Days 108 and 109 – Writing Exercise

…

Characters – Plot – Short Story

…

Alexander Bartholemew Winston Jr was my real name, the one I hated with a passion.

My mother and father called me Alexander in that horrible way that you couldn’t tell if they were pleased or angry, mostly the latter.

My paternal grandmother and grandfather called me Bartholomew in public and Bart in private because Bartholomew was a paternal family name of reverence.

Half my friends called me Marty, after Marty McFly of Back To The Future fame, though they never said why, and the rest called me Alex, my preferred name.

So, today it was Alex.

“Alex?”

Samantha Davies had a far more elegant name, Samantha Elizabeth Davies Ramsborough, but had adopted her mother’s pre-marriage surname for anonymity.

We somehow, by a quirk of fate, finished up sharing a four-bedroom apartment in a city where accommodation for one cost a priverbial arm and a leg, and since we all got along so well at University, that camaraderie continued into post-university, and onto the various jobs we were now found ourselves with.

Sam, as she preferred to be called, was coming out into the kitchen where I had coffee, black, strong, no sugar, waiting for her.

“He’s not here.  Today it’s Bart.”

“Simpson?”

“If I had a skateboard, maybe.”

“There’s enough room in this place if you did.”

She was right.  The apartment was half a floor, the possession of an Aunt of one of the other two housemates, with so much room you could get lost. There were even rooms for servants.

Sam had a way of changing subjects, from trivial to serious to trivial again, without time to take a breath.  Half the time, I didn’t know whether I should take her seriously or not.

Which was why we were still just friends, even though she knew how much I liked her; it was just every time we got near the subject, she’d change it.

Maybe she didn’t like me as much.

“Thomas didn’t come home last night.”

If there was a rival for her affections, it was Thomas Aloysius Vanderbloot, an overly self-confident, sometimes smartass, mostly a person whom trouble followed close behind.

I had rescued him from countless scrapes, without thanks or acknowledgement, and, as far as I was concerned, he was now starting to wear out his welcome mat. 

Only it was his grandmother’s apartment.  We didn’t get the privilege rates, which I expected.  I was not one of those entitled sons of wealthy parents, even though they had tried to spoil me, and therefore had only the money I earned to spend.  My brother and sister let them fund their education and pet projects, and were the favourites.

It didn’t bother me.  I was, at least, living my own life.

“We shouldn’t have left him.”

It had been late.  Sam, a budding journalist, had a deadline for a story, and I had a deposition, first thing the next morning.

It was the day after the day after, and we’d all been too busy with different schedules to notice until now.  Philomena, our fourth flatmate, was a nurse, and we rarely saw her

She suddenly appeared, a trait of hers that we firmly believed she travelled through portals because she had a habit of just appearing out of nowhere.

“Whose missing?” she asked.

Sam jumped; the suddenness of her voice from behind her scared her.

“Tom.”

The thing is, Philomena adored Thomas, but he was oblivious to her affection.  It was a little different with Sam; they had a fling in University until he got caught cheating on her, though I knew I didn’t say anything, or ever would, but was there to help pick up the pieces after that first and most intense love.

“Weren’t you two with him the other night?”

Sam, like me, knew what was coming.  Blame.

“We were until he brushed us off.  He had recognised one of his childhood friends, now an investment banker, buying shots, getting drunk and chatting up a few girls.  You know what he’s like.”

“You should have dragged him out.”

Yes, and the last time I did that, I was still carrying the aches and pains from a robust bar fight and a night in jail, drunk and disorderly, and an acid tongue from Sam the next day.

It was always my fault when he couldn’t save himself from himself.

“He’s probably sleeping it off in some seedy hotel,” Sam said, and collected her coffee and flopped into a lounge chair.

She had a new story assignment from the editor and wasn’t happy.

Aside from that, she was well aware of Thomas and seedy hotels.  That was where she found him with another girl, one that Sam had despised because of her open invitation to a male who could be so easily led.

Philomena would not believe either of us, so I let it slide.  It was a day off from lawyering and I was going to make the most of it.

…

Here’s the thing…

Thomas had that way of imposing on your thoughts, even when he was not there.

Uppermost in my mind, and the message my parents, and the parents of the other three, was that we had to be careful, not look for trouble, don’t go to places where trouble could be found, do not be alone in a potential hot spot, and above all, know everything and everyone around you.

In other words, each of us, if anyone knew who we really were, was a potential kidnap victim, or worse.

Each of us, bar Thomas, heeded those words to the letter.  In my application to the law firm, I used my proper name, because I had to, knowing it might open doors because of the family name, and got an interview.  When they asked about the surname, I said it was a distant relative who likely had never heard of me, and the relationship was a coincidence.

I had no interest in trading on my family name.  I was going to succeed or fail on my own merits.  I felt like, at this point, I was failing.

I dropped into a chair near Sam and sipped the coffee, one that Tom had introduced us to, a very expensive taste to acquire.

“How’s your day looking?” I asked, not sure of where this conversation would go.

Her expression was contemplative, so I had to wonder if she was thinking of Tom.  I could feel the green monster sitting on my shoulder.

She looked at me in a way she hadn’t looked at me in a year.  The last time was after the pieces had been reassembled, and I mistook the signs.  I had a long time to try and work out what I did wrong.

Perhaps I was about to find out now.

“It was going to be terrible.  Not just the Tom thing, but I hate my editor.  I hate my job.  I hate my life.  Perhaps it’s time to go home and get married to Mr Dull as ditchwater, and try to be content.”

That said it all.  If she left, so would I.  Home wasn’t the ideal place to go, but I could hide there.  Or if someone hadn’t snapped up Mary Ann Kopeknie, I would.  She was my first love, and truth be told, if Sam wouldn’t have me, maybe Mary Ann would forgive me.

“Like to go for a stroll through Central Park and talk about anything but our woes?”

“Right now, a bar, getting totally obliterated, and ending up in a seedy hotel, seems more appropriate.”

“You don’t mean that.”  I hoped she didn’t.

“I do.  And if you’re offering, take me now, before I change my mind.”

…

When I woke, it wasn’t quite dark, the light from a digital clock casting enough light for me to see if it wasn’t in my room at the apartment.

A brief glance with the range of vision I had showed a curtained window with no light seeping in through the sides, which meant it was night.  There was a painting on the wall, a desk and two chairs.

A hotel room.

Instantly, my mind went back to earlier that morning, if it was the same day, when Sam expressed the desire to have a few drinks.

I thought nine was a bit early, but she had expressed the desire to go with me, so I didn’t.

She wasn’t joking about getting obliterated.  When she could no longer stand or string three words together, the bartender asked us to leave.

I called Tom’s ‘special helpline’ one he included us in on, and we were chauffeured to a hotel Sam just managed to tell us about, making sure we safely made it to the room.

That much I remember.

The rest was a dream I woke up too early from, that part where, in my imagination, we had found that magical connection, where no words were needed, and the love I felt for her was expressed.

It would only happen in my imagination, and not the first time I dreamed it.

I rolled over and discovered I was not alone on the bed.  It must be the rest of the dream, waking up next to the current love of my life.

My imagination would tell me, she would smile, kiss me once, gently, and ask the rhetorical question, how had this not happened before?’

It foundered ridiculous on mt head, and I suspect the large amount of alcohol had damaged part of my brain, and that part where reality lived.  She would never be with me in such a manner.

I think the more appropriate answer to my internal question would be that I put her on the bed and tucked her in to sleep it off.  I did not undress her or do anything without her being fully awake and aware of her surroundings and who she was with

There were no excuses for taking advantage of someone who was incapacitated.

I heard her groan and then felt her move.

Closer to me. 

That was when I realised we were both naked.

My heart rate nearly went through the roof. 

She put her hand on my shoulder and put her arm over me.  Then, a whisper, “You took me out of myself, thank you.”

Then drifted back to sleep.

So close, it was freaking me out.  What if she woke up and started screaming?  What if this wasn’t where she expected to be?  What if she wasn’t expecting it to be me?  There were so many scenarios that filled me with terror.

It is said that the moment you sleep with the girl, no matter how much rapport or respect you had for one another, that goes up in a puff of smoke, and everything changes.

She might no longer be my friend.

She may no longer want to stay at the apartment.

She might decide to go home, and that would be the end of everything.

This was the end of everything.

So, i started counting the seconds that this relationship had left.

A half out passed, and I hadn’t moved.  There were too many parts of her I could unintentionally touch.  And there were other thoughts that I would like to have and express.

She stirred again, but instead of jumping back in fright, discovering she was not alone, I felt her hand moving, and ended up taking my hand in hers and squeezing it.

“Bet you didn’t think you would be here today.”

It was a sultry, low, almost hoarse stone that sent a shiver through me.  It also may have had something to do with her slight movement.

“I didn’t.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Perhaps more elated than I should be.”

I turned my head and saw she had her eyes open, and she had a smile, one that extended to her eyes.

“Until I sat down in the lounge chair, with my coffee, and you sat opposite me, I didn’t realise how you felt about me.  That look you gave me after I said I was thinking about going home.  You were devastated.”

I thought I’d kept the emotion out of my expression, but with her, I could never quite keep the proverbial poker face.

She knew me far better than I realised.

“It has nothing to do with me what you do or don’t do.  I would be upset if you left, but you have your own life to lead.”

“It’s not much of a life.  The guy I thought I loved laughed outright when I told him I wanted more.  It hurt, not as much as the last time, and you know all about that, but what I didn’t realise until that moment, was that what I wanted was right there in front of me.”

I wasn’t going to assume that was me.

She had spent a fair part of that drinking session going on about some other reporter and how much she respected him, and how things had become so red hot between them, they reached the moment where he suggested they get a room.

Until right in the middle of a game where losing meant shedding a piece of clothing, his wife called.  She had seen his cell screen.  The bastard was married.  And in situations like that, she came out the worse off, being transferred and demoted.

I was going to offer her free legal advice.

That was the moment the bartender banished us.

When I didn’t say anything, she just sighed.  “You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, Alex.  You didn’t for the last six hours, and you surprised me.”

Something clicked in my brain, clearing the fog.  It was one of those moments with the sudden sucking in of breath, and the whole event returns as clear as it was just moments ago.

There had been something tacit in the look she gave me, not long after we got to the hotel, and we were sitting at either end of the bed.  She was still drunk, but sober enough to know who was there and where she was. 

There was one simple question.  “Why do you hesitate?”

That was easy, because I had made a mistake, misinterpreted the signals, and ruined everything.  I did not want to do that again.

“You know why?  I want to be with you, even if it is only as a friend.”

“You can ask me one question, Alex.  One.  Anything.”

And there it was, the abyss that I wanted to cross, and knowing I didn”t have the power in my legs to jump over it.

But I could try.

“Do you feel the same about me as I feel for you? That is how I have felt about you since the first day I met you.”

She made one of those contemplative faces that made my heart sink.  If she had to think about it…

“Had you asked me that question a week ago, my answer would be very different.  As for asking me now, right this very minute, my answer would be the same as it would have been when we walked out the door of that apartment, before landing us here.  Yes.  I think I’ve known that for a while, but it never really occurred to me.  I don’t know why.”

I had to wonder why we went to the bar.  She was not the sort of girl who needed Dutch courage.

“So…” she whispered.

So, now I knew, and it was one of those defining moments, where suddenly everything clicked into place.

“You remember.”

“As i will till the day I die.  If you will have me?”

“Proposals, Alex, have to be done properly, not immediately after wild drunken sex, though I’m not ruling out having more before we leave this room, or if or when we decide to leave.  I’m not interested in going back to work, and I know you’re tired of being a gopher lawyer.  There’s champagne in the fridge, let’s toast our desire to get married, watch a little TV, get a little drunk and see what happens.”

Sam got the champagne and I turned the TV on.

She popped the cork, poured liberal quantities into the glasses, and we sipped.  I turned on the TV, and we sat on the bed.

I flipped through the channels until a local news station displayed the upcoming weather.  It was going to get colder, and she shivered.

Then the word ‘Missing Person’ appeared at the bottom of the screen, and seconds later a photo of Thomas Aloysius Vanderbloot was displayed, not a recent photo, but one from our graduation from University, three or four years old, not a recent photo and very different to how he looked now. 

If we had been holding the drinks, we might have dropped them.  Certainly, for me, I was sure my heart stopped.

“What the…”  Sam was as shocked as I was. 

For just a minute, then I could see a transformation.  Not from the surprise, but the fact that something was not right.

I think we came to the same conclusion at the same time.

“Tom.”

We said it together.

Back in university, a group of us created elaborate pranks on the others.  Some left people in almost dangerous situations. I had found myself in a rock ledge about five hundred feet up with only a rope to scale the remaining hundred feet or so, and Sam, well, she still had nightmares.

Tom’s pranks were the most elaborate and usually the most terrifying.

“This is because we left him at that bar,” she said.

“Because we let our guard down.”

She slipped out of bed and put her shirt on, then went over to the door.  She opened it a fraction, and light from the corridor showed in the crack.  A little wider showed that at least we were in the same hotel we were delivered to.

She closed and locked it.

She walked across to the other side and pulled back the curtains.  A door and what looked to be a patio.  She opened the door, and cold air swept in.  She shivered violently.

I haven’t moved, but I could see lights in the distance.  She found the light switch and flicked it.

The patio area was flooded with light.  In the next instant, she screamed.

I saw it just after she did.  The body of a man, quite dead, is lying in a pool of blood.  Beside the body, a bottle of champagne, bloodied.

She turned and looked at me.  “We’re in a great deal of trouble, aren’t we?”

….

©  Charles Heath  2026