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.
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.
How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
I’ve often said, when espying an injustice that was so outrageously displayed that no one could miss it, as being beyond the pale.
The pale within a fence became an area of land within a boundary, such as a county, and then areas within Ireland that were held by the British. As these became smaller, those areas were deemed to be uncivilised.
This, in modern parlance, beyond the pale refers to someone’s behaviour being outside the accepted norm.
There’s also…
In a word: Pale
Which is the colour of the face of a person who is usually desperately unwell?
As distinct from a pale face, a white man is described by the American Indians. This, sadly, was learned from American westerns, motion pictures that told a rather interesting version of events between the Indians and the new settlers.
Paleface was in one movie, in particular, Bob Hope.
A pale can also be a single upright piece of wood in a fence.
Something could pale into significance or be a pale imitation of a better-quality article.
Not to be confused with a pail, which is a bucket, wooden or otherwise, that holds liquids.
The most famous of which is that which Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water, and, well, you know how that ended.
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.”
Why trying to please a “target reader” can lead you straight into a creative dead‑end—and how embracing your own voice can actually broaden your reach.
1. The Age‑Old Dilemma
Every writer, from the novice journal keeper to the seasoned novelist, has heard the mantra: “Know your audience.” In marketing circles, it’s a golden rule, in academic circles, it’s a prerequisite for a good paper, and in creative writing workshops, it’s often presented as a safety net: “If you write for someone who actually wants to read your work, you’ll have a better chance of success.”
But there’s a darker side to that advice. When the phrase “target audience” becomes a prescriptive checklist, it can morph into a self‑imposed prison. You start asking:
* Should I tone down my humour because “my readers don’t get sarcasm”?* * Do I need to avoid political opinions because “my audience is 50‑something retirees”?* * Must I keep my protagonist’s journey “relatable” in a way that feels forced?*
The result? A story that sounds less like you and more like a diluted version of what you think they want. In the worst cases, the writing turns bland, generic, and ultimately forgettable.
2. The Myth of the “Perfect Reader”
The idea that a single, monolithic reader exists—someone who will love everything you write—is a comforting illusion. In reality:
Reader Type
Typical Expectation
Reality
The “Ideal Fan”
Loves every plot twist, character, and stylistic quirk.
No one loves everything; even the biggest fans have pet peeves.
The “Critical Scholar”
Demands flawless structure and deep subtext.
Even experts can disagree on what qualifies as “deep.”
The “Casual Browser”
Wants light, easy‑to‑digest content.
They might actually crave something thought‑provoking if presented well.
The “Niche Enthusiast”
Wants high‑level technical detail.
Over‑explaining can alienate newcomers; under‑explaining can feel lazy.
Because each individual brings a unique mix of experience, mood, and personal bias to the page, any attempt to write for a single archetype is fundamentally speculative. You can only guess what will click, and even the most data‑driven predictions can’t account for the serendipitous spark that makes a reader fall in love with a line.
3. Writing for You: The Unexpected Advantage
When you write primarily for yourself, a few things happen that actually help reach a broader audience:
What Happens When You Write for Yourself
Why It Helps the Reader
Authentic Voice Emerges
Readers pick up on sincerity. A genuine tone feels trustworthy and invites empathy.
Risk‑Taking Becomes Natural
You’re more willing to experiment with structure, language, or theme—creating fresh experiences for the reader.
Consistency Beats Conformity
A clear personal style becomes a brand. Readers know what to expect (and love it), even if the genre shifts.
Passion Fuels Persistence
Writing is hard. When the work matters to you, you’re more likely to edit, rewrite, and polish.
Think of it as a two‑way street: the more you love what you write, the more chance there is that someone else will love it too. Authenticity is magnetic; calculated pandering is often invisible.
4. Real‑World Examples
Author
What They Did
Result
Haruki Murakami
Wrote stories about jazz bars, cats, and surreal parallel worlds because those obsessions fascinated him.
Global cult following; readers across continents adore his “oddly specific” voice.
David Mitchell
Mixed historical fiction with speculative sci‑fi purely because he loved the “what‑if” of time travel.
Critical acclaim and a wildly diverse readership attracted to his genre‑bending narratives.
Samantha “Sam” Cole (fictional indie blogger)
Abandoned a “listicle for millennials” plan, wrote a personal essay on grief because it had to be said.
The post went viral, resonating with readers of all ages who recognized its raw honesty.
These writers didn’t start with a spreadsheet of demographics; they started with curiosity, annoyance, awe, or pure love for a subject. The audience grew organically around that core.
5. Practical Strategies: How to Prioritise Your Voice Without Ignoring Readers
You don’t have to swing the pendulum completely to “write only for yourself.” Here’s a balanced workflow that preserves authenticity while still being considerate of readers:
Start in the “Me‑Zone”
Freewrite for 15–20 minutes with the intention only of getting your own thoughts down. No audience in mind.
Ask yourself: What excites me? What irritates me? What can’t I stop thinking about?
Step Back & Identify the Core
Highlight the central emotion or hook that made you write in the first place. This is the seed that will interest readers.
Empathy Check
Switch hats: If a reader stumbled on this piece tomorrow, what would they need to understand the core quickly?
Tip: Write a one‑sentence pitch for a complete stranger. If you can convey the essence, you’re likely on the right track.
Selective Polishing
Remove self‑censorship that dilutes your voice (e.g., “Maybe I shouldn’t use that slang”).
Add clarity where needed (explain a term, give context) without compromising tone.
Feedback Loop
Share with a small, trusted group who value honesty over flattery. Ask: “Did my voice feel genuine? Was anything confusing?”
Use their notes to tighten the piece, not to rewrite it in their image.
Release & Observe
Publish. Watch the comments, metrics, and, most importantly, your own emotional response.
If you feel proud, that pride will translate into future work that continues to attract kindred readers.
6. “What If” Scenarios: When Audience‑First Fails
Scenario
What Went Wrong
Lesson Learned
A romance novelist writes only “safe” love‑stories to please the “mainstream market.”
Stories lack tension; readers feel the plot is predictable and disengage.
Authentic conflict—whether internal or external—drives investment.
A tech blogger avoids jargon to appeal to “non‑techies.”
Content becomes vague; both novices and experts feel the article is unhelpful.
Clarity doesn’t require “dumbing down”; it requires thoughtful explanation.
A poet tries to mimic the style of a bestselling poet to capture their fanbase.
The work feels derivative; critics call it “imitative.”
Originality beats mimicry; readers can spot a copycat from a mile away.
These cautionary tales reinforce the central truth: no amount of market research can substitute for genuine curiosity and personal investment. When you start building your work on the sand of “what I think they want,” you risk losing the solid foundation of your own voice.
7. The Sweet Spot: “Write for Yourself and Invite Others In”
Think of writing as hosting a party you love. You decorate the space, choose the playlist, and cook the food because you enjoy it. Then, you open the door and welcome guests. If the vibe feels authentic, the guests will stay, chat, and maybe even bring friends. If the party feels forced, no one will linger.
In practice, that means:
Let your passion be the headline. Your enthusiasm is contagious.
Use empathy as the entryway. A brief moment of “what would a reader need?” can help bridge the gap without muting your voice.
Accept that you’ll never please everyone. The goal isn’t universal approval; it’s a connection with those who resonate.
8. Takeaway Checklist
I’m writing because…
1
I’m fascinated, angry, or moved by the subject.
2
I have a unique angle that I can’t find elsewhere.
3
I’m excited to experiment with form or language.
4
I’m willing to edit for clarity, not for conformity.
5
I’m open to feedback that enhances my voice, not replaces it.
If you can answer “yes” to at least three of these, you’re likely steering toward a piece that speaks both to you and, organically, to readers.
9. Final Thought
“Write for yourself, but don’t forget the world is listening.”
That paradox captures the sweet spot most writers chase: authenticity as your compass, empathy as your map. When you let your inner compass guide you, you’ll find that the world—sometimes unexpectedly—shows up at the destination you never planned.
So the next time you sit down at the keyboard, ask yourself: What would I write if no one were watching? Then, once the words flow, give them a quick glance to make sure the door is open enough for someone else to step inside.
Write boldly, edit kindly, and watch as the right readers find you—because they’ll be looking for the voice you could only have written.
Happy writing, and may your pages always feel like home.
If this post resonated with you, feel free to share your own experiences in the comments. How have you balanced personal passion with audience awareness?
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’.
Oops, been watching Romancing the Stone again, and that catchy line caught my attention. Perhaps I can use it somewhere, one day.
But…
The project is proceeding on course, adhering more to the outline than less, and it’s looking good.
I know just in saying that the ship is about to founder on a reef, so I’ll brace myself.
Today’s quota of words is done early, so I can sit down soon and do the crossword over a cup of coffee while waiting for dinner to cook in the oven.
Perhaps we might have a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc with dinner. What I’ve noticed with these is that they are not all the same; some actually taste terrible, and some are quite exquisite. I suspect it might be where they grow the grapes, even if it is in the same region.
And, later, I’ll take another look at the sidebar I decided to add and flesh it out a little more. In view of what is happening, it is rather fortuitous that it came out of left field because it will serve as a reminder that being home doesn’t mean they’re safe.
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.
The bridge was subdued as I came out of the elevator and made my way to the chair. Number one was standing next to it.
“Where are we?” I asked him.
“Close enough to open communications.”
“The ships behind us?”
“Slowed to maintain distance, at the moment still out of communication range.”
“Time of arrival at the ships?”
“Ten minutes.”
“We’re being hailed,” the comms officer said, turning to look at me.
“Video?”
“Yes.”
To Number One, “Tell the General to get his team together and be ready to mobilise in 15 minutes.”
“Sir.” He rushed out. He would be back in 5 minutes or less.
To the communications officer, “On screen then.”
A male, one that looked very much like the others we had met earlier, and it made me think that at one time all the people in this part of the galaxy got along well enough to share the longevity technology to make them all look the same.
There were slight changes between them, because the man I was looking at had more human skin tones, whereas the others were much paler. Perhaps they had advanced the technology to make them more lifelike.
“Captain. I am assuming you are the vessel from Earth recently at Grurzek?”
“You would be correct. To whom am I speaking, and don’t say that it is irrelevant.”
“I am a Commander of the Foroi. I believe you have one of our people aboard your vessel.”
“We are bringing her back to her home world, yes.”
“We will take her from here. We understand you are on a voyage of discovery, and you have come out of your way to deliver her. We can relieve you of that responsibility.”
And what would happen after she boarded their ship? I could only imagine, but one possibility that reached the top of the list, imprisonment and possibly death.
“I was charged with delivering her in person to her family members. That means I cannot pass that responsibility to anyone else.”
There were no recognisable expressions on their faces and odd thought, but I would hate playing poker with these people.
But, by the length of the silence, I assumed my statement didn’t go well.
“I understand you are an honourable man, but we are dealing with matters of state which I’m sure you can understand, as you have these back where you come from.”
Did everybody know about us?
I glanced over at Number One, breathless but hiding it well and who nodded to confirm the General was in place, he was as intrigued as I was. As was every member of the bridge crew. They had the most experience with these new people, and for them, it was the reason they signed on.
“Matters of state indeed, but a promise is a promise, and I will be completing the mission.”
“That would be a very dangerous undertaking.”
Once again, the notion of threats was raised.
“What do you know of Earth?” I thought I’d take a different path rather than take the bait.
I guess I was wrong about expressionless beings. He was genuinely surprised.
“More than you might think.”
“Then can I assume from that all of you in this part of the galaxy were once united, sharing technology and intelligence?”
It wasn’t a leap to see that these people once lived together in harmony. We on Earth were heading in that direction and would be interesting to find out what happened so we could avoid the same mistakes.
Not from this commander though.
“Then you’ll know that we will die for an ideal. You will also know we have weapons that can cause a life-extinction event. No one has used it yet, more by good luck than good management, but we carry those weapons, just in case. We call this weapon a deterrent against foolhardy notions.
“So, if you are thinking of coming here by force and taking her, and perhaps destroying any evidence of us, I’d think again. We have a weapon aimed at each of your three vessels. We have scanners that can pick up signs you are about to deploy weapons, as I’m sure you do.
“Take a deep breath, and we’ll talk again soon.”
A nod to the communications officer cut the feed.
“Are we dancing with death, sir?” The first officer was a little tense, but we’d been here before.
“Sir, weapons are on each of the vessels, awaiting your orders.” The General had been monitoring the conversation.
“Very good. You know the drill if anything happens on the bridge.”
For a minute the air on the bridge was so thick you could literally cut through it with a knife.
The communications officer broke the silence, “One of the ships behind us is hailing.”
Like yesterday, the Maple Leafs are playing again, and as much as I want to forsake it and get on with the story, the fact that we are down by a large margin at the end of the first period has allowed me to turn it off, or watch the stage a comeback.
Damn.
I stick with it.
Then, we made a decision to go and see a movie, Last Christmas, because it looked interesting when we saw the preview a few weeks ago.
That means missing half of the third period of ice hockey if we’re going there. Well, there’s always the live broadcast via the phone.
It is not easy driving a car and listening to a brilliant comeback by the Leafs, and the excitement in the car is almost at the same fever pitch as the commentators.
Alas, we lose.
As for the movie, it was everything we hoped for. Two delightful leads who didn’t overact, Emma Thompson as a Yugoslav, and Michelle Yeoh in a restrained performance that I’m unused to seeing her in. Perhaps Star Trek Discovery kick-arse was not needed here.
Christmas, no swearing, no killing sprees, a few songs, and a lesson hidden between the lines. What more could one ask for?
As for the story, I’m having a coffee, and then it’ll be time to get back into the groove.
The way I saw it, the grass was always browner on the other side.
Josh was not particularly interested in my assessment of having affairs, as I had told him long ago that all they would cause was unnecessary grief.
And for what?
That aspect he had never explained in a manner that would convince me that the grass was not brown but green.
It was yet another Friday night in a bar renowned for what Josh called hook-ups, his description of married men and women looking for something on the side.
His specialty was one-night stands.
I went along only for the beer and to watch the machinations of people who were not satisfied with what they had.
Over and over again. The only thing that didn’t surprise me was the jaded expressions.
“When you’re finally married, Robert, you’ll know exactly how I feel.”
He never got tired of telling how much he adored his wife, that he would never leave her, and that his Friday night was just to remove the boredom.
If I were married to Lucy, Josh’s wife, there would be no boredom or straying.
“I could not imagine being unsatisfied with the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
Of course, the opportunity to find the one hadn’t yet presented itself, and I sure as hell didn’t want to partake in what was on offer in this bar.
Not that I hadn’t been propositioned on numerous occasions. I had found their reactions amusing when I declined.
“That might just about sum you up, Robert. No sense of adventure.”
Be that as it may, it never stopped Josh from trying to hook me up with a double date. Some had been interesting, but I had a rule not to date married women. Being accosted by an angry husband was not on my wish list.
And a pity Josh had not got the memo.
“Well, that lack of adventure is about to be tested.”
He looked in the same direction as I was, to the end of the bar where two women were sitting, sipping drinks and surveying what was on offer. I’d caught them looking at us more than once. Well, Josh, maybe. I doubted I’d raise an eyebrow.
“I’d go and introduce myself,” I said. “They keep looking in your direction.”
Since I was there to provide an opinion on the participants, act as a wingman when necessary, and generally help his case, he knew I was not giving him a bum steer.
“Which one?’
“Redhead, though I doubt it’s her natural colour. She’s more your type, sassy.”
That was his go-to type, brazen or sassy, the exact opposite of Lucy.
The other, younger, like a sister, cousin, or office junior, did not look like she was a willing participant, but then, what would I know?
“She is.” He drank the rest of the Scotch and soda for the courage, slipped off his seat, and sauntered down to their end of the bar.
I didn’t watch after he reached them. I didn’t want to know.
The bartender came over, and I ordered another bottle of beer. A voice next to me said, “I’ll have what he’s having.”
A glance sideways told me it was the redhead’s friend. Brunette, short, with a fringe. There were, now she was closer, blue tinges through her hair.
Not sassy, but rebellious. In other words, trouble.
I looked down at the end of the bar, and the red head and Josh were gone.
“What happened to your friend?”
“Went with Josh, possibly to a hotel. He said you would take me home, but you don’t have to.”
“If Josh said I would, I will. Do you want to go home?”
“Not yet. The night is young, and I’m glad I don’t have to help Erica in her quest. Please tell me you don’t either?”
So, either happily married, in a steady relationship, or like me, still looking, or not.
“No. I come here just for the amusement of guessing who will end up with whom.”
The bartender put the bottles in front of us and moved on.
She looked at the label, took a sip, and then made a face that changed her whole demeanour. “How’s that going?”
“Like my own ability to pick who might be the woman of my dreams? It seems I don’t understand the randomness.”
“Desperation, Robert, it’s called desperation. And if you ask me, there’s an element of sex addiction.”
She knew my name. Josh probably told her all about me, according to Josh, which was about as far from the truth as anyone could get.
“I’ve not yet reached the point of desperation. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to meet the one.”
“Oh, why is that?”
“I don’t really know what I’m looking for. And I don’t understand women at all because if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be here.”
“Odd. I feel the same way. Erica has no problem finding guys to do her bidding.”
“Is she married?”
“She says she is in an open relationship, whatever that means, but I know she’s unhappy with her husband. He’s not adventurous at all.”
There was that word again. Perhaps that was a prerequisite to visiting a place like this; you needed a sense of adventure.
“Why does that matter?”
“You should ask Josh. Apparently, Erica thinks I need to find one, or I’ll be left on the shelf.”
More beer, more interesting changes in expression. I don’t think she drank beer, which raised the question, why did she ask for one?
Then she added, almost randomly, “I do weekend rock climbing. That’s all the adventure I need.” Then the sudden switch in topics. “So, tell me your criteria for what you think would be the one.”
OK. I didn’t see that coming. Usually, by now, the girl had moved on.
“As I said…”
“You don’t know. My belief is that you do, so hypothetically, what’s on the list?”
Surprisingly, she ordered more beer. I wondered for a moment if she was one of those women who could drink a lot and not show any signs of it. Unlike me, I could survive perhaps four bottles if I drank them slowly.
I had a feeling that whatever I might guess about this woman, chances were high I was completely wrong.
Except that she was the opposite of the red head she had been with.
Or she was a very good actress.
“Does it matter what I think?”
“No. But humour me. The evening has not turned out the way I expected it would.”
What was she expecting?
“OK. One. She must be footloose and fancy free.”
“Not married or straying? This, then, would hardly be the place to find such a partner?”
“Not my first choice, but I’m beginning to see that I should stop spending Friday nights with Josh.”
She smiled, and facets of her personality shone through. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes, now I think about it. Two. She must like to try different cuisines at least once. I try to, at least once a week.
“That should be on my list, you know, mothers’ old sayings, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“Does anyone cook these days. I have an apartment with a kitchen, but nothing in the pantry, and beer and juice in the refrigerator.”
“No wilting celery or mouldy cheese?”
“No. It happened at the start when I had the best of intentions, then I started working twenty-hour days.”
“No rest for the wicked, then.”
“Except Friday night, and sometimes the odd weekend.”
“This weekend?”
“As it happens. But, to continue…”
She liked driving conversations sideways. I would have to pay more attention. “Three. She should not be afraid to travel second or third class, where the real adventure is. I’m not necessarily cheap, just careful so I can do and see more.”
“Well, aren’t you the party pooper. I couldn’t bear to travel in anything less than first class, or better still, the private jet.”
I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, such was her serious expression. Then she burst out laughing, perhaps in response to my bewildered expression.
Then, inexplicably, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “You had me at one, Robert. If you so desire, I would like you to take me to a new dining experience, one you haven’t been to before, and then, depending on your list and my list, maybe we could talk about this affinity you think you have with travelling third class. What do you think?”
“I don’t know your name.”
“Elizabeth. Liz, for short. Call me Lizzy, and I’ll turn into the axe murderer you’re thinking I might be.”
“If I call you Elizabeth?”
“You would be confusing me with my mother. So, sweep me off my feet.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 