Category: Uncategorized

What I learned about writing – The Marketing Monster (Again)

Taming the Marketing Monster: Essential Tips for First-Time Authors

You did it. You poured your heart and soul onto the page. You wrestled with plots, agonised over characters, and lovingly crafted your world. You have a book! Congratulations, you’ve conquered the writing beast.

But then, a new, more terrifying creature emerges from the shadows: The Marketing Monster.

For many first-time authors, the idea of marketing feels like a dark, unknown forest filled with confusing jargon, overwhelming tasks, and the constant fear of failure. It’s the part nobody really wants to do, but it’s absolutely crucial if you want your words to find their way to readers.

The good news? This monster isn’t invincible. With a little understanding and preparation, you can tame it. Let’s shine a light on the basic mistakes first-time authors often make and, more importantly, how to avoid them.

Mistake #1: Believing “If You Build It, They Will Come”

This is perhaps the most common and damaging misconception. The idea that a brilliant book will automatically find its audience is a beautiful fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless. In today’s crowded market, even the most incredible stories can get lost without active promotion.

How to Avoid It:

  • Start Early: Marketing isn’t something you do after you finish writing. Start building your author platform (website, social media presence, email list) while you’re still drafting.
  • Embrace the Journey: See marketing as an ongoing part of your author career, not a one-time launch event. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.
  • Allocate Resources: Whether it’s time, money, or both, understand that marketing requires investment. Budget for it.

Mistake #2: Ignoring Your Ideal Reader

Who is your book for? If your answer is “everyone,” you’re setting yourself up for failure. Trying to appeal to everyone means you’ll appeal to no one specifically. Authors often create beautiful stories but fail to connect them with the people who would love them most.

How to Avoid It:

  • Define Your Niche: Research your genre. What are readers in that genre looking for? What kind of cover, blurb, and themes resonate with them?
  • Study Your Competitors (Comps): Look at successful books similar to yours. Who reads them? How are they marketed? This isn’t about copying, but understanding your market.
  • Craft Targeted Messaging: From your book cover to your blurb, your social media posts to your ad copy, everything should speak directly to your ideal reader.

Mistake #3: Neglecting Your Author Platform

Your author platform is your home base on the internet. It’s where readers can find you, learn about your work, and connect with you. Many first-time authors skip this step, relying solely on bookseller pages (like Amazon) or a single social media channel.

How to Avoid It:

  • Build an Author Website: This is your professional hub. It doesn’t need to be fancy or expensive, but it should include your bio, book information, contact details, and a way to sign up for your email list.
  • Start an Email List (Yesterday!): This is your most valuable asset. Social media algorithms change, but your email list is direct access to your most engaged readers. Offer a “reader magnet” (e.g., a free short story, deleted scene) to encourage sign-ups.
  • Choose 1-2 Social Media Channels: Don’t try to be everywhere. Pick the platforms where your ideal readers hang out and where you genuinely enjoy engaging. Be consistent, not ubiquitous.

Mistake #4: The “Set It and Forget It” Launch

A common mistake is treating book launch day as the finish line for marketing effort. They hit “publish,” make a few social media posts, and then wait for sales to roll in. When they don’t, discouragement quickly sets in.

How to Avoid It:

  • Develop a Launch Plan: Outline activities leading up to, during, and after your launch. This includes everything from ARC (Advanced Reader Copy) distribution to social media schedules, blog tours, and promo sites.
  • Understand Long-Term Potential: Most books don’t become overnight bestsellers. Sustainable sales come from consistent effort, building word-of-mouth, and finding your long-term audience.
  • Analyse and Adapt: Don’t be afraid to look at your sales data and review feedback. What’s working? What isn’t? Be willing to tweak your cover, blurb, or ad strategies.

Mistake #5: Poor Presentation & Professionalism

Your book is a product, and like any product, its packaging and presentation are crucial. Many first-time authors, trying to save money, opt for DIY covers, forgo professional editing, or write a blurb that doesn’t hook readers. This instantly signals “amateur.”

How to Avoid It:

  • Invest in Professional Cover Design: Your cover is your #1 marketing tool. It needs to be professional, genre-appropriate, and eye-catching. This is not the place to pinch pennies.
  • Hire a Professional Editor: Even the best writers need editors. Typos, grammatical errors, and clunky prose will turn readers off faster than anything else. Invest in a good editor.
  • Craft a Killer Blurb: Your book description (blurb) is what sells your book once the cover has caught their eye. It needs to be concise, intriguing, and clearly convey the genre and stakes. Study successful blurbs in your genre.

The Marketing Monster can seem daunting, but it’s largely a creature of the unknown. By understanding these common pitfalls and proactively preparing for your book’s journey into the world, you can transform that fear into a strategic, manageable plan.

Remember, you’re not just a writer; you’re an author-entrepreneur. Embrace the challenge, learn the ropes, and let your amazing story find the readers it deserves. Now go forth and conquer!

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 286

Day 286 – Writing Exercise

…

Arthur Noble tried to live up to his name.

Of course, it wasn’t easy with a bumbling safe cracker father who had spent more time in jail than out, and a mother who, when she wasn’t cleaning nights at the local polytechnic, was making cakes for anyone in the neighbourhood who would visit her small café.

That’s why Arthur thought their surname was rather ironic.

While his brothers, Louis and Walter, fell into the game fairly early in life, following in their father’s footsteps, Arthur was not having any of it.  He was going to make a difference.

He was going to go straight.

The problem was that life wouldn’t let him off that easily.   Every time he thought he had broken the cycle, circumstances would step in and make it impossible.

Yes, he had choices, but it never quite seemed the time or the place, or expediency dictated that it was now or never.

Or that his father’s wish, the Jack O’Donnell, cat burglar extraordinaire, should take his gangly and awkward son and turn him into what the media had dubbed ‘the gentleman thief’.  At first he hated it, but now, six capers down and getting bolder, he was beginning to believe he was uncatchable.

O’Donnell was proud of the man he had created, fulfilling his obligation to his comrade, Stephan, and dying a happy man, his last words to his protégé being, ‘your father would be chuffed, young Arthur, quite chuffed’.

This next job, Arthur said, in a private eulogy over the grave of his mentor, that dark and dreadful day in November, was going to be a fitting tribute, a huge pay day, and maybe Arthur could retire, perhaps travel and see something of a world outside of Islington.

Blackwood Manor, the Thorogood Diamond, two million pounds.  It was there for the taking.  He’d done his homework over six weeks, blending into the landscape, checked and rechecked every detail, right down to every nuance on the blueprints for the house, built back in 1685.  He knew every nook and cranny, secret staircase, hidey hole, entrance and exit.

And best of all, there were three hapless and incompetent souls watching over the manor house: the deaf cook, the septuagenarian gardener, and the artless chauffeur, a thief himself, hiding in plain sight.

It was going to be like taking candy from a baby.

Bex LLewellen, short for Deth, her mother’s name, and anything but her real name, Elizabeth, was the proverbial ugly duckling, scorned by her sisters, schoolmates, and her mother.

Her older sister, Rowena, sucked all of the oxygen out of any room she walked into, demanding and getting all the attention, while her middle sister fawned over her, trying to get some of the sunlight left.  Bex hated them.

In fact, Bex hated everyone and everything.

Except her father, who believed that the only good thing to come out of a luckless and domineering marriage was his youngest daughter.  There were no sons, and whatever legacy he thought he was going to pass on it certainly wasn’t going to be through Rowena, or Cleo.  Down the pub he was often heard to say, ‘Who the hell names a girl Cleopatra these days?’

No, of late he was now heard to say, ‘Bex is going to be the one, she’s got her head screwed on right’.

At least he hoped she did.

While the other two girls were ‘good for nothing’, Bex had discovered a flair for gymnastics, and under the watchful eye of the school’s physical education teacher, Miss Bennett, an ex-Olympic hopeful herself, Bex blossomed into a candidate for the district championships.

Until her sisters, seeing their influence being eroded, played a cruel trick and sent her tumbling down the stairs, ruining any chance she had.

It was the last straw; she packed everything she wanted into a backpack and disappeared into the night, never to return.

She had good intentions, finding a job as a server in a small café, and try to regain the mobility that she had before the accident, but it was just not there.  The damage was too great, and in between bouts of considering going home and strangling the two sisters who had ruined her life, and trying to make ends meet, she met a boy, Richard, at the rehab centre, same as her, though he wasn’t pushed down the stairs; he had tumbled from the top of a human pyramid when one boy at the base couldn’t hold his position.

The night he proposed to her, he told her what his real job was: a car burglar, working for a man who scoped his jobs and paved the way for easy money.  His athleticism was the basis: scaling buildings, nimbly fitting through impossible openings and spaces, rich pickings.  He had told the man he had found a partner who might be interested in what could be a rich and rewarding life.

She agreed to both.

Then tragedy struck.  While Richard was doing the reconnaissance on Blackwood Manor, he had made one very small mistake, a mistake that cost him his life, and he was found the following morning on the ground outside the ballroom on the grounds of the Manor, having fallen off the roof onto the very hard paved patio.  Broken.  Dead.

It was going to pay for their wedding and honeymoon, three months slowly wending their way through the luxurious hotels of Europe.

The thing was, with or without him, she was still going.  The job was still on the books, and she had decided it would be her first and last job.  All she had to do was get the book, sitting somewhere on the shelves in the library, hiding in plain sight.

At precisely one a.m., on a very wet, windy, and cold Thursday night, Arthur, almost comically dressed in an outfit that was more suited to Halloween than doing a job, was ready to slide down the roof to the spot over the fourth-floor window that belonged to one of the servants’ quarters in the roof of the west wing.

There was a half dozen such rooms with windows, but this was the only one that couldn’t be shut properly.  It was his entrance to the Manor, and from there it was down the rear servants’ staircase, designed to be out of sight and make it easy for the servants to appear and disappear without disturbing the residents.

Tonight it was his entrance and exit, invisible to everyone until he reached the first floor, the location of the safe in the study and library.

At the same time, at the foot of the east wing, outside the kitchen and storage area, Bex was looking at the iron covering of the disused coal chute.  It had been recently replaced, and was oiled and greased, making no noise as she opened and closed the hatch.  From the entrance, it was a mall slide down to the floor of the coal pit, then out into the kitchen storerooms, up the staircase, and into the library on the first floor.

The hardest part was to find the book, but how many books could there be?  She never kept any, not that she did much reading, and who else could be bothered.  She was expecting a few bookshelves, a quick search for an old book that would stand out, and be gone.

Five minutes tops.

Her watch vibrated.  Time to go.

Sliding from the top of the roof down to the apex of the window was the tricky part, and the rope was a precaution in case he slipped, which he did, once.  It was pouring rain, and the storm raged with both thunder and lightning.  It was not a night to be out on the ground, let alone dangling from the roof, high above a very hard landing place.  More than once he cursed himself for picking the wrong night.

Once down to the edge, he lowered himself down to the small balcony, just enough room for one person to stand, and checked the window.

Ajar, as he suspected, and requiring a sharp tug to get the rusty hinges to work.  He had brought some lubricant and sprayed the hinges first, reducing the screech of grinding metal.  Then, he was inside, dripping excess water onto the bare floorboards.  A crack of lightning lit the room, a cobweb-covered bedspread, a dust-covered dresser, a jug and bowl on top of it, and newspaper scattered on the floor.

Three steps, and creaking floorboards.  He hoped that wasn’t going to follow him through the house.  The wind howled through the crack in the window and sent a shiver through him.  Was that a ghost that just passed through him?

Or was it his mentor sending him a warning?

Whilst the chute door might be new, nothing else was, and by the time she reached the pit she was covered in coal dust.  And had not anticipated landing on the floor among scattered chinks of coal, hurting her back.  The first groan reverberated in the small space, sounding very loud; she stifled it with a grimy hand, wishing instantly she hadn’t/

In total darkness, she switched on the small torch and nearly screamed.  Not a person, but a very lifelike poster of a person looking straight at her.

Out of the pit, into the storeroom, and then into the kitchen.

Spotlessly clean, all set up ready to cook the next meal, food arranged perfectly, plates, cutlery, everything.  It was like people were living there, and life was about to start again in a never-ending cycle of providing meals for the residents.

Only there were no residents.  No staff; well, no one but three- what would you call them, servants, or more like aged caretakers – waiting to die, like the house.

Or had she been given the wrong information?

A complication, but it was an in-and-out job, no time to do any sightseeing or worry about what was and what wasn’t right or wrong.  Her sole mission was to get the book and go.

The steps creaked and groaned as Arthur descended quickly and as quietly as possible, sucking in the stale air, and taking in the aroma of wet newspapers.  It was at times almost overwhelming.

Three flights down he came to the door, and it wouldn’t open.  The damp hand expanded the wood, making it stick.  Good thing he had brought a large screwdriver, and pried it open, not before splintering the wet and rotting wood.

It took time, three valuable minutes, but then it broke free and swung inwards.  Into a small anteroom and then out into a passage – or so the blueprints had told him.  The door was locked, so another five minutes were spent picking the lock.

Now and then he could hear the thunder and the howling of the wind.  It was getting worse outside, not easier, and his getaway, at least not back over the roof, was not going to be straightforward.  At least that noise covered the scratch of the lock pick, and the crunching of the wood earlier.

A single gong stopped him.  A clock somewhere near, then another, quieter, from somewhere else.  The clocks were not synchronised.  In fact, why were they still working if no one was in the manor?  The servants didn’t need working clocks in a house they rarely went through.

He shivered again.  Not a ghost.  A bad feeling.

He came out into the darkness of the passage and switched the torch back on and was immediately confronted by a tall man in armour.  A painting, very lifelike, a forebear perhaps, but one of many.  On the other side, balustrades, and a view down to the ground floor, a large open space which he assumed was the ballroom.

At the end of the passage, the study and library overlooked the rear rose garden and lawns, which led down to a lake.  The place was huge, over a hundred rooms, and there were rumours it was going to be sold to a large hotel chain to be converted into a resort and golf course.  Of course it would.  All those mad golf players, chasing a little white ball around during the day and watching the world go to hell in a handbasket during the day, while sipping champagne and whisky and shovelling down canapes.

The idle rich, as far as Arthur was concerned, were exactly that.

He waited outside the study door and instantly felt like he was outside the headmaster’s office waiting for punishment.  No amount of punishment would ever change him, the headmaster said, a product of his environment and parentage.

The only thing his father was right about was that the class war had never ended after the war; it just became more subtle.

A sound.  Light off.  Breathe quietly.  He could still hear his heart beating very loudly.

A cat.  A gentle mewing, brushing up against his leg, then moving on.

Jesus, he had to get it together.

He opened the door, went in, and closed it quietly behind him.  Torch on.  Over to the mahogany desk, looking like the owner would be back the next morning, everything set out in a particular way.  Clean, neat, like it was just another day in the life.

Except there was no owner, no one in the house, and no reason for it to look like this.

On the wall behind the desk was a painting of the house on the land before the gardens were created.  Behind that painting was a safe.  In that safe was the diamond.  In his pocket was the combination to that safe. 

In five minutes this place would be a distant memory, and he could retire.

Bex was in utter awe of a place she knew she would never see the likes of again.  Ornate, filled with paintings and sculptures, pots of flowers, staircases and passageways.

The double curved staircase that led up to the first floor was the sort of a woman in an expensive dress could make an entrance that would make the front page of the newspapers, or magazines, the sort she had read for years, and wondered how those women made it.

Being born into the right family, marrying the right man, becoming a renowned and successful Olympic gymnast?  She cursed her luck.  Her fate was to see the inside of the house, in the middle of the night, as a thief.

Still, for a moment she could take it in and wish…

A cat walked past, mewing softly, rubbing up against her leg and continuing.  This was her house, and she was just letting the visitors know.  The passage passed windows that overlooked the rear gardens lit by a lightning strike, and barely discernible through the torrential rain.  Her departure was not going to be simple, and she was already dreading having to leave by the coal chute.  Perhaps there would be another way.

Outside the library door, she stopped, listened, and thought she heard something.

From behind the door.

She waited.  Silence.  Five minutes, nothing but silence.

She shrugged and opened the door.

Darkness.

She slipped in and closed the door behind her but didn’t switch on her torch.  Not straight away.  Something was wrong.  Someone else was in the room, or had been.  She detected a whiff of aftershave.  One of those expensive ones she had smelled on the rich café customers, some who used far too much, perhaps to hide something else.

In the dark, she felt her way rather than saw, towards the desk, a heavy-duty wrench she found on the kitchen table in her hand; its cold, hard handle reassuring.

On the other side of the desk, Arthur had an outstretched, black-handled stun baton ready.  He could barely breathe, the sudden realisation this caper was about to go south very quickly, and already looking for the exit.

Then, suddenly, the door opened slowly, as if it had something to say.

A second later, the main light came on, and a woman stood in the doorway with a shotgun in her hand, curlers in her hair, combat boots, and a serviceman’s overcoat.  What was more noticeable was the angry expression.

“Don’t move, either of you.  This gun has scattershot and has a very sensitive trigger, and I’ve got a bad case of the shakes.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Moscow

Beyond Red Square: 5 Unique Moscow Adventures on the Road Less Travelled

Moscow. The name alone conjures images of gilded domes, grand kremlins, and vast, historic squares. It’s a city of epic scale and monumental beauty, drawing millions to its iconic sights. But what if you’ve done the Red Square selfie, marvelled at St. Basil’s, and wandered the halls of the Kremlin? What if you crave a deeper, more authentic peek into the soul of this sprawling metropolis?

Fear not, intrepid traveller! Moscow is a city of endless layers, brimming with unexpected delights lurking just beyond the well-trodden tourist paths. If you’re ready to scratch beneath the gilded surface and uncover some truly unique experiences, here are five unforgettable adventures that promise a richer, more intimate understanding of Russia’s vibrant capital.

1. Step Back in Time at the Museum of Soviet Arcade Machines (Музей советских игровых автоматов)

Forget modern gaming consoles; this place is a nostalgic wonderland! Tucked away in a charming underground space, this museum is a playful pilgrimage to the Soviet era, featuring dozens of fully functional arcade machines from the 1970s and 80s. Think clunky joysticks, pixelated graphics, and wonderfully bizarre names like “Sea Battle,” “Safari,” and “Winter Hunt.”

Why it’s off the beaten path: While well-known among locals and a niche group of enthusiasts, it’s rarely on the itinerary of first-time visitors who stick to grander museums. It offers a unique cultural insight into Soviet-era leisure and technology.

What makes it special: Not only do you get to admire these relics, but your entry ticket often includes a handful of authentic 15-kopeck coins, allowing you to actually play the games! It’s a hands-on, interactive experience that’s both fun and surprisingly educational about a bygone era.

Pro-tip: Go with friends for some competitive fun. The staff are usually happy to explain the games and their history, even if your Russian is limited.

2. Wander the Fairytale Grounds of Tsaritsyno Museum-Reserve (Царицыно)

While Kolomenskoye often gets the nod for its royal history and wooden architecture, Tsaritsyno offers a completely different, equally stunning experience. This sprawling estate, once intended as Catherine the Great’s summer residence, features unique pseudo-Gothic palaces, picturesque ponds, and meticulously landscaped parks.

Why it’s off the beaten path: Located a bit further south of the city center, it requires a short metro journey, which deters many tourists. Its specific architectural style (a Russian take on Gothic Revival) is also a fascinating departure from the more common classical Russian styles.

What makes it special: The Grand Palace and the intricate bridges evoke a fantastical, almost theatrical atmosphere. The park itself is massive, perfect for a leisurely stroll, a boat ride on the ponds, or simply finding a quiet bench to soak in the beauty. Don’t miss the Singing Fountain, especially mesmerizing in the evenings (seasonal).

Pro-tip: Dedicate at least half a day. Wear comfortable shoes, as there’s a lot of ground to cover. Check their schedule for classical music concerts or light shows, which often take place in the warmer months.

3. Find Serenity at the Aptekarsky Ogorod (Botanical Garden of Moscow State University – “The Pharmacy Garden”)

Amidst Moscow’s urban hustle, this historical botanical garden is a true hidden oasis of calm. Founded by Peter the Great in 1706 as a garden for medicinal plants (hence “pharmacy garden”), it’s Moscow’s oldest botanical garden and a living museum of flora.

Why it’s off the beaten path: Despite its central location near Prospekt Mira, it’s a quiet retreat often overlooked by tourists rushing between major landmarks. It’s more of a local favourite for a peaceful escape.

What makes it special: Each season brings new beauty, from vibrant spring blooms and lush summer greenery to fiery autumn colours and serene winter landscapes. It features various themed sections, including extensive greenhouses with tropical plants, a vast collection of conifers, and charming ponds. It also hosts open-air exhibitions, concerts, and offers a lovely on-site cafe.

Pro-tip: Ideal for a relaxed afternoon. If you’re visiting in spring or early summer, you’ll be treated to an explosion of colours and fragrances. It’s perfect for photography enthusiasts seeking natural beauty away from the crowds.

4. Savor Global Flavors at Danilovsky Market (Даниловский рынок)

Forget the sterile supermarkets; Danilovsky Market is a gastronomic marvel and a vibrant hub of local life. Housed in a striking circular building with a domed roof, this renovated market seamlessly blends traditional Russian produce stalls with trendy international food vendors.

Why it’s off the beaten path: While gaining popularity, it’s still primarily a local hotspot rather than a primary tourist destination. It offers a more authentic taste of Moscow’s burgeoning food scene than many city-centre restaurants.

What makes it special: This isn’t just a place to buy groceries; it’s a culinary adventure. You can sample Georgian khachapuri, Vietnamese pho, Israeli falafel, Dagestani delicacies, and of course, classic Russian pelmeni and blini – all under one roof. The atmosphere is buzzing, friendly, and incredibly diverse.

Pro-tip: Go hungry! It’s an excellent spot for lunch or an early dinner, allowing you to graze from different stalls. It’s also a great place to pick up unique local treats and spices as souvenirs.

5. Explore the Ancient Streets of Zamoskvorechye (Замоскворечье)

Step across the Moscow River from the Kremlin, and you enter a different era. Zamoskvorechye (literally “beyond the Moskva River”) is one of Moscow’s oldest and most charming districts, known for its quiet, winding streets, traditional merchant houses, and numerous historic churches.

Why it’s off the beaten path: While home to the Tretyakov Gallery (a major draw), the neighbourhood itself is often overlooked by tourists who rush straight to the gallery and then leave. Exploring its backstreets offers a glimpse into a quieter, more preserved Moscow.

What makes it special: You’ll discover hidden courtyards, beautiful onion-domed churches (like the Church of St. Clement, Papa, a stunning example of Baroque architecture), and charming wooden houses nestled between more stately mansions. It feels like stepping into a 19th-century novel, with a tangible sense of history around every corner.

Pro-tip: Put away your map and simply wander. Get lost in its labyrinthine alleys. Pop into a small local café for a coffee. This district is best explored on foot, allowing you to soak in its unique atmosphere at your own pace.

Moscow is a city that constantly reinvents itself, yet always cherishes its past. By venturing beyond the well-worn tourist trails, you’ll discover a more nuanced, intimate, and often surprising side of this magnificent capital. So, pack your adventurous spirit, a sense of curiosity, and get ready to uncover Moscow’s hidden gems!

What hidden gems have you uncovered in Moscow? Share your discoveries in the comments below!

In a word: bath

Everyone knows that Bath is a city in England where the rich and pampered used to ‘take the waters’, whatever that meant.  I’ve been to Bath, and it has many terrace houses built in a crescent shape.

I’ve been to the baths, too, which is another use of the word bath, a place where you clean yourself, or just soak away the troubles of the day, usually with a glass or three of champagne.

Apparently, the Bath baths have been there since Roman times and having been there and seen how old they look, I can attest to that fact.

We had a bath before we had a shower, and these days, a bathtub is usually a garden bed full of flowers rather than a body.

Being given a bath sometimes means you were comprehensively beaten in a game, like football.

Throwing the baby out with the bath water is a rather quaint expression that means nothing like it literally does but describes a wife or husband cleaning up a spouse’s space without due regard to what she or he might want to keep—that is, throwing everything out.

If you take a bath, yes, you might get wet, but in another sense, it might be when you take a large hit financially.  And, these days, it doesn’t take much for super funds to suddenly have negative growth.

A bathhouse could be a place where there might be a swimming pool, not just a bath, where people gather.  A notable one was seen in the movie ‘Gorky Park’.

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved, there are going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

…

https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Sorrento, Italy

Beyond the Limoncello & Lira: 5 Unforgettable Adventures on Sorrento’s Road Less Travelled

Sorrento. Just the name conjures images of sun-drenched cliffs, fragrant lemon groves, and the sparkling azure waters of the Bay of Naples. It’s a town of undeniable charm, a perfect blend of natural beauty and vibrant Italian life, and a beloved gateway to the Amalfi Coast and Pompeii.

But what if you’ve already strolled through Piazza Tasso, admired the views from Villa Comunale, and perhaps even sampled a limoncello (or three)? What if you yearn for experiences that delve a little deeper, moving beyond the main tourist thoroughfare to uncover the authentic soul of Sorrento?

You’re in luck! While Sorrento certainly holds its own as a popular destination, there’s a wealth of hidden gems and less-trodden paths waiting to be discovered. So, dust off your sense of adventure, because we’re about to explore five unforgettable things to do in Sorrento that go a little something like this: “the road less travelled.”

1. Dive into Local Cuisine with an Authentic Cooking Class (Beyond the Tourist Trap)

Sure, you can eat incredible food everywhere in Sorrento, but why not learn to make it? While many hotels offer classes, seek out a more intimate, local experience. Look for classes held in a family home, a small agriturismo on the outskirts, or even a local nonna (grandmother) offering private lessons.

Why it’s “road less traveled”: This isn’t just about cooking; it’s about cultural immersion. You’ll learn family secrets, understand local ingredients (perhaps even picking them from a garden), and participate in a timeless Italian ritual. Often, these experiences involve a market visit, too, truly connecting you to the source of your meal. Imagine kneading pasta dough by hand, concocting a perfectly balanced tiramisu, or mastering gnocchi with a view of the Bay – now that’s a souvenir!

Tip: Ask your B&B host for recommendations for private classes or small, family-run operations. Websites like Airbnb Experiences can also be a good starting point for finding unique local hosts.

2. Discover the Hidden Gem of Marina di Puolo

While Marina Grande and Marina Piccola are bustling hubs, venture slightly west along the coast, and you’ll stumble upon the charming, much quieter fishing village of Marina di Puolo. It feels like stepping back in time.

Why it’s “the road less travelled”: This isn’t a place most bus tours stop. It’s a genuine working fishing village with a small, pebbly beach, crystal-clear water perfect for a swim, and a handful of delightful, unpretentious seafood trattorias right on the shore. Here, you’ll find locals enjoying their afternoon, children playing, and the freshest catch imaginable gracing your plate. The vibe is relaxed, authentic, and utterly charming.

Tip: You can reach Marina di Puolo by a pleasant walk from Sorrento (about 30-40 minutes), or a short, scenic bus ride. Stay for sunset – it’s magical as the lights twinkle across the water.

3. Hike to the Pristine Bay of Ieranto (Punta Campanella Nature Reserve)

For nature lovers and intrepid explorers, the hike to Ieranto Bay offers breathtaking rewards far from the crowds. Located at the very tip of the Sorrentine Peninsula, within the Punta Campanella Marine Protected Area, this stunning bay is accessible only by foot or kayak.

Why it’s “road less travelled”: It requires effort! The moderate 6km (round trip) trail starts from Nerano (a short bus ride from Sorrento) and descends through olive groves and Mediterranean scrub, offering panoramic views of Capri and the Faraglioni rocks. The destination is a secluded, pebbly beach with unbelievably clear turquoise waters, perfect for swimming and snorkelling. It’s a veritable sanctuary, managed by the FAI (Italian National Trust).

Tip: Wear sturdy shoes, bring plenty of water, and pack a picnic. There are no facilities once you reach the bay. Check the FAI website for opening times and any potential entry requirements (though usually free). The views alone are worth every step!

4. Explore the Authentic Hilltop Village of Sant’Agata sui Due Golfi

Escape the coastal hustle and bustle by heading inland to Sant’Agata sui Due Golfi, a charming village perched high on the hills of the Sorrentine Peninsula. Its name, “on the two gulfs,” perfectly describes its unique selling point: incredible panoramic views of both the Bay of Naples (with Vesuvius) and the Bay of Salerno (with the Amalfi Coast).

Why it’s “road less travelled”: Many tourists zoom past Sant’Agata on their way to more famous destinations. But taking the time to explore its quiet streets, browse local shops, and enjoy a meal here offers a glimpse into authentic Sorrentine life away from the souvenir stands. It even boasts a couple of Michelin-starred restaurants if you’re looking for a special culinary splurge, alongside fantastic traditional trattorias.

Tip: A local SITA bus from Sorrento will get you there easily. Dedicate an afternoon to wander, enjoying an aperitivo in the piazza, and soaking in the incredible vistas. Don’t forget your camera!

5. Swim in the Natural Pool of Bagni della Regina Giovanna

While not entirely “secret,” many visitors simply snap a picture from above and move on. To truly experience the Magic of Bagni della Regina Giovanna (Queen Joanna’s Bath), you need to descend and take a dip!

Why it’s “the road less travelled”: It requires a bit of effort to reach the actual swimming spot, involving a walk down a rocky path. Most tourists stick to the top viewpoint. This dramatic natural archway, formed by the sea carving through the cliffs, encloses a hidden, emerald-green natural swimming pool. Overlooking it are the fascinating ruins of a Roman villa, believed to be where Queen Joanna II of Naples met her lovers.

Tip: Wear sturdy shoes for the walk down and water shoes for entering the water, as it can be rocky. It’s a fantastic spot for a refreshing swim and a picnic amidst ancient history and stunning nature. You can reach it by foot (about 30-40 minutes from Sorrento center) or by local bus to the Capo di Sorrento stop.

Sorrento is undeniably captivating, but by venturing off the well-trodden path, you unlock a deeper, richer experience. These “road less traveled” adventures offer not just sights, but genuine connections to the local culture, breathtaking natural beauty, and memories that will truly set your trip apart. So, next time you’re in this Italian paradise, dare to explore beyond the postcard – your Sorrento story will be richer, deeper, and uniquely yours.

Have you discovered a hidden gem in Sorrento? Share your tips in the comments below!

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta reader’s view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 286

Day 286 – Writing Exercise

…

Arthur Noble tried to live up to his name.

Of course, it wasn’t easy with a bumbling safe cracker father who had spent more time in jail than out, and a mother who, when she wasn’t cleaning nights at the local polytechnic, was making cakes for anyone in the neighbourhood who would visit her small café.

That’s why Arthur thought their surname was rather ironic.

While his brothers, Louis and Walter, fell into the game fairly early in life, following in their father’s footsteps, Arthur was not having any of it.  He was going to make a difference.

He was going to go straight.

The problem was that life wouldn’t let him off that easily.   Every time he thought he had broken the cycle, circumstances would step in and make it impossible.

Yes, he had choices, but it never quite seemed the time or the place, or expediency dictated that it was now or never.

Or that his father’s wish, the Jack O’Donnell, cat burglar extraordinaire, should take his gangly and awkward son and turn him into what the media had dubbed ‘the gentleman thief’.  At first he hated it, but now, six capers down and getting bolder, he was beginning to believe he was uncatchable.

O’Donnell was proud of the man he had created, fulfilling his obligation to his comrade, Stephan, and dying a happy man, his last words to his protégé being, ‘your father would be chuffed, young Arthur, quite chuffed’.

This next job, Arthur said, in a private eulogy over the grave of his mentor, that dark and dreadful day in November, was going to be a fitting tribute, a huge pay day, and maybe Arthur could retire, perhaps travel and see something of a world outside of Islington.

Blackwood Manor, the Thorogood Diamond, two million pounds.  It was there for the taking.  He’d done his homework over six weeks, blending into the landscape, checked and rechecked every detail, right down to every nuance on the blueprints for the house, built back in 1685.  He knew every nook and cranny, secret staircase, hidey hole, entrance and exit.

And best of all, there were three hapless and incompetent souls watching over the manor house: the deaf cook, the septuagenarian gardener, and the artless chauffeur, a thief himself, hiding in plain sight.

It was going to be like taking candy from a baby.

Bex LLewellen, short for Deth, her mother’s name, and anything but her real name, Elizabeth, was the proverbial ugly duckling, scorned by her sisters, schoolmates, and her mother.

Her older sister, Rowena, sucked all of the oxygen out of any room she walked into, demanding and getting all the attention, while her middle sister fawned over her, trying to get some of the sunlight left.  Bex hated them.

In fact, Bex hated everyone and everything.

Except her father, who believed that the only good thing to come out of a luckless and domineering marriage was his youngest daughter.  There were no sons, and whatever legacy he thought he was going to pass on it certainly wasn’t going to be through Rowena, or Cleo.  Down the pub he was often heard to say, ‘Who the hell names a girl Cleopatra these days?’

No, of late he was now heard to say, ‘Bex is going to be the one, she’s got her head screwed on right’.

At least he hoped she did.

While the other two girls were ‘good for nothing’, Bex had discovered a flair for gymnastics, and under the watchful eye of the school’s physical education teacher, Miss Bennett, an ex-Olympic hopeful herself, Bex blossomed into a candidate for the district championships.

Until her sisters, seeing their influence being eroded, played a cruel trick and sent her tumbling down the stairs, ruining any chance she had.

It was the last straw; she packed everything she wanted into a backpack and disappeared into the night, never to return.

She had good intentions, finding a job as a server in a small café, and try to regain the mobility that she had before the accident, but it was just not there.  The damage was too great, and in between bouts of considering going home and strangling the two sisters who had ruined her life, and trying to make ends meet, she met a boy, Richard, at the rehab centre, same as her, though he wasn’t pushed down the stairs; he had tumbled from the top of a human pyramid when one boy at the base couldn’t hold his position.

The night he proposed to her, he told her what his real job was: a car burglar, working for a man who scoped his jobs and paved the way for easy money.  His athleticism was the basis: scaling buildings, nimbly fitting through impossible openings and spaces, rich pickings.  He had told the man he had found a partner who might be interested in what could be a rich and rewarding life.

She agreed to both.

Then tragedy struck.  While Richard was doing the reconnaissance on Blackwood Manor, he had made one very small mistake, a mistake that cost him his life, and he was found the following morning on the ground outside the ballroom on the grounds of the Manor, having fallen off the roof onto the very hard paved patio.  Broken.  Dead.

It was going to pay for their wedding and honeymoon, three months slowly wending their way through the luxurious hotels of Europe.

The thing was, with or without him, she was still going.  The job was still on the books, and she had decided it would be her first and last job.  All she had to do was get the book, sitting somewhere on the shelves in the library, hiding in plain sight.

At precisely one a.m., on a very wet, windy, and cold Thursday night, Arthur, almost comically dressed in an outfit that was more suited to Halloween than doing a job, was ready to slide down the roof to the spot over the fourth-floor window that belonged to one of the servants’ quarters in the roof of the west wing.

There was a half dozen such rooms with windows, but this was the only one that couldn’t be shut properly.  It was his entrance to the Manor, and from there it was down the rear servants’ staircase, designed to be out of sight and make it easy for the servants to appear and disappear without disturbing the residents.

Tonight it was his entrance and exit, invisible to everyone until he reached the first floor, the location of the safe in the study and library.

At the same time, at the foot of the east wing, outside the kitchen and storage area, Bex was looking at the iron covering of the disused coal chute.  It had been recently replaced, and was oiled and greased, making no noise as she opened and closed the hatch.  From the entrance, it was a mall slide down to the floor of the coal pit, then out into the kitchen storerooms, up the staircase, and into the library on the first floor.

The hardest part was to find the book, but how many books could there be?  She never kept any, not that she did much reading, and who else could be bothered.  She was expecting a few bookshelves, a quick search for an old book that would stand out, and be gone.

Five minutes tops.

Her watch vibrated.  Time to go.

Sliding from the top of the roof down to the apex of the window was the tricky part, and the rope was a precaution in case he slipped, which he did, once.  It was pouring rain, and the storm raged with both thunder and lightning.  It was not a night to be out on the ground, let alone dangling from the roof, high above a very hard landing place.  More than once he cursed himself for picking the wrong night.

Once down to the edge, he lowered himself down to the small balcony, just enough room for one person to stand, and checked the window.

Ajar, as he suspected, and requiring a sharp tug to get the rusty hinges to work.  He had brought some lubricant and sprayed the hinges first, reducing the screech of grinding metal.  Then, he was inside, dripping excess water onto the bare floorboards.  A crack of lightning lit the room, a cobweb-covered bedspread, a dust-covered dresser, a jug and bowl on top of it, and newspaper scattered on the floor.

Three steps, and creaking floorboards.  He hoped that wasn’t going to follow him through the house.  The wind howled through the crack in the window and sent a shiver through him.  Was that a ghost that just passed through him?

Or was it his mentor sending him a warning?

Whilst the chute door might be new, nothing else was, and by the time she reached the pit she was covered in coal dust.  And had not anticipated landing on the floor among scattered chinks of coal, hurting her back.  The first groan reverberated in the small space, sounding very loud; she stifled it with a grimy hand, wishing instantly she hadn’t/

In total darkness, she switched on the small torch and nearly screamed.  Not a person, but a very lifelike poster of a person looking straight at her.

Out of the pit, into the storeroom, and then into the kitchen.

Spotlessly clean, all set up ready to cook the next meal, food arranged perfectly, plates, cutlery, everything.  It was like people were living there, and life was about to start again in a never-ending cycle of providing meals for the residents.

Only there were no residents.  No staff; well, no one but three- what would you call them, servants, or more like aged caretakers – waiting to die, like the house.

Or had she been given the wrong information?

A complication, but it was an in-and-out job, no time to do any sightseeing or worry about what was and what wasn’t right or wrong.  Her sole mission was to get the book and go.

The steps creaked and groaned as Arthur descended quickly and as quietly as possible, sucking in the stale air, and taking in the aroma of wet newspapers.  It was at times almost overwhelming.

Three flights down he came to the door, and it wouldn’t open.  The damp hand expanded the wood, making it stick.  Good thing he had brought a large screwdriver, and pried it open, not before splintering the wet and rotting wood.

It took time, three valuable minutes, but then it broke free and swung inwards.  Into a small anteroom and then out into a passage – or so the blueprints had told him.  The door was locked, so another five minutes were spent picking the lock.

Now and then he could hear the thunder and the howling of the wind.  It was getting worse outside, not easier, and his getaway, at least not back over the roof, was not going to be straightforward.  At least that noise covered the scratch of the lock pick, and the crunching of the wood earlier.

A single gong stopped him.  A clock somewhere near, then another, quieter, from somewhere else.  The clocks were not synchronised.  In fact, why were they still working if no one was in the manor?  The servants didn’t need working clocks in a house they rarely went through.

He shivered again.  Not a ghost.  A bad feeling.

He came out into the darkness of the passage and switched the torch back on and was immediately confronted by a tall man in armour.  A painting, very lifelike, a forebear perhaps, but one of many.  On the other side, balustrades, and a view down to the ground floor, a large open space which he assumed was the ballroom.

At the end of the passage, the study and library overlooked the rear rose garden and lawns, which led down to a lake.  The place was huge, over a hundred rooms, and there were rumours it was going to be sold to a large hotel chain to be converted into a resort and golf course.  Of course it would.  All those mad golf players, chasing a little white ball around during the day and watching the world go to hell in a handbasket during the day, while sipping champagne and whisky and shovelling down canapes.

The idle rich, as far as Arthur was concerned, were exactly that.

He waited outside the study door and instantly felt like he was outside the headmaster’s office waiting for punishment.  No amount of punishment would ever change him, the headmaster said, a product of his environment and parentage.

The only thing his father was right about was that the class war had never ended after the war; it just became more subtle.

A sound.  Light off.  Breathe quietly.  He could still hear his heart beating very loudly.

A cat.  A gentle mewing, brushing up against his leg, then moving on.

Jesus, he had to get it together.

He opened the door, went in, and closed it quietly behind him.  Torch on.  Over to the mahogany desk, looking like the owner would be back the next morning, everything set out in a particular way.  Clean, neat, like it was just another day in the life.

Except there was no owner, no one in the house, and no reason for it to look like this.

On the wall behind the desk was a painting of the house on the land before the gardens were created.  Behind that painting was a safe.  In that safe was the diamond.  In his pocket was the combination to that safe. 

In five minutes this place would be a distant memory, and he could retire.

Bex was in utter awe of a place she knew she would never see the likes of again.  Ornate, filled with paintings and sculptures, pots of flowers, staircases and passageways.

The double curved staircase that led up to the first floor was the sort of a woman in an expensive dress could make an entrance that would make the front page of the newspapers, or magazines, the sort she had read for years, and wondered how those women made it.

Being born into the right family, marrying the right man, becoming a renowned and successful Olympic gymnast?  She cursed her luck.  Her fate was to see the inside of the house, in the middle of the night, as a thief.

Still, for a moment she could take it in and wish…

A cat walked past, mewing softly, rubbing up against her leg and continuing.  This was her house, and she was just letting the visitors know.  The passage passed windows that overlooked the rear gardens lit by a lightning strike, and barely discernible through the torrential rain.  Her departure was not going to be simple, and she was already dreading having to leave by the coal chute.  Perhaps there would be another way.

Outside the library door, she stopped, listened, and thought she heard something.

From behind the door.

She waited.  Silence.  Five minutes, nothing but silence.

She shrugged and opened the door.

Darkness.

She slipped in and closed the door behind her but didn’t switch on her torch.  Not straight away.  Something was wrong.  Someone else was in the room, or had been.  She detected a whiff of aftershave.  One of those expensive ones she had smelled on the rich café customers, some who used far too much, perhaps to hide something else.

In the dark, she felt her way rather than saw, towards the desk, a heavy-duty wrench she found on the kitchen table in her hand; its cold, hard handle reassuring.

On the other side of the desk, Arthur had an outstretched, black-handled stun baton ready.  He could barely breathe, the sudden realisation this caper was about to go south very quickly, and already looking for the exit.

Then, suddenly, the door opened slowly, as if it had something to say.

A second later, the main light came on, and a woman stood in the doorway with a shotgun in her hand, curlers in her hair, combat boots, and a serviceman’s overcoat.  What was more noticeable was the angry expression.

“Don’t move, either of you.  This gun has scattershot and has a very sensitive trigger, and I’ve got a bad case of the shakes.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

PI Walthenson’s second case – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’.

Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.

It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years, many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.

In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.

…

Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.

Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.

In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.

…

After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.

Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.

He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.

Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.

Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?

Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.

He was also a member of the American Nazi party.

When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.

It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.

…

Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’

The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 7

A new team member

…

I had gone over a number of different ways I could run into Juliet, but most seemed staged, and I got the impression from her most recent conversation with Larry, that she was not silly.

In fact, in my mind, a second meeting, coincidental or not, would send up a red flag.  This was where spycraft bordered on Hollywood, we needed to set the stage, and for that, we needed extras.

And that meant a phone call to Alfie.  I told him what I needed, and he asked for 24 hours to set it up, and true to his word, I was in the arrival hall of Venice Airport, waiting for the newest member of the team.

Cecilia Walker was an aspiring actress, an ideal cover for her so-called part-time profession as an agent at large.  We all had cover stories, with both personal and legitimate reasons for being in places that we’d not normally be expected to be.  And in her case, she was never the same person twice, quite literally the master of disguise.

For Cecilia, there was a film festival in Venice she would be attending.  Timing in this case was everything.

As for me, I had a background in archaeology and journalism and was actually employed to write articles for a number of publications, a job I kept up after I left the service, along with the idea of writing a book, which became the object of a long-standing joke between Violetta and I.

One day I would finish it

But ironically, Cecilia had the perfect cover, being able to slip into any role without having to work too hard on the finer details. 

Alfie had sent a photo of her, and even though I did spend a few moments wondering if I might recognize her from some part she may have played, it didn’t stir up any recollection.  Of course, there was always a vast difference between studio poses and real life, and the woman that came out of the gate was quite different from the one I was expecting.

Although the few paparazzi that were loitering in the terminal just in case a celebrity did suddenly arrive, didn’t recognize her, that might be due to the fact she was dressed casually and had changed both hairstyle and color, and, as I had learned from the woman I’d spent a lot of time with, nuances in make-up could make all the difference.

But there was one photographer that was interested, perhaps he had seen her before, and I waited until she had spoken to him before wandering over.  She had scanned the gate area, both to familiarise herself with the layout and people there, as well as locate me, all without looking like she was doing anything other than immediately disembarking the plane.

It showed experience, and preparedness, not her first, as they say, rodeo.

She had been tracking me the whole time, so once I was in her direct line of sight, anyone observing us would assume we were old friends.

There was a hug before words were spoken, the sort that made me realize what I had been missing for some time, warm personal contact.

“You haven’t aged a bit,” she said, a smile lingering.

“It’s the wine, excellent preservative.  You, on the other hand, have grown up.” 

The script called for old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a year or so.

She performed a pirouette and then burst into giggles.  “Sorry, it’s just when I did that for one of my grandmothers, she said I was acting like a tart.”

“Grandmothers can be like that,” I said, remembering Violetta used to use the same word for her sister’s grandchildren.

“My house is a renovator’s disaster at the moment, so we’re staying in a quaint hotel on the edge of the main Canal, and some interesting restaurants.”

Alfie had booked us adjoining rooms on the same floor as Juliet, which, when she learned I would be staying there too, would give me the surprise element I was looking for.

“I am so looking forward to this week.  If we get the time, you’ll have to show me everything.”

In that short distance from the airport terminal to the water taxi berths, there was time enough to discover what had exactly been missing in my life since Violetta had died.

Yes, there was a period of mourning, a period where there had been no point in getting out of bed, a period where I felt completely lost without the one person who made my life make sense.

But in those few short minutes, there it was again, and with it the belief that perhaps there was someone else out there who could fill that gap, but never replace her because there would never be anyone else like her.  Cecilia was not the one, but she was part of the process.

I had to remember, also, she was a consummate actress, that she was playing a role, and it was totally believable.

Once we were on the water taxi and away from prying eyes and ears, I had to ask, “how did you end up on Rodby’s roster, especially in light of how good an actor you are?”

“You think so, why thank you.  But the duality, accidentally.  I got caught in the crossfire, and thinking at the time, someone had changed the script and forgot to tell me, sort of kicked some ass.  Delusions of becoming a female version of Liam Neeson.  Instead, I was offered a recurring female James Bond, in real life.”

Good to know I could depend on her in a scrap.

“This might not come to that, in fact, it might be quite boring.”

She smiled.  “A free trip to Venice, a film festival pass to everything, working with a legend, what’s not to like?”

What had Alfie told her?  Legend I was not, perhaps slightly more successful than the average agent, but I was just doing my job until I didn’t want to do it anymore.  How many of us could say we preferred to sacrifice everything for the love of the one?

“I assume you are up to speed with what’s required of you in the first instance?”

“A role is a role, Evan, and I love a good role.  This woman you’re supposed to be cozying up to, and the guy using her, it’s almost like a plotline in a B grade movie.”

I hadn’t thought of it like that, but now that she mentioned it, it felt a bit like exactly that.

“Should I make her jealous?”

“It’s not like that, or at least that’s the impression I got when I ran into her.  Depends on what Larry’s intentions are.  Chances are when we get to the hotel we might see her again, and you might get an idea.  I’m not the best person reading women’s minds.”

“No man ever is.  We have to have that element of surprise to keep you interested, but if I was in her position, and I saw you with a woman like me, and I was supposed to get close to you for whatever reason, I might be forced into making a move I didn’t want to.  The fact she’s here with you in her sights generally means one thing.”

The question was, how desperate would she be?  That would depend on the motivation, or what leverage he had.  Pushing the envelope might, as Cecilia said force her hand.

So much for a softly, softly approach.

And it might force Larry’s hand as well

“So, is it your first time in Venice?”

“No, I used to come here when younger with my mother who was I guess a Venetian.  After she died, not so much.”

“No other baggage?”  It had surprised me she had only one carrying bag.

It was always excess baggage when traveling anywhere with my ex.

“Only emotional.  I was told to pack light, anything I needed you’d get for me.” 

The accompanying wicked smile was enough.  I’d have to make sure the expense account was big enough.

After a pleasant forty-five-minute grand tour of the canals going the long way to the berths not far from St Mark’s Square, we jumped off as soon as the taxi came alongside.

The hotel wasn’t far from the bronze equestrian monument to Victor Emmanuel II statue, which she took a moment to look at, almost causing several strollers to walk into her.

That element of careless tourist didn’t make her stand-up as much as if she had purposefully walked from the berth to the hotel, a small detail in a studied persona, the role of an extra perhaps in a film.

It was the part of the day, for late summer that I liked the best, and in a week or so, the weather would slowly get colder until Christmas, and winter, was upon us.

Then, she did the complete 360-degree turn just taking it all in.  “Some things never change, I remember all of this.”

Perhaps living off and on for so long here had made me a little immune to the charm of the place, but it was hard not to get caught up in the moment.

“Your hotel awaits.”

For a few seconds the reality of the situation faded into the background, and I could push all the nastiness of Larry and his machinations aside, but then the reality came back, I remembered who I was and what I’d been, and how important it was not to lose sight of the objective.

It had not been easy while Violetta was still alive, nor was hiding the real truth of my past from her.  Yes, I had told her a version of my precious life, and the possible dangers it could present, which was why she suggested we live in a number of different places, never the same in a single location, but with Venice, it had been different.  It had a profound effect on her, and it was where she chose to spend her last days.

It had not held the same effect on me. Not since she passed, and I had been looking to leave, find somewhere new, and different to stay, more so since I learned of Larry’s plans.

Now it just made me angry.

“I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly next to me, “do we need to be someplace?”

“What, no, sorry.”

“You looked annoyed, I hope not with me.”

“No, never.  Just thinking about Larry. And Juliet, I guess I’m lamenting the nuisance the pair of them are in intruding on my solitude.  Something to note, you don’t ever get the luxury of retirement in this business, except in death.”

“Then let’s hope it doesn’t happen.”

…

© Charles Heath 2022