone.  It was an intense conversation.  I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell.  It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed.  And you’re right.  She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one.  She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office.  Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful.  She had liked Maria the moment she saw her.  We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived.  I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed.  “I am glad I am just a waitress.  Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one.  What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it.  We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her.  She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd.  She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right.  It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings.  But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart.  I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit.  The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority.  Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha.  Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around.  It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties. 

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata.  Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan.  She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores.  We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated.  It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard.  I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top.  She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak.  I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other.  I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests.  I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence?  All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us.  There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all.  A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you.  At least we have had a chance to do that.  I’m sorry about yesterday.  I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her.  I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington.  I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction.  We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?”  She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress.  You are so much better doing your job without me.  I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband.  Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less.  You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it.  I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement.  Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points.  I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever.  The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed.  “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways.  But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud.  “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan.  You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy.  While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance.  I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother.  She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right.  Why do you think I gave you such a hard time?  You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously.  But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead.  Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers.  Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen.  Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her.  She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face.  “Of course not.  I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship.  I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying.  “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan.  I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me.  “As you wish.”  She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table.  “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home.  Please make it sooner rather than later.  Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car.  I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

strangerscover9

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 20

It’s now two-thirds of the way through, and I’m making great progress.

The consequences of the twist that happened yesterday did not have much of an effect on the planned storyline, so it’s full steam ahead.

This story is going to be longer than 50,000 words, as, at the moment, the count is just under 40,000 words.

So far, I have 8 chapters in Part 1

9 chapters in Part 2, with one to be edited (outline is written)

24 chapters in Part 3, with 2 to be edited (also have outlines written)

Looking at the plan, there are approximately 9 more chapters to be edited, and then,

3 or 4 chapters in Part 4 to wrap it up

My best guess, this story will come in at around 70,000 words.

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

…

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledged that something had happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1