Author: aloysius5

Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force. All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice. Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write. As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me. I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the kindle version on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

In a word: Hail

Yes, you know what it is, and it can be very unpleasant when it hits – hail.

Hailstones as big as golf balls, hailstones that make small or large dents in your car, smash windows, wreck trees, and, sometimes, give the appearance that snow has just fallen.

And hail with snow equals sleet, and it’s not very pleasant to be caught in it.

Of course, there’s a different sort of hail, one that you might also not want to be subject to, that from someone across the street trying to get your attention.

Or a hail that you do want someone or something to stop; a taxi, or cab

Or a ship across the water… though I’m not sure why you, personally would want to hail a ship

Perhaps you could be praised in some way, like, he hailed from London – no, not yelled so loudly he could be heard in New York

And no, we do not go around saying, Hail Minister, or Hail Friend! Not unless we’ve used a time machine and gone back to ancient Roman days

This is not to be confused with the word hale

Yes, it can be something you eat, and I hear it’s very good for you

Or that man is hale and hearty, which means in good health – and I have to say I’m envious because I’m anything but hale

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.

I have high hopes of publishing it mid 2026. It even has a cover.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 26

Where the hell are we?

…

When I opened my eyes, there was a moment where I felt I was rising up from the bottom of the ocean, holding my breath, and heading towards the light.

I was in the captain’s seat, and as my vision focussed, I sucked in a huge breath and sat up. There were others in front of me still slumped over their consoles, barely visible in the emergency lighting.

I tried standing intending to go over to the navigation console and felt my legs buckling under me, and had to sit down again.

I heard a groan from behind me, followed by, “What happened?”

It was the Chief Engineer.

I turned just as he attempted to stand and collapsed to the floor.

I tried again, with more success, and walked slowly over to him. That was when a different sort of light illuminated the bridge and, when I turned to see what it was, just saw the edge of a planet come into view.

We were very close, and it seemed the ship had adopted a circumnavigation path. The ship also seemed to be slowly rotating, hence the changing view of the planet.

Others were stirring. I helped the Chief Engineer up.

“Whatever happened,” I said, “we seemed to have traveled to an as-yet-unnamed planet.”

“Mars perhaps?” He sat back at his console.

A voice yelled out, “not Mars sir, Uranus. And in the distance, that reddish-colored moon is Oberon I think.”

Exactly where the alien ship had said there was a colony, under the ice surface.

I turned to the Engineer, “Chief, what’s the state of the ship?”

“It apparently is on standby, awaiting our command. It is as the Navigator says, we are at Uranus, in a geosynchronous orbit.”

The moon that we believed to be Oberon came up on the screen, and standing off it was three ships, the two that we had encountered, and a larger ship, no doubt belonging to the kidnappers.

“Do you have the elapsed time since we started the test?” I was curious how long we had been unconscious.

I would also like to know why were ended up unconscious, but that was a matter for later. The other problem; the three ships would soon discover our arrival and would be curious themselves, and I didn’t like the odds if we had to go into battle.

“Sixty-five earth minutes, sir.”

I’m sure he would tell me just how fast we had traveled soon enough. “I’ve got to get back down to engineering. I’ll have a report as soon as possible, but, if required, we’re on standby for any operation you deem necessary.”

“Very good.” Then, “Any chance we arrived un-noticed?” I asked the navigator.

“No sir. We were just scanned, so they know something is out there.”

I found it surprising that the kidnappers had told me precisely where they were going. Perhaps they had not expected our ship could follow them, and that, until just over an hour ago, was exactly our thoughts too.

“Is it possible to scan the moon, and the planet?”

“In the process of doing so, sir.”

I went over to the military console where the officer was quickly checking all the systems. “Everything online and available?”

“As far as I can tell. We should be able to retaliate if we have to.”

“It may be sooner than we think. One of the ships, a smaller one, is heading in this direction.”

I yelled out, “Anyone needing medical assistance?”

No one replied. It seems they had all suffered the same malaise I had, a period of unconsciousness. Then a series of reports filled the bridge as each officer reported their systems were online and ready.

I then asked the ship’s department heads to report in, and each came back, not asking the obvious question, but to say everything, and everyone, was ok.

Five minutes later, the ship could be seen approaching us, stopping in indeterminable distance from us, but it was quite close, close enough to make out the detail of the outer hull, and, I noticed, for one of the scientists to scan the vessel and take photographs for reference if we needed to know about it later. The first alien ship in our database.

Then a voice came over the communications system, not one of ours. “Hailing earth ship’s captain. We are sending one of your crew back to you, we do not know what is wrong with him.”

The next instant the captain, in a prone poisition, appeared on the deck in front of the chair. “Medical team to the bridge,” I said.

I went over to him, and he appeared asleep. I checked for a pulse, and there wasn’t one. He was cold, and not a good sign.”

“We have him,” I said. “What happened?”

“He collapsed. Our medical people tell me from what they know of your physiology, that he has stopped breathing, and possibly had what you call a heart attack. I assure you we did not harm him, or your other crew member in any way.”

One of the ship’s doctors came out of the elevator and ran over to us, and immediately did a scan. We were the first ship, the first people, in fact, to use the new technology which was supposed to diagnose most of the problems humans could suffer in a matter of minutes.

“He’s dead, sir,” the doctor pronounced. He had brought several others on the medical team, along with the means to transport him back to the hospital.

They carefully lifted the captain onto the mobile stretcher. “Permission to leave, sir?”

I nodded.

The alien captain, if it was him, came back, “We would like to know how your ship managed to get here so quickly. Our knowledge of your technology makes it impossible for you to travel such distances as you have, and especially in that ship.”

“We’re trying to work that out ourselves. Would you like to tell us how you can move so quickly yourself?”

“We have nothing to hide. Perhaps we could meet and discuss it.”

…

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 44

How often do we sit on the balcony of our by-the-sea residence and stare across the water, wondering what was on the other side?

We probably don’t, and if we were interested, it wouldn’t take long by car to find out.

My guess, a whole bunch of other people looking across the water wondering what’s on the other side.

Curiosity killed the cat!

So, having got that flippancy out of the way, what can be inspiring about this photograph.

Perhaps if we sent our minds back to 1804, there would be nothing on the other side except for trees. There may well have been aborigines there, going about their business, blissfully unaware of the white man, until they started arriving in big ships.

For them, it was the beginning of the end.

For those that lived on this side, in 1804, the other side would seem a long way off. There would be no bridges, no cars, and no other means of transport other than by boat.

My guess, some adventurous people would have got in a boat and rowed over there. More adventurous people would explore the coastline further north, and then 25 odd years later some bright spark would come up with the idea of creating a prison, and import a few thousand felons from the mother country, England.

It would make an interesting story, if the narrator was a boy or girl growing up in this new land.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 63

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Things are about to get complicated…

Two events happened simultaneously.

The door opened, a figure dressed in black appears and Jennifer grabbed her from behind and took her weapon then shoved her to the ground in the middle of the room, at the same time the USBs exploded in the microwave oven.

I went over to the figure and removed the balaclava, whilst Jennifer closed the door after a quick glance outside.

It was Jan. Why wasn’t I surprised.

“Just whose side are you on,” she said, grimacing, and holding her shoulder after it hit the floor very hard.

“You’re lucky it was Jennifer. If it had been me, I might have strangled you by accident. Why are you here?”

“The same as you?”

“No, in this flat. I never told you anything about Jo.”

Jan looked over at the other woman sitting up against the wall, not exactly looking too well now. She would need an ambulance soon. Jan, probably sooner.

“It might have prevented this if you had. It’s probably the only reason why you’re still alive, we needed you to lead us to her. That’s Anna, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And the data drives?”

“Kind of destroyed, which is where such information should end up.”

“It was not yours to do that.”

“No. But left in the hands of people like you, where would it end up? I’m sorry, but with all the lies and deception going on, I couldn’t trust anyone to do the right thing.”

My phone rang.

I looked at the screen. Private number. No prizes for guessing who.

“Dobbin?”

“What is going on in there?”

“Target practice. Want to come and join the fun?”

“Is Jan alright?”

“She’ll live for now, but she is going to need medical assistance soon. It’s up to you.”

“I’m coming up?”

“If you bring anyone else, they’re dead.” I hung up.

I went over to the microwave, took out the remnants of the drives and flushed them down the toilet. Just in case.

When I came back there was a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it,” I said to Jennifer. “But if there is anyone else, shoot them.

Gun ready, I opened the door. He had his hands where I could see them. “Come in and join the fun.”

Jennifer had him covered, just in case.

I closed the door.

Dobbin looked at Anna. He knew who she was.

“O’Connell is next door, dead. Did Jan shoot him?”

“Hello, I’m in the room, Sam. I did not.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“You have this all wrong, Sam. We are not the bad guys,” Dobbin said.

“Well, if you are, and you’re lying, which is about all you have done since I first met you, you won’t be. The USBs have been destroyed.”

Of course, in that instant, I realised that I may have been played again. Anna had given up the location too easily, despite the threats of bodily harm, which if push came to shove, I might not have followed through on. And if Anna surmised that, what was to stop her from having decoys just in case she was found? Come to think of it, she didn’t seem very disappointed when I destroyed them.

A woman capable of torturing and murder was capable of anything, and she had proven herself very capable so far.

And, worse, Dobbin didn’t seem too upset at the news.

This was rapidly becoming a no-win situation.

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 58

Day 58 – Self motivation

…

The Hidden Engines that Keep Writers Moving

Why some authors seem to write on autopilot while others need a constant push

Introduction

If you’ve ever stared at a blank screen while a friend’s manuscript slides from page 1 to page 400, you’ve probably wondered what the secret sauce is. Sure, deadlines and a good editor can prod a writer into action, but the most prolific word‑smiths never rely on external pressure alone. They’ve cultivated internal “motors” that keep the ink flowing even when the muse is on vacation.

In this post we’ll unpack the less‑obvious levers that power a writer’s stamina: mindset tweaks, environmental hacks, social circuits, and ritualistic anchors. Think of them as the invisible gears that keep a writer’s engine humming—no alarm clock required.

1. Purpose‑Fuelled Writing (The “Why” Over the “What”)

The difference between goal and purpose

Goal: Finish a 2,000‑word article by Friday.
Purpose: Communicate a message that changes the way readers think about climate justice.

When the purpose is vivid, the work becomes a conduit rather than a chore. Ask yourself: What will happen when this piece lands in a reader’s hands? Write that answer down and keep it visible on your desk.

Practical tip

Create a “mission card” (index‑card or digital note) that states your purpose in a single sentence. Place it where you start writing every day. When resistance spikes, glance at the card and let the larger mission pull you forward.

2. The Micro‑Commitment Loop

Large projects feel intimidating because the brain treats them as a single, massive decision. Break the task into micro‑commitments that take 5–10 minutes each:

Micro‑commitment	How it works
Open the document and type the title	Signals the brain that the work has begun
Write one sentence describing the opening scene	Reduces the “blank‑page” anxiety
Set a timer for 7 minutes and draft a paragraph	Creates a low‑stakes sprint
Highlight the paragraph you just wrote	Provides instant gratification

The loop is simple: commit → act → reward (the reward can be as subtle as a mental “yes!” or a sip of coffee). Over time these micro‑wins accumulate into a full draft without the need for a looming deadline.

3. The “Storytelling” Habit: Treat Your Life Like a Narrative

Humans are wired to seek stories. If you start seeing your own day as a plot, you’ll naturally want to move the story forward.

Act 1 – Morning routine (setup)
Act 2 – Conflict (the “write‑or‑don’t‑write” dilemma)
Act 3 – Resolution (the first 300 words)

Write a one‑sentence “scene description” for each block of time you plan to work. For example: “In this scene, the protagonist (me) battles the distracting siren of social media and emerges with a fresh paragraph about the protagonist’s childhood.”

When you treat each writing block as a scene, you get the same momentum you’d feel watching a thriller—because you are living one.

4. Environmental Triggers: Design Your “Writing Habitat”

a. Sensory Anchors

Sound: A specific playlist, white‑noise, or the hum of a coffee shop can become a Pavlovian cue. Play the same 30‑second intro each time you sit down.
Smell: Light a scented candle (citrus for focus, sandalwood for calm) only during writing sessions. Your brain will associate that aroma with productivity.

b. Physical Boundaries

Dedicated space: Even a small corner of a couch can become “the writing nook” if you only ever sit there to write. The space itself becomes a trigger.
Desk posture: Sit upright, feet flat, screen at eye level. The subtle physical alertness reduces the temptation to slump into procrastination.

c. Digital Minimalism

Use a distraction‑free writing app (e.g., iA Writer, Scrivener’s “Compose” mode) that hides menus and notifications.
Keep a “browser whitelist” with only essential tabs (research, reference). Anything else is a deliberate, timed “break” activity.

5. Social Magnetism: The Power of “Writing with Others”

You don’t have to be in a co‑working space to benefit from community; you only need accountability signals.

Method	How to Implement
Writing buddy	Pair up with a peer. Agree on a weekly word‑count exchange and a short debrief call.
Word‑count streaks	Join a public platform (e.g., NaNoWriMo, Camp NaNoWriMo) and post your daily totals. The fear of breaking a streak is a strong motivator.
Live‑stream writing	Open a Twitch or YouTube “write‑with‑me” stream. Knowing an audience is watching forces you to keep the keyboard moving.
Micro‑review circles	Share a 200‑word excerpt every two days for quick feedback. The anticipation of feedback fuels forward motion.

Social pressure isn’t about shaming; it’s about creating a network of tiny expectations that keep you honest to yourself.

6. The “End‑Game” Visualizer

Imagine the finished piece, not as a distant abstract, but as a concrete moment:

The cover page of a printed manuscript on your bookshelf.
An email notification that a publication accepted your article.
A reader’s comment that says, “This changed my perspective.”

Write down this visual in vivid detail (colour, sound, emotions) and place it where you start writing. When the words start to feel heavy, pull that mental image forward. It’s a form of future‑self alignment, where today’s effort is mapped directly to tomorrow’s payoff.

7. Energy Management: Write When You’re Naturally “On”

Not all writers thrive on a 9‑to‑5 schedule. Track your energy peaks for a week:

Day	Time Slot	Energy Level (1‑10)	Writing Output
Mon	7‑9 am	8	1,200 words
Tue	2‑4 pm	6	500 words
Wed	10‑11 am	9	1,600 words
…	…	…	…

Schedule your most demanding drafting sessions during the top‑tier slots. Use low‑energy periods for lighter tasks (research, outlining, editing). Aligning work with natural rhythms removes the “I’m too tired to write” excuse entirely.

8. The “Zero‑Draft” Mindset

Perfectionism is the silent killer of motivation. Adopt a zero‑draft approach:

Write anything—even nonsense.
Label it “draft 0.”
Commit to moving to draft 1 after a preset time (e.g., 30 minutes).

Because the goal is just to get something on the page, the inner critic stays quiet. Later you can sculpt, cut, and polish. The key is to remove judgment from the first pass; judgment belongs in revision, not creation.

9. Rituals that Signal “Start”

A ritual is a repeatable, symbolic action that tells your brain: “It’s go‑time.” Some writers swear by:

Brewing a specific tea before the first paragraph.
Lighting a candle and reciting a single line of a favourite poem.
Doing a 2‑minute physical stretch or a short walk around the block.

Pick a ritual that takes less than five minutes—long enough to be meaningful, short enough not to become a procrastination loop. Consistency turns the ritual into a cue that bypasses decision fatigue.

10. The “Feedback Loop” of Intrinsic Rewards

External validation (likes, publication acceptance) is a nice bonus, but the real driver is an internal reward system:

Progress markers: Each 500‑word milestone triggers a small celebration (a piece of chocolate, a 5‑minute dance).
Narrative ownership: Remind yourself that the characters, arguments, or scenes belong to you—you are the creator, not a clerk.
Learning curve: Notice how each session adds a new skill (a tighter sentence, a more vivid metaphor). Celebrate that growth.

When you consciously notice these micro‑wins, dopamine floods the brain, reinforcing the habit loop without any external deadline.

TL;DR: Your Personal Motivation Blueprint

Secret	How to Activate
Purpose‑fuel	Write a mission card and keep it visible
Micro‑commitments	5‑minute sprints with instant rewards
Story‑frame your day	Treat each block as a narrative scene
Sensory/environmental cues	Consistent sound, scent, and space
Social magnetism	Buddy system, streaks, or live‑stream writing
Future‑self visualizer	Paint a vivid picture of the finished piece
Energy alignment	Write during natural high‑energy windows
Zero‑draft mindset	Remove judgment from the first pass
Start rituals	Simple, repeatable cues (tea, stretch, candle)
Intrinsic feedback loop	Celebrate progress, skill gain, ownership

Closing Thought

Motivation isn’t a mysterious force that appears only when a deadline looms. It’s a network of tiny, repeatable habits and mental tricks that you can design, test, and refine. The moment you start treating writing as a system—rather than a solitary act—you’ll find that the words begin to flow even on the days when the muse seems to be on holiday.

Give yourself permission to experiment with the tools above. Pick one (perhaps the mission card) and commit to it for a week. Then add another. Before long you’ll have assembled a custom‑built engine that powers your writing, deadline or no deadline.

Happy writing!

Searching for locations: Port Macquarie – Day 1 – Part 2

The resort had all the bungalows nestled in a tropical garden setting

And a number of the bungalows border on the lagoon, which looks great first thing in the morning.

There is also a clubhouse and indoor swimming pool.

And surprise, surprise, there are fish in the lagoon

Of course, a resort wouldn’t be the same without some friendly birds

What I learned about writing – So here’s the deal – you’re not as good as you think you are

I can attest to that. I’ve been through a story a dozen times, and still, there is something to be changed, or a detail or nuance missed. Our eyes play tricks on us; they seem to see what you want them to see rather than what is there.

It’s why we have other people look at our work.

Everyone can get hold of a style manual, a thesaurus and a dictionary.

My biggest bugbear is continuity and names, plot timing, and making sure events happen when they’re supposed to, not just when you write about it and hope it fits the timeline.

I have a problem with that right now with a story I’m writing, where people are living the events in two different time zones, and I need to get it right.

This is where a spreadsheet comes in handy, because you can use a formula to work out the time in a different time zone and run the event timeline in both zones.

It’s always great when the pilot tells you just before you land what time it is at the destination. Scary too sometimes when you’re flying from Brisbane backwards through time to London and find you’re landing 13 or so hours before. I left at 10 pm, and I’m landing at 5:30 in the morning on the same day.

A surefire way of discovering what your text sounds like is to run it through an AI text-to-speech converter and listen. When it sounds really weird, and it will at least once, then you know where to fix it.

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind. If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was. In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerizing. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course. She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused. “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

newdevilcvr6

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words