50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.
…
In a day of going over old ground and making it new again, I have revisited Zoe’s residence in Paris at the time John called, and found it empty, except for some kid who was all ‘get lost or suffer the consequences.’
Who is he? We flesh that story out, and how it relates to Zoe and those early days in the story.
Similarly, I’m not happy still with how Worthington discovers Zoe, and this is going to need some more work, and definitely a rewrite.
In fact, I might have to revisit his whole appearance in the story and make it a little less bombastic and a little more subdued seething anger.
The whole Marseilles episode is good, it’s just the end and this discovery of who is behind Zoe’s abduction that needs a little work. This is where we sow the enigmatic sees of Romanov and his purpose for wanting Zoe if it is not revenge like it is assumed.
Similarly, that whole thing with the Russian Minister and Anton needs a lot more work because there appears to be a connection between him and Romanov, but there’s not. This is just Olga leaning on her connections to get a result.
Then Zoe takes off to find Romanov, or is it those seeking revenge, it’s not quite clear, and leaves John to contemplate his future. Perhaps a piece here between them that sets the tone for the relationship over the coming months would be good, and the trigger that sets John off on a quest to find her.
His excuses at the moment are wishy-washy at best.
Phew!!! Never knew self-criticism could be so harsh!
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 0 words, for a total of 8,871.
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Which, unfortunately, I do not have a lot of in my step.
At last, we have reached the end of the alphabet because I’m running out of zip to write these blogs.
So…
Zip is the sing, the energy, the spring we have in our step, that usually gets us from a to b quickly. Without this zest, we would need to take a bus, train, or cab.
Then comes the variations like …
Zip code, we all have one of these, though in some countries it is called a postcode.
Zip it up, meaning do not speak, especially if you’re about to spill a secret.
A zip, which is a part of some types of clothing, usually in trousers, jeans, and skirts to name a few. Some dresses have long zips, some short, all seem to get tangled at one time or another, or, in the most embarrassing of situations, split.
Then there is a colloquial use of the word zip, meaning nothing, zilch, zero, in other words, a basis for of z words.
And that’s about as much zeal I’m going to show for writing this blog, and I’m going to close the book on it.
Like many who endured their school years with one endgame in mind, to get as far away as possible from those and the people in it, as soon as I completed high school, I was going to be on the first bus out.
Unlike others, there was nothing to keep in there, my father had died in the last year and my mother had moved on to a new family, and it was evident in not so many words that I was not welcome to stay.
Nor were there very many employment opportunities because like many other rural towns and cities, unless you were from an agricultural background, a tradesman, or simply wanted a dead-end job, there was little reason to stay.
Of course, there was always one minor hiccup in what could have been a perfect getaway.
Mine was called Francine Macallister.
We became friends in elementary school, not by choice but from being thrown together by circumstances. Her parents had died in a car crash when she was twelve, and my mother, being a close friend of the family, took her in rather than let her be taken into foster care.
As an only child, I hated the fact that I had to share my parents’ affection, and then when it seemed she was given more consideration. When we argued or fought, it was always my fault. It seemed to me that after a while, they liked her more than me.
It was like having a real sister, and I hated her. She was popular with the boys and often found ways to make my life difficult, and on several occasions found myself in a fight which I preferred not to be involved. All it did was reinforce my resolve to get on that bus.
That decision to leave was not made in haste, nor was I making a leap into the unknown.
For several years, I had worked several jobs to save every cent I could because I knew I was going to need a stake in case I could not immediately find work. I had a room lined up where I was going to stay until something better came up.
I told no one of my intentions because I didn’t want to explain why I was going, which I thought was obvious, or where I was going. But there were people I had to deal with, and this was a small enough town for everyone to know everyone else’s business if they were that curious.
I didn’t think anyone would care
Then, finally, school was over. I woke up that Monday morning, knowing that within hours, I would be out of this house forever. All I had to do was contain my excitement.
I had already packed my travel bag and left it at the bus depot several days before. When I left, it would be as if I was going down to the library to study up on work opportunities in the area, a routine I had maintained over several weeks, mostly to get out of the house, and to keep away from Francine and her friends.
At the end of the school year, everyone was home and in the dining room. Only recently, my mother had begun a relationship with another man, a widower with three children under 10 of his own, which she seemed to end up caring for. They were as snarky as Francine, and it forced me to move up my plans to leave.
With any luck, it was going to be the last time I saw any of them again.
Francine was dressed, ready to go out, and was eating some vegan cereal, having decided not to eat meat, and looked up as I came into the room. I saw the others and stopped.
“You’re up late,” she said.
I wanted to be fully rested for what lay ahead. “No need to get up until I get a job.”
“Not considering going to college?”
I’d been told there was no money for me to go to college a year or so ago and decided that I’d probably never be in a position to go. “No. Grades weren’t good enough. Probably should have studied harder.”
My mother glared at me. “That’s because you’re as useless as your father. The quicker you get a job and can pay your way, the better.”
Thanks for the compliment, Mom.
“Exactly my thoughts. I’m working on it.”
Francine took her plate to the sink and then came back. “I can see you’re off to the library. Mind if I come with you?”
It was the last thing I wanted. She’d never bothered before, and it set off alarm bells. And that expression on her face, she was up to something.
“Why?” It came out blunter than I intended.
“Why not?”
“You’re not interested in getting a job. Didn’t you say you were going to college?”
She was only going because her current boyfriend, Bradley Scott, the eldest son of the town’s hardware and agricultural machinery dealership owner, the richest family in town, was going, and she was joining him. There was only one problem, funding.
“I might. Bradley’s going, and he wanted me to go too.”
“Then perhaps you should be looking into college life rather than pestering me.”
“But I like pestering you.”
“Take your sister with you, Sam, and stop being an ass.”
“I hate to break it to you Mom, she’s not my sister. Never was, and never will be. And as much as you don’t care, she’s done nothing but make my life miserable.”
I saw the expression on Francine’s face, and oddly, I thought it was one of hurt. It was hardly possible given the way she had treated me recently.
“That’s a terrible thing to say, Sam.” My mother stopped what she was doing and looked at me.
“What, you think it’s been all wine and roses since she moved in? Wow. What planet have you been on? You know what. I don’t want to deal with this anymore. You think what you like. I’ll find a job and get out of your hair.”
That said, I walked quickly to the front door, opened it, stepped out onto the patio, and closed it behind me. I was going to wait for the bus into town, but instead, I was so very angry. I decided to walk off my temper.
By the time I reached the next intersection, about fifty years from home I heard someone coming up behind me.
I turned to see Francine.
She was probably the only person who could derail my plans.
It would create an unnecessary problem if I ignored her, so I waited until she caught up.
“What are you doing,” I asked. “You have never been interested in anything to do with me unless it involved Bradley and his idiot friends beating me up.”
“You hate me that much?”
“Would it matter if I did or didn’t? You’ve detested me ever since the day my mother took you in. Whatever life I had before that was gone and replaced with what could be described as hell on earth. Hate isn’t a strong enough word.”
“Is that why you’re leaving town?”
I glared at her. There was no way she could know what I was doing.
“You’re as delusional as my mother. Go home and figure new ways to make me miserable.”
I walked off, hoping she’d get the message.
Of course, she didn’t.
“Angie’s mother works at the bus depot. She said you got a ticket to New York. Didn’t say when you were going, but I’m guessing it’s soon.”
I shook my head. Of course, Francine would know someone with a mother who pried into other people’s business. They probably had a meeting of busybodies every Wednesday at city hall.
“Where would I get the notion I could do anything that smart or have the money. You heard my mother, I’m a good for nothing. You’ve even said so yourself. If anyone was leaving this dump, it would be Bradley and you. Prom Queen and King. You were ordained as the couple who were most likely to succeed.”
It came as no surprise that she and Bradley were given the money his father donated to the school.
She grabbed my shoulder and stopped me.
“You know, I’ve always had a notion that you liked me, Sam. I could never work out why you always simply ignored me. Just now, I can see why. If nothing had happened to my parents, we might have become more than friends over time. What you said back home, that the day I moved in it was the day your life ended. You meant your life with me, didn’t you?”
I had worked so hard to suppress any feelings I had for her. It would have seemed utterly wrong to suggest that I had. In a sense, she was right. Until the day she moved in, our lives together had been perfect. Now, it was reduced to just watching her make a fool of herself with others.
“It doesn’t matter what you think I think or thought or cared about. You have a life. I have a version of purgatory. I can’t live in that house, and my mother has made it perfectly clear. I’m not wanted with that new gaggle she’s invited in. Sleeping rough in the park is infinitely more preferable.”
“I treated you badly because I didn’t think you liked me anymore. I just suffered the loss of my parents, and then I lost my best friend in the world. Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“You know why.”
“We’re not related like you said. I was never your sister, and I never will be.”
“It’s not how the busybodies of this place will see it. You should be concentrating on landing the town’s biggest fish. He had rough edges, but I’m sure time and a big stick will sort them out. Now, whatever you think this was, it wasn’t. Go home, be happy. Forget I ever existed. My mother has.”
“You’re wrong. About a lot of things. But whatever. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t want to part ways with you thinking I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you.”
With that, she turned and headed back home.
At least she had one to go to.
I nearly changed my mind a dozen times during the day.
I spent a lot of time going over the words of that last conversation and realised that, at the time, I had been so wrapped up in my own self-pity that I hadn’t really listened.
Then, in a moment of clarity, I realised she said she believed I liked her? But was that at the beginning, during, or at the end? Certainly, I had been very much in love with her by the time she arrived at our house and at a time when I had been hoping it might go further.
The thing is, I had always liked her, but I never dared to tell her how I felt. That I was planning to do, and that’s when timing became my enemy. It was just before her parents had died.
It was that first brash moment of our teens when feelings ran high and every little nuance of a relationship could cause instant joy or utter despair. I had the feeling she felt the same as I did and was going to tell her.
Then, it all fell apart.
When she moved in, my instant joy quite literally turned to utter despair. There was no possible way I could ever contemplate a romantic relationship with the girl that everyone labelled my sister.
Society’s expectations did not include a romantic relationship between a brother and sister even if we were quite clearly not.
So, we became another of society’s expectations between a brother and sister. We began to fight like cats and dogs.
At first, I thought she was surprised, but my recollection of that time was scant because I was battling a broken heart and another of those teenage angst, getting through teens and being bullied at school.
Whatever happened, I did what I had to to keep the thoughts of her out of my head. I tried being the brother I thought she would expect to want and instead found her finding ways to make my life miserable. What was the saying? No good deed goes unpunished.
It didn’t matter in the end, whether I liked her or not or whether she liked me, which I seriously doubted. I couldn’t wait to get on that bus and leave town. Forever.
That walk from the library to the bus depot was the longest of my life. Still, the thoughts were swirling about the effect it would have on my mother and perhaps Francine. I was still telling myself neither cared what happened to me.
But what was worse, with everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, she was once again in my thoughts in a way she shouldn’t be. I had to get my head in the right space. Otherwise, I was going to be just as miserable. Only the view out the window would be different.
I picked a night when there would be more activity at the bus depot because being the only person I would stand out.
I was planning to leave unnoticed, and so far, half a dozen other passengers were sitting along the seats. One thing I’d noticed every time I’d come to check it out, no one came to see anyone off and rarely was anyone there to greet arrivals.
Perhaps no one cared if you left and perhaps arrivals didn’t want people to know they’ve returned. Whatever the reasons, it suited my stealthy departure.
My thoughts were interrupted by an announcement that the bus was running ten minutes late, then by another passenger who was leaving, sitting two seats up from me.
I turned to glance in her direction and recognised her immediately. Francine.
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I’m leaving this town. There’s nothing here for me anymore.”
“You have a family, a home, and people who care about you.”
I gave her my best, incredulous look. “What planet are you from, and what have you done with the real Francine?”
“Why are you really leaving?”
“It doesn’t matter. Go home and forget about me.”
It was her turn to look incredulously at me. “That would be difficult, Sam. Had you asked me this morning how I felt about you, we might not be here.”
“It would not. No matter what I feel or what you feel, it can’t be.”
“Because we’re brother and sister. Even though this morning, I was never your sister. I wondered about that statement and initially thought it meant that I’d never acted like one, even though I know you tried to be a brother. Then I realised, later, what you meant. We had been friends before I moved in. I had hopes that we might be special friends, I liked you that much, and perhaps at that time, it was the first pangs of love. I thought you felt the same.
“I was disappointed that events turned out the way they did, but it was better than going into the foster system. It ruined any chance we had of taking our relationship further. Bradley used to say that you were in love with me. I think you came to the conclusion, that our new situation would never allow our feelings for each other, long before that, simply because we were, in his and everyone else’s eyes, brother and sister.
“You were right, of course. We’re not. It was the reason why I stayed within the foster system and kept my name. I refused to be adopted or change my name to yours. I had this silly notion that eventually you’d get out of your funk, and we could run away together. I wanted to leave too, but like you, I couldn’t until I was eighteen.
“Well, this morning I told your mother I was leaving. I thanked her for the five years she put up with me. She asked if you were going with me? It was a curious question, and I said no. She simply shrugged and handed me an envelope with a bus ticket and an address where I could find a friend of hers. The ticket is for this bus. Your bus. And I suspect the friend’s address is yours. Your mother is no fool, Sam. She’s known the anguish you’ve suffered. Once I realised how much you loved me, the last five years made complete sense.
“You could have told me at any time. You might have saved yourself a lot of anguish. But men are all the same, trying to be the strong, uncomplaining silent type.” She shook her head. “You’d better be a lot more communicative from now on.”
She stood and held out her hand. The bus was pulling into the bay. Three others getting on were moving towards the gate.
I took it in mine, and all the grief of the last five years melted away. She smiled that beautiful smile that could light up a room and a smile that had been missing for so long. A tear ran down her left cheek.
“And don’t ever make me give another of those speeches ever again. Ever, you hear.”
“I promise. Hey, what about Bradley. You two seemed very cosy together.”
“That. That was just to make you mad. It seemed it worked almost too well.”
“Then don’t do it again.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
The ticket collector was waiting impatiently by the door waiting for us. We crossed to the door, gave him the tickets which he punched, and then got on the bus.
There were two seats side by side about the middle. She sat in the window seat, not that there would be much to see. I got comfortable and then took her hand in mine. She smiled when I looked at her.
“Ready?”
“I am.”
She squeezed my hand, the door closed, and the bus moved away from the bay. For better or worse, we were on our way. A last glance back, I momentarily wondered if either of us would ever come back.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. He is looking out the door at the rain.
After a long spell of heat and humidity that was practically unbearable, we now have rain and cold.
I’m standing at the back door watching the near torrential downpour, and both of us are watching the river of water flowing from the back yard down the side of the house.
Chester looks at me. Is that the look that’s asking me to let him outside.,
I’m toying with the idea.
He turns his head and looks up at me. Is that an imploring look to stay in or go out.
The hell with it, I open the door. If he wants to go out in the rain, that’s his business.
He stands up and turns his head to look at me.
OK, I get it. When you know I can’t go out, you let me out. That’s just not right.
What’s stopping you?
You know exactly what the problem is. Water. You know I hate water.
That’s every other cat. A while back you convinced you were not like the other cats. Fearless, you said, able to take on any challenge.
Open door, it’s an invitation to paradise.
He takes two tentative steps towards freedom. The rain comes down harder as if someone up there is playing a mean joke on him.
Another step, just about through the door.
The wind blows and we both catch a spray of water.
He jumps and scuttles back inside so fast, and I’m left alone at the door. I close it again.
We will be discussing invincibility sometime soon, I yell out. But, he’s gone.
I shrug and go back inside. I will savor this victory for the next few minutes.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, 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.
Chasing leads, maybe
Monica, from the last interrogation, had brought a file. It looked the same as the last one she brought with her, the one with my name on it.
This time it was thicker.
Intelligence gathering at its finest. There’d be stuff in there that even I didn’t know about me.
She didn’t open it, just looked at me.
“What have you been doing?”
“Working?”
“For whom?”
“Nobbin, of course. I am now assigned to his section. Did you do that?”
“He did. He tells me you’re working on the O’Connell investigation.”
“Is that what it’s called. He never told me that. And I had to find out where I’d been assigned by logging onto a computer. An email or letter would have made my life a little easier.”
“You’re just lucky you’re still working here. Now, tell me more about this Severin character.”
“I told you everything I knew the last time you spoke to me. Apparently, you seemed to know who it was. Perhaps you might tell me, too.”
“It’s…”
“And,” I interrupted, “don’t tell me it’s above my pay grade. I was potentially working for traitors and could have finished up in jail for treason.”
“You might still get there.”
Then why hadn’t she had me arrested and thrown in a dungeon the last time we met? There was an easy answer to that question. She needed me out in the field. Nobbin needed me in the field. They presumably needed me to remain available to Severin for whatever reason.
“What do you want?”
She opened the file, turned a few pages, and stopped at a yellow sheet of paper. I wasn’t able to read it upside down, but it had very small spidery writing on it.
Then she looked at me again.
“Some secret documents appear to have gone missing. We believe that is to say Director Dobbin thinks these may have been on a USB drive that was in the possession of O’Connell at the time of his death. You were there at the time of his death. You can see where this is going…”
No matter which answers I gave it was the wrong one, which led to do not pass go and do not collect two hundred dollars, or pounds as the case may be.
“I haven’t got it, and he didn’t tell me where it was, and I saw him die.”
“If you say so.” She went back to the file and turned some more pagers.
“What do you mean?”
She looked up. “So far, there’s no body been recovered, or any evidence there was a shooting where you said it was.”
“Are you trying to tell me he’s alive, because if you are, then I must be a very poor judge of people who have no pulse. He was not about to get up and walk away.”
“Did you see the body removed?”
Now there’s an interesting point. I had done as I was told and left when told to. I assumed Severin would sort the problem out, in fact, hadn’t he called in the cleaners? I saw a white van.
Actually, when I thought about it, I had no idea what happened after I left. And, now that I remember, I didn’t see anyone get out of the white van.
This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.
…
So, what happened really happened to Worthington?
Did John get reunited with his mother in the hospital?
What of Rupert and Isobel? Did she get to meet the elusive and enigmatic Tsar?
These are all questions that will be answered in due course.
There is also the matter of what happens when John and Zoe/Irina finally meet up after he learns that she regarded him as expendable, and knowing her as he did, didn’t doubt for a minute she meant it.
Is it the folly of falling in love with an assassin?
Once again we end up at the grandmother’s residence in Sorrento, languishing sans Zoe, contemplating the future, a future that might not have Zoe in it.
His idea of setting up an investigation bureau is alive and well, run by Rupert, staffed by people who have the skills but not the confidence of others who had employed them. Rupert is the master of picking lame ducks and turning them into swans.
Isobel, on the other hand, does not improve with age or being in a somewhat iffy, long-range, possible romance, thing.
Does Zoe return, does she call, can she drag herself away from her recently rediscovered father?
Again, you’ll have to read the book.
…
There’s no word count at the moment because everything is in outline awaiting writing. That will happen, I hope, tomorrow.
Mount Ngauruhoe is apparently still an active volcano, has been for 2,500 years or so, and last erupted on 19th February 1975, and reportedly has erupted around 70 times since 1839.
The mountain is usually climbed from the western side, from the Mangatepopo track.
This photo was taken in summer from the Chateau Tongariro carpark.
In late autumn, on one of our many visits to the area, the mountain was covered with a light sprinkling of snow and ice.
On our most recent visit, this year, in winter, it was fully covered in snow.
It’s a matter of getting from a normal busy life, running a very successful and very well-regarded institution, that from the outside was one everyone was envious of to where she is lying in an induced coma following an accident that is still being investigated.
Perhaps we get a glimpse into the detective who will be later called on for a more complex investigation into her life and sadly death.
The question we have to ask is, was this just an accident as a result of her poor health, some were saying a result of her wild childhood early years of dung and alcohol abuse (the privileged life of the youth of the elite wealthy being paid back in spades) or something else.
Is there something about charities that’s not all above board? With a new management team installed by her father, is the money getting to those who need it, or is it to pat the names needed to be in the high-profile donors?
It strikes me that ages ago when I was talking to a group of others about making donations to a charity that had a high-profile person as spokesperson it had to be good if they spoke on behalf of it for nothing in return.
My illusion was shattered in seconds. That personality was paid plenty to spruik the charity, drove around on a large expensive car provided, and hosted endless lunches and functions for those who seemed to live an already lavish lifestyle.
It’s a premise I am investigating and will use as a possible outcome to what should be a beneficiary-orientated charity versus one that is there to principally serve the high-profile spruikers.
