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

A to Z – April – 2026 – P

P is for – Princess

…

It was a mad dash from the office to the airport, and like most times when it came to personal travel, I just made it, or I was five minutes too late.

Of course, this time, I had a legitimate reason. Because I had to clear the vacation days, I needed to go home and be with my mother, whose health had taken a turn for the worse, and it meant visiting HR.

And in HR was Adeline, the woman I had met at a staff function the week before and had spent a rather interesting evening. I had a strict policy of not dating work colleagues, but for some reason, she seemed different.

It was not a date, and we had parted without any commitment to continue, though something inside me told me it might be worth pursuing.

I had to sign the vacation form, and she was the duty officer at the desk. In the end, I had to run, but she had asked to exchange phone numbers. I had no idea how long I would be gone, a few days or much longer, given my mother’s doctor wasn’t sure himself.

All I knew was that her time was almost up. Stage four cancer was as unpredictable as it was relentless. The only positive is that it has given me the time to get home and spend those last few weeks with her.

My brother and sister were on the other side of the world and wouldn’t be able to make it, though they were trying to get home. The thing was that our mother was not all that keen for them to return. It was an odd response and one I couldn’t understand.

Perhaps I would find out when I got there.

…

On a trip that involved two planes, one made at least a dozen times over the past two years without a glitch, was expected, discounting the circumstances, to be equally as easy.

Wrong.

It was like the universe was trying to tell me something. A surplus bag left behind stopped my outward-bound first flight, delaying it to the point it was scrubbed, and everyone had to return the next day.

That killed the connecting flight, so that when I was finally on the ground, the second flight wasn’t leaving for another eleven hours.

I finally got home two days after I started out. I was glad she was not at death’s door, or I would have missed seeing her alive and have those last few meaningless words we say to people who are dying.

It was a given that I would automatically ask how she was, knowing she was never going to feel well again. And yet there was no stopping us because we had been indoctrinated a long time ago with such human concern.

She was propped up in a comfortable chair by the fire, reading a book when I got there, fighting off the beginnings of a snowstorm, and driving an unfamiliar car.

At best, I was expecting to be snowed in. My mother’s last conversation over the phone while I was waiting for the second plane was upbeat, though I could hear the pain in her voice. She was on regulated morphine shots to manage that same pain.

I dumped my bag at the foot of the stairs and went into the large living space. In winter, it could get very cold, but it was more the views in spring and summer that made up for the other two seasons.

“How could you read a book when the falling snow is so breathtakingly beautiful?”

In more ways than one. The intense cold outside could make breathing difficult. It used to affect me when I was younger.

“Richie, at last.”

I went over and gave her a hug.

Mrs Davis, her carer, came in carrying a tray with tea and coffee. My mother had never acquired the taste for coffee, perhaps because of her family origins in England.

She was, she always said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, that she should have been a princess, and only the thought of all that pomp and ceremony that came with the title had put her off, running away to America and a different sort of life.

And when we asked her what she meant, she would always say, ‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out’. But it never escaped me that Dad always used to call her his ‘Princess’ with one of his enigmatic smiles, along with their story on how she came second in the Prom Queen stakes and therefore would always be his Princess.

I never understood what he meant, and the others just thought he was simply crazy in love with her.

It was the sort of love I wanted to find, but so far, I had not.

Mrs Davis poured the tea and left us. I sat in the seat beside her, where Dad always sat. It was strange that he always called the living room ‘the throne room’.

“You were lucky. The airport just closed. The snow is going to set in for a few days.”

God’s will, perhaps.

“Any word from the others?” I could see the iPad beside her, a sure sign she had been video conferencing with my brother and sister.

“I told them it’s not urgent. They have obligations and children to consider. Unlike you, free as a bird.”

It was a blessing and, ironically, it was a curse. She had hoped that she would have at least one grandchild from each of her children, and I had disappointed her.

There had been several candidates over the years, but I was not what they were looking for, and in the end, I decided not to try. If it was meant to happen, it would.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’d rather she were perfect for you than second best.”

“You were, according to Dad, and that’s all I ask for.”

“You’re not a second-best sort of person, Richie. She’s out there. You just haven’t met her yet.”

It was the same every time I came home. It saddened me that this would be the last time and that it was going to be hard to remain upbeat.

…

Several weeks passed, and it was very hard to watch her slowly decline. Her bed was set up in the living room, making it easier for her to get from the bed to the seat

A steady stream of visitors showed how much the townsfolk adored her, everyone coming to pay their respects while she had the strength.

Now it was deserting her, so she remained in bed and held court from there. A different colour dressing gown for each day of the week.

Our conversations were of childhood memories, hers and mine, though there were hardly any of mine that she wasn’t aware of, and a whole swathe of hers I had no idea about. I don’t think any of us did, Dad included, and it sounded to me like she had another life before this one. I didn’t believe in reincarnation, but the stories, well, they sounded too real to be just in her imagination.

She had lived a life that was quite literally beyond imagination.

Until…

A few days later, a visitor came. Not your average visitor, but someone who looked vaguely familiar, someone I’d seen before.

Someone who called her mama.

She sat down opposite my mother and took her hand in hers. It was like turning on a light switch and watching the brightness of an illuminated globe light up the room.

“Anastasia?”

“Yes, mama. It is me. It is your time.”

Mother looked at me with watery eyes and a big smile, happy in a way she had not been for a long time. “I asked Anastasia to come see you. I told her you were a good boy.”

Whatever that meant.

She then closed her eyes for so long I thought she had passed, finally content that her time had come, but then she said, with conviction, “You have heard this story a million times, but not quite.”

At first, I thought she was going to tell me one of her fairy tales, but she was not. She had opened her eyes and was looking straight at me.

“What more could there be?” I asked.

“More than you could ever imagine.”

…

Then, it was like a light went on in my head. The woman sitting next to my mother, holding her hand, looking angelic.

The Princess Anastasia. I’d just been reading about her, from some obscure country tucked away in the mountainous region of Europe, a place few knew about and even less could visit.

And then looking between the two, the uncanny resemblance between the two.

“You can see it, can’t you?” Anastasia said.

“You are related.”

“She is my mother, yes. She was banished many, many years ago, and I have only just found her. You are her son. Her dying wish was for you to return to her homeland, and if you honour her dying wish, I will be very happy to take you there.”

My mother looked at me with teary eyes. “Will you?”

“What about the others?”

“Then need not know, and it would be of little concern to them. They are not of your blood. You are the son of a prince and a princess, Richard, and meant for greater things. Please tell me you will return with Anastasia.” She reached out for my hand, and when I took it in mine, it felt cold. Her glow was beginning to fade, and the end was near.

To be honest, I thought she was off her rocker, but the earnestness in her tone, and the fact that I was sitting next to a real, live princess, and apparently my sister. I think I just nodded dumbly.

With that, she passed, and though I was not to know then, a whole new world awaited me.

…

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

lovecoverfinal1

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 4

Meeting with the enemy

…

I woke with what one might call metaphorical clouds hanging over my head.

The day before, everything was as normal as it could be, I had plans and intended to get on with my life, realizing that Violetta would be disappointed if she knew how moribund I’d become.

That was before Alfie had appeared out of nowhere, on a mission for a man I never wanted to see or work for again.

Never say never.

Now I had a target on my back and found myself in a very strange situation. Normally random events were exactly that, random. But it would not be when the time came for Juliet to accidentally see me, a coincidence surely.

But not.

For a long time, before I fell into a light, fitful sleep, I went through a variety of scenarios when I imagined we would run into each other, and concluded it would most likely be somewhere in St Marks square.

Then it was a matter of whether on not I would make it easy for her, and was still undecided when sleep came. Now, in the cold hard light of dawn, I decided it would be better to get it over with as quickly as possible.

I’d also decided that I was not going to give Larry any chance of success, as I had the element of surprise on my side.

I’d also forgotten about those pre-mission nerves, that mixture of fear and excitement when starting out, usually not knowing what was going to happen. Of course, I was a lot older now, and the world I once lived in had no doubt changed considerably, but not the people in it. They were the one constant, and most were predictable.

Larry certainly would be. Juliet would be less so, but knowing her end game would tip the scales in my favour. How I would deal with her would be dictated on that first meeting.

That too was the fuel for a different sort of feeling. I knew, back when I first met her, my judgement was impaired by a lot of different drugs, and I wasn’t quite thinking straight, but there had been a spark, and in different circumstances, the outcome might have been different. I was not sure what I felt right then.

But, I’d soon find out.

I took a water taxi to St Mark’s Square, or just a short distance from it, where the Statue of Bartolomeo Colleonix greeted all those who disembarked. From there it was a short walk on the promenade, and instead of heading towards the square, I went in the opposite direction, towards the hotel Juliet was staying.

Getting there early, I was hoping to see her leave the hotel and follow discreetly, waiting for the opportunity to ‘discover’ her. It was not a surprise to discover her ‘friend’ who greeted her at the airport had the same idea.

It was evident that Larry didn’t trust her to keep him informed, or the tail was insurance. Either way, it was a complication.

I found a 0lace to sit, one of many cafes along the promenade, in sight of the hotel entrance and her minder. Judging by the blank expression, it was possible he didn’t know me by sight, which could be useful.

My phone decided to announce an incoming message, and it was from Alfie. The identity of one of the men, muscle for a local crime boss, no doubt lent as a favour to Larry, was Giuseppe, last name irrelevant. The other, one of Larry’s lieutenants here to smooth the path for Larry’s arrival.

Giuseppe’s resume was short, mostly petty crimes, having graduated from peddling knock-offs to tourists. Judging by his body language, he was unimpressed with being a minder. And restless, because over the next half hour, he was up and down, pacing, and not happy, having exchanged words with several people who seemingly had walked in front of him.

Perhaps if I provoked him…

No time, Juliet chose that moment to emerge from the hotel. He was straight out of his seat and walked over to her. She was not pleased to see him, and I watched them engage in a heated exchange over the next five minutes, drawing attention to themselves, and odd glances from a few tourists. At what seemed the end of the argument I saw her shrug, and both headed towards the square together.

It was obvious Giuseppe’s instructions were to stay with her, which I imagine would make her job of a chance meeting all that harder.

I followed, discreetly, behind them.

She ambled, taking the time to look around, much like a tourist would, and basically, she was a tourist. I wondered if she had been to Venice before, and concluded she hadn’t, using her phone camera to take photos of the gondolas, the Canal, the colonnade, the bridge of sighs, and Doges palace; frequently stopping much to Giuseppe’s annoyance.

It took nearly an hour to cover a very short distance, ending up at a Cafe, one of those that jutted out into the square. She sat at one table, and Giuseppe sat at another, not far from her.

When his attention was elsewhere, watching a group of young female American tourists, I came up from behind and sat beside him, so engrossed in the girls he neither saw nor heard me arrive.

And the reason he almost jumped out of his seat when I said, in his language, “So, Giuseppe, what are you up to now?”

When he recovered, he glared at me. “Who are you?” It was not a polite tone.

“Trouble, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’m minding my own business. You should too.”

There was an undertone and implied threat.

“Or what?”

I saw him glance over in Juliet’s direction. A waiter just delivered coffee and what looked like a cake.

“Who is she?” I asked.

He turned to look at me. “That’s none of your business.”

It was clear he didn’t know what I looked like and was relying on Juliet to identify me.

“It is if you’re the point man of a kidnap team. Is that what this is about.”

Giuseppe laughed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I’m going over to that woman you’ve been watching and tell her that she has an unwanted admirer, and then if I can find a policeman, I’m going to tell him you’re acting suspiciously.”

His expression told me that was the last thing he needed. I suspect his track record with the police along with a complaint involving a female tourist might just get him into enough trouble to make him think twice about hanging around.

On the other hand, it might not. I could see him hesitating, orders to stay versus trouble with the police. Trouble with the police won out.

He stood. “You have made yourself some difficulties, this isn’t over.”

I shrugged. “It will be if I see you loitering near her again.”

He had his phone in his hand as he left and was making a call before he’d taken 20 paces. The next person wasn’t going to be so easy to spot.

…

A to Z – April – 2026 – O

O is for – Outcast

…

I hated reunions. My family insisted on one every five years, and the only excuse for missing one was if you were dead.

I tried to pretend that I didn’t get the invitation, but my older sister Elaine flew to the middle of nowhere, as she called it, to take me back. She even paid for the ticket.

She was so rich I was surprised she hadn’t come down in the family jet. Yes, they had one, and yes, she could fly it.

I hated her.

I was the black sheep. I was the one who was always in trouble, married the wrong girl, invested in scams, and ended up in a shack with no one and nothing to show for my life. Oh yes, and a nothing job as a security guard. I just had to turn up and go home.

It didn’t matter how many times I mentioned this, Elaine said that it didn’t matter. Family was everything. I would have accepted that, except for her tone. It was the same one she used when admonishing me when my marriage fell apart.

It’s not your fault, but who else is there to blame?

Elaine lived in New York, Merilyn lived in San Francisco, Roger lived in Albuquerque, and Sam, the family hero, lived in Washington. Every one of my brothers and sisters was a high achiever.

My father, joking, he would say, would sometimes ask whether or not my mother had had an affair, and I was the result of it. She didn’t quite see the joke in it, but I could. He was happy I was out of sight and out of mind.

Elaine swept into a room, followed by adulation.

I stayed at the door and barely got a glance.

Until my father saw me. “James. I’m so glad you could make it.” He didn’t move from his seat.

What he meant to say, as he had in the past, was ‘look what the cat dragged in’ It was a surprise he hadn’t.

My mother looked over, and I could see just that momentary sigh, as if it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I’d just stayed away.

Then smiled and said, “James, you made it. I thought you had something you couldn’t get away from?”

True. I was using a non-existent conference as an excuse. “This was more important,” I said

Her look told me it wasn’t.

Roger and Marilyn had already arrived. The Star Act, Sam, would make the grand entrance, outdoing Elaine. It was a competition, and he had no chance, even if he was elected president.

Roger came over. “You know this isn’t going to end well. You look well.” No handshake, no hug, nothing. It was like we were not related.

“Nice to see you too, bro.”

He winced. Yes, I can read his mind, ‘don’t call me bro, you asshole, and we’re definitely not related’.

Merilyn was a little better. She gave me a two-second hug. She was the second-lowest high achiever, one rung above me, and not married yet.

Mother’s looks covered her sentiment, “You’re getting older, and it’s harder when you have children at that age”.

She couldn’t tell her mother she hated the idea of having children, much less bringing them into this horrible world. Maybe I would.

Now, if I went up to my old room, left as it was the day I stormed out, maybe no one would notice me.

“Jimbo. You came?”

Alex, Elaine’s husband, had been hiding out back.

“Your wife dragged me here under threat of death. I had no choice.” And wait for it…

“Everyone has a choice, Jimbo.”

Jimbo. The cretin couldn’t even get my name right, or it was his way of treating me like I was nothing. I’d corrected him for a few months and then given up. His contempt for me knew no bounds.

He was riding on her coattails, and that was a marriage that was heading for the rocks. He was a ‘player’. Snobby pretentious twit.

Elaine was still doing the rounds and had the limelight. Alex would wait a minute and then attempt to take it away.

My cue to leave. Before I ran into Angelique, Rogers long-time partner with no wedding date in sight, a pretentious girl with a phony French accent.

No one knew she had been a Playboy model and a porn actress before she met Roger.

We had a pact. I wouldn’t tell anyone, and she wouldn’t treat me condescendingly, but that was two years ago. She’d have to think the secret was safe.

If Sam made the move and started down the presidential path, the skeletons were not going to stay in the closet very long.

“James.” She had a nice voice and was alarmingly beautiful.

“Angelique.”

“Back for round three? I saw you arrive with Elaine, so perhaps not willingly?”

“Elaine made a special trip.”

“Then you can bet there’s trouble in paradise.” She smiled. “Try not to listen through keyholes.”

In other words, get the gossip; something is going on. Or not, I could never quite tell what she meant.

The noise level dropped, and everyone was grabbing a seat. Like musical chairs, the last man standing was the last man standing.

Mother saw me by the door. “Just grab a chair in the dining room, dear.”

“No need. I’m going up to my room to sulk. You lot feel free to talk about me. My situation hadn’t changed since the last time I was here, so I have nothing to add.”

“Don’t be like that. You are as much a part of the family as all of us.”

It sounded earnest and welcoming, but mothers all practised that line. What she was really saying was ‘please go so I can talk to Elaine’.

Dad was thinking, ‘son of the bloody milkman’, and Alex, ‘please leave and don’t come back’. Of course, without the ‘please’.

I shrugged. “I’ll be down for dinner. It’ll give you time to think up some insightful questions.”

Then I left, closing the sliding doors that felt like I was stepping from one world into another.

And bumped into Sam.

Who immediately motioned me to be quiet and follow him into the study up the passage. Inside, he closed the door.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“I don’t want them to know I’m here yet.”

“Why. You’re the golden boy, just one step removed from Elaine. But if you…”

“I’m not.”

“What?”

“Running for office.”

“Why? Because you have a low-life brother. I’m sure no one cares.”

“No one does. No, there are bigger secrets than that that would come out, secrets I’m sure no one really knows about, or if they did, they would have told me.”

“What secrets?” I hardly thought an ex-porn actress would cause problems because nearly all of the current era presidents were known to dabble.

“That’s what I’m here to find out. And you are the only one no one cares about. I need your help.”

“I’m a useless security guard.”

“You are the only one who hadn’t got an axe to grind out of that lot in that room. I’m sure if I asked you to give me a one-sentence description of each of them, it would be caustic but true.”

“I can’t help you. Haven’t you got staff who do that sort of thing?”

“I can’t trust any of them. There’s no loyalty, just a paycheck. But tomorrow, they’d sell me out for twenty pieces of gold. It’s politics at its finest. So, are you in?”

“Just you and me?”

“Just you and me. Shake on it. Your word is your bond.”

“And you being a politician…”

“I get it. I do. But yes. I give you my word.”

I shook his hand

This had all the hallmarks of a gag they had all thought up before I got here, and it was going to explode in my face. Sam was the last person I could trust and would.

“Now what?”

“We go in and work the room.”

Why did I feel like this was a setup of the worst order? They could have just found an old girlfriend to humiliate me, but no, Sam and Elaine were always trying to outdo each other at my expense.

At least when it was over, I could leave. And this time, I would go where neither of them could find me.

…

“Follow that cab…” – A short story

Nothing ever good comes from eavesdropping.

Or, so my mother said, once, with such feeling that I suspect she had some experience of having done so. It might explain the enmity between her and her older sister, the aunt we never saw.

Except all that changed when I received an odd email from a woman who claimed to be that very aunt.

We had all been warned about scams that came from dubious sources online, and this initially struck me as one. I would need more information before I answered.

That meant poking the bear, that is, asking my mother about her sister.

And coming right out with the words she hoped she’d never heard.

“Aunt Guenivere sent me an email, asking if we could meet. It seems she wants to meet the nephew she hasn’t seen since I was born. What happened to you two?”

It brought a look of total hatred in return.

“You would be wise not to respond. That woman is just plain evil.”

“You do realise that a statement like that makes it even more imperative that I should meet her. If you’re not going to tell me what happened, I’m sure she will.”

“Then if you must, you must.”

It wasn’t resignation but suppressed rage. Whatever had happened, it was something she believed no one would believe her, or understand, least of all me.

With that, she stood and walked out of the room, leaving me with the ominous feeling that it would be the last time I saw her.

After verifying that my so-called aunt was Aunt Guenivere, I arranged a meeting in a public place, a tea room in Queens. And it wasn’t going to be hard to recognise her, she would just be an older version of my mother.

I knew this because I had found a photograph of my mother and her two sisters, all of whom looked very much alike. I’d known about the younger sister, who had died in an accidental car crash many years before, and what my mother regarded as a wasted life.

I saw her about the same time she saw me.

And she just made it to the table when her cell phone rang. She smiled, put a hand up and asked for a moment, and then went back outside. I watched her walk up and down, slowly at first, but I could see the conversation was getting heated.

After a few minutes, I went outside to see if I could be of any assistance.

Apparently not. One look was enough, and I knew what it meant. At least her sister and my mother shared the same facial expressions when angry.

Then the conversation ended. I thought, for a moment, she was going to throw the phone on the ground, and only just managed to stop herself.

Instead, she came over and said. “I’m sorry, but something has come up and I have to go. I’ll call you.”

With that, she waved down a taxi, one stopped, and she jumped in.

Another pulled in behind her taxi and, on the spur of the moment, said with a flourish, “Follow that cab.”

The driver turned to look at me and then said, “You’re kidding.”

I held up a hundred-dollar note and said, seriously, “This is yours if you don’t lose it.”

Incentive enough.

It was a lot easier to follow that taxi than I thought. We caught up and the first set of lights and then proceeded to miss every second intersection as if the universe knew I needed to keep her in sight.

All the way to the Upper West Side and a very expensive apartment block. I paid the cabbie and jumped out, just in time to see a very familiar figure join my aunt.

My father.

And they didn’t look like people who didn’t know each other, or who were at war.

They remained outside the apartment block, and I could see my father had arrived by cab, and it was waiting for him.

I got as close as I could, hidden effectively behind the bushes that lined the building entrance. They were speaking loudly, which surprised me

“What the hell were you thinking?” he said, not angrily, but I could tell he was agitated.

“I was thinking it was time someone told him the truth.”

What truth?

“You know what Evelyn thinks of that, and I do too. You made an agreement.”

“I’ve changed my mind. After all, he is my son, not hers.”

—–

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life. Again.