Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
In the current times, the word needle is very polarising.
Will you have the vaccine, or not. Is one of the reasons simply because you hate needles?
I know I do and have a fear factor of 100%. Fortunately, I got very sick a few years ago and spent 10 days in the hospital, and was forced to have multiple needles every day.
Now it’s not so hard
But, I digress.
A needle is one of those things used in the medical profession mainly to deliver vaccines and medicine. It is a very small cylinder.
A needle can be used to sew up a garment or make repairs. This is a smallish piece of metal with an eyelet.
A needle can also be used to stitch up wounds, though it’s best you have a local anesthetic first.
Another way of using needles is to describe tiny icicles which hurt when they hit your face or your eyes. It is called a needle effect.
Then, another use of the word, is to needle someone, that is to say, bombard them with questions, or annoy them.
It’s a pointer on a dial, like that of a fuel gauge, which for me, always seems to hover just above empty. It can also be on a compass, where heading north is not always clear especially where magnets are nearby.
A fir tree’s leaves are more like needles.
You need one to play a record on a gramophone, not that they exist anymore.
Paradoxically it can also be used to describe a pointy rock or an obelisk-like “Cleopatra’s Needle”
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
Childhood romances are often seen as incredibly romantic when others look back on how you met and how the relationship evolved, and then when that final leap into the unknown is taken.
It also makes a great conversational piece when talking to others particularly if it is for the first time or on your typical holiday when talking to the person next to you on a plane, or you are on a two-week cruise with nowhere to hide and nothing else to talk about.
The only downside is that you have to listen to their story, and it’s never as exciting as yours.
But as the years go by, it’s where you begin to finish each other’s sentences, then start bringing up everything bad about the relationship, followed by talk of divorce when things start to go downhill.
People say it’s healthy for a marriage to argue, but really, it isn’t. What you do learn after twenty years is that compromise is the only way to survive.
Janine and I had a rocky start. I’d known her forever, but she had always been my second choice. It had always been a competition between her and Margaret Bennet, and Margaret would have one if she had not dumped me at the last moment.
Even then, it took a few years before I could get my head above water, Margaret had broken me so badly. I had often wondered why Janine cared that much because others had treated her much better.
It was one of those mornings. The last child had finally finished school and was university-backed, the other two having already left and worked on becoming captains of industry, or perhaps something less lofty. Both bots, they were more interested in girls to set themselves up with a good education.
Alive, the youngest, was going to take after her mother and become a doctor or lawyer, having finished at the top of her class. She was taking a gap year first and going to see the world.
It meant that in less than a week, we would be on our own for the first time in nearly twenty-five years. We both were planning to take a step back from our jobs to spend some time together.
I could, but I had the feeling Janine would not. She was one of those micro-managers, and since the business was hers, she was always reluctant to leave, and our holidays tended to see her on the end of the phone, unable to relax.
I’d just run through the overnight work emails and jumped to my personal one. Usually, there was nothing there, except if the boys needed money which was pretty much invested a week. This morning there was one from someone rear I never expected to hear from again.
Margaret Bennet.
Only it was Margaret O’Hara now.
I had taken an interest in what had happened to her after she left me, the luckier man being William Barkerfield, the son of a Lord, and the heir to a fortune. Wealth won, and love lost. It showed me what her true character was, and at the time, it surprised me.
William Barkerfield was a snotty self-entitled fool who was popular only because of his heritage. Those who pandered to him got to stay at the castle. I never pandered to him, but Margaret had several times.
And like the fool I was, I never wanted to believe she cheated, but after she left, I had to suspect that the rumours were true. It only made the parting so much more painful.
That first marriage to the Son of a Lord only lasted five years, William had not changed his younger days behaviour and was often seen with a bevy of beautiful women.
I think for a short time I felt sorry for her, but she went on to commit an even bigger folly by marrying one of his friends, equally as seldom entitled, who, if the divorce papers were true, beat her.
There were three more attempts to get it right and as O’Hara, I’d just read that her fifth husband had died of a heart attack k and left her comfortable lying off, but I was guessing not comfortable enough.
I had expected a call after each of the disasters ended, but there wasn’t. Janine was as interested in Margaret’s trajectory, and I knew for Janine’s part it would eventually land her in a cesspool, but there was no love lost between them.
I was in two minds whether I could read it, and in the end, curiosity got me.
It was long and rambling, the sort of missive written by someone very drunk. It was an apology, but she knew it was too late, and too much water had gone under that bridge. She wanted to meet and would be in London next week. It was up to me if I wanted to see her.
I was not sure I did. Just reading it made me feel a variety of emotions.
Janine saw straight away something was wrong.
“What’s happened?”
“I got an email from Margaret.”
“It’s a little late for an apology.” Ever practical, or was that pragmatic. “What does she want?”
“Meet up. She’s in town next week.”
“You going? She has no right to expect anything from you.”
“Don’t know. I don’t really want to drag up all those old memories again. I hope it’s not to tell me about all the bad luck she’s had.”
“She’ll want something, Harry. You can be sure of it. You can also bet she knows the success you have in your life. If you go, be careful.”
It surprised me she was so blase about it, given how much she hated her.
“You know me better than that.”
“You know what I mean.” It was accompanied by that look of hers, the warning that wasn’t meant to look like a warning. The fact I’d never done anything wrong the whole time I’d been married to her obviously counted for nothing.
I went, if only out of curiosity.
We were dining at the poshest restaurant in the city, and I knew I would be paying for it. Margaret was that sort of woman. She had been before when I knew her, and nothing would have changed.
She looked elegant, a woman of substance. She didn’t get up when I arrived and earned her first black mark. I’d set the bar at three.
She smiled when I sat, but it was a fake smile. Was meeting me so beneath her?
“It’s been a long time, Harry.”
“So Janine tells me.”
A wrinkle of her nose at the name. I mentioned it to annoy her. Now I knew it would I would do it again.
“How are you?” She asked.
“I got over you, and as you can see, I didn’t die of a broken heart.” It wasn’t said with malice, but malice was what I felt.
“I’m so sorry about what happened. William had just assumed l would marry him, and it was an impossible situation to get out of.”
“Was it worth it?”
It was clear she was not here to rake over the coals. The fact that she was tolerating my questions told me Janine was right. She wanted something badly enough to swallow her pride.
“With the benefit of hindsight, no. I was young and naive back then. I saw you married Janine, so there was no point calling you when it all fell apart.”
“Still married, too,” I said, rubbing a little salt into the wound.
The look she gave me would have killed a lesser mortal stone dead, but it was interesting to realise I felt nothing for her anymore. It was her loss, not mine.
The waiter delivered the menus, and there were no cheap options. One course was about the same it cost to feed our family of five. Both Janine and I would agree was an unnecessary extravagance.
She picked the dearest items on the menu. I did, too, just to see what it was I was missing. The champagne was almost an average worker’s weekly paycheck. Even broke, she knew nothing about being humble.
A silence set in for a few minutes after the waiter left, and another arrived with the champagne and poured it. Wine was one of those subjective things. Some reckoned expensive wine was no better than cheap plonk. I tended to agree, but individual taste made the bad sometimes good and good often bad. I doubt Margaret would understand that personal taste trumps expense.
I had a sip, then put the glass down. Served properly, and at the right temperature, it was exquisite. I could tell the difference, and I liked it. But, although I could easily afford it, I chose not to.
“I saw your last husband died of a heart attack.” I did wonder if she had something to do with it, but then I remembered she never really wanted to participate. It was no surprise she had no children. And possibly no wonder her husbands went elsewhere to pursue women who would willingly give them what they wanted.
“Too lazy. I told him to go out and exercise to lose some weight. Then he did. Died the first day in the gym.”
“Did you inherit the castle?”
“No. The bastard left me a small annuity and left everything to his kids. It’s like I never existed.”
“You didn’t think the aristocracy would protect itself from someone like you?” OK, I’d had enough of this wretched woman. I would have given her the benefit of the doubt, but after picking this place and those items off the menu, she wasn’t worth the effort. “You really never knew me, Margaret. And if you think this is what I am,” I waved a hand to take in the whole restaurant, “You’ve greatly miscalculated. I’m done here. You can finish your lunch, I’ll tell the maitre’d I’ll pay for it, but don’t call me again.”
I stood, took a last look at the bullet I dodged, and walked out.
What I would never tell either Margaret or Janine was how heartbroken I was, seeing her again, of even thinking that there might be something there, even if I didn’t act on it, or the fact the hurt really hadn’t gone away.
The trouble was, I knew it was not going to be the last time I would see her.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester.
We’re having an interesting time in the quest for self-isolation.
It seems he doesn’t like the idea that we are still going out, and coming back, potentially bringing the virus back.
This, of course, despite the fact that there are no confirmed cases of the virus attacking cats.
That doesn’t mean that Chester might be the first cat that does.
Out of curiosity, and perhaps against my better judgment, I have to ask what his reasoning is.
Old age, he says. If you are telling me the truth then I’m about 18 cat years old, which means it’s about 126 of your years.
I can see where this is going. It’s my fault because I’ve left the running count of Coronavirus patients worldwide on one of my computer screens.
As of this morning, there are 393,000 cases worldwide. He was sitting next to me when I was looking at the statistical data on the various ages and pre-existing conditions.
For him, apparently, there was only one statistic that mattered. Anyone over 90 in human years had little chance of surviving.
I reiterate the virus doesn’t attack cats.
I also tell him that I have no intention of getting the virus. But it raises a point I hadn’t considered.
Going out anywhere always has a risk, whether to the supermarket or the pharmacy which are basically the only places I go. Then there is the situation of my wife, who is still working and has to go to work. That is a bigger risk considering one of the staff will be coming back from overseas.
How successful the self-isolation rule is, and whether everyone complies, is a matter of conjecture, and one has to wonder if 14 days in isolation is long enough.
Chester has raised a legitimate point, not necessarily in relation to himself.
Perhaps he might be worried about us.
And if that is the case, will the specter of this virus finally become the catalyst for a change in the relationship between cats and people, where they might realize we are more important to them than they currently believe.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Chasing leads, maybe
…
Darkness fell in a noticeably short time, and we left the pub at about six. In the hour so we have been there I’d been keeping a close eye on the comings and goings, and in particular, if O’Connell came in, or someone else that might look like him.
He hadn’t, nor had any mythical family members. Well, it had been a long shot.
Jennifer hadn’t volunteered anything more to the conversation and sat working her way through a piece of fried fish and a bowl of chips. Neither had looked appetizing. I would have bet she’d have the chicken, but I was wrong, and probably it wasn’t going to be the first time.
“Do you have a gun?”
It was after ten minutes of silence. It worried me that she didn’t ask how far it was or how long it would take. And then, out of nowhere, the gun question.
“No. Why would I have a gun.?”
“We were issued with weapons. I still have mine.”
“Did you bring it with you?”
“No. Like I told you, I didn’t think I was still working for the Department. They didn’t ask for it back, so I didn’t give it to them.”
“Or the identities?”
“No. It was odd though; they didn’t ask about them either.”
“Maybe they were going to wait a while and then ask you back.”
This was a weird conversation to be having. By this time we were in Peaslake Lane, and not far from the house I pulled over to the side of the road, under a tree.
The houses were set back in a rural setting. Between the darkness and the undergrowth, the chances were we could get to the house without being seen. From where I was sitting, no windows or doors were visible.
I made sure the car’s internal light didn’t go on the moment the door was open.
“Are you bringing your cell phone?”
“Why. I’m not envisaging having to call anyone, nor am I expecting a call.”
I shrugged, and slipped mine into a pocket where I could easily reach it I needed to.
I got out of the car, and she followed. She left he bag in the car. The first sign of training kicking in; eave all un-necessary baggage behind. Perhaps having a gun might have been a good option if we ran into trouble.
Oddly enough, now that I thought about it, Monica hadn’t asked for mine back either, but it was sitting at home in a safe, along with the five other identities Severin had issued each of us with.
I locked the car, equally as silent and invisible as she joined me.
“Which house?”
“Three along. Follow me and keep your eyes and ears peeled.”
I didn’t have to tell her, but it didn’t hurt to emphasize the importance of stealth. There were people home in other houses, lights in windows just discernible through the trees, one house a window without a curtain, a view into the dining room, but there was no one at the table.
If we were visiting them, perhaps we’d be in time for dinner.
The house we were looking for was in darkness from our approach.
“You keep an eye open this side, and I’ll go around the other, then come back. I’ll see if there’s an easy entry point.”
“What if someone is home?”
“Doesn’t look like it from here, and I’ll be surprised if there is.”
A moment later she had disappeared into the shrub line and I was heading across the front of the house, heading for the other side. I kept well away from the front door, just in case there was a motion light, or worse, a motion detector that might set off a silent alarm.
But, that might already have happened, and if it had, no one had made a move inside.
Down the side was walls and windows, no doors or French doors leading out into the garden. None of the windows were at a decent height for us to clamber through, and if we had to, it was going to be difficult.
I continued on, around the back, where there was more success. French doors leading onto a patio, and then the lawn. In the corner was a greenhouse, and next to that a rose garden. Or at least that was what both looked like in the dark.
The moon, for the moment, was hidden by dark clouds.
Perhaps it would rain, though it had not been in the forecast, but, this was England, and it could rain at any time, especially when you didn’t want or need it. There was no light, or motion sensor over the French doors, so I crossed the patio and looked through the doors.
I had expected curtains, but these hadn’t been completely drawn. No large light or lamp on, but there were indicator lights, several red and one a particularly bright blue, casting a rather long shadow over furniture and what looked to be a carpet square.
Out of curiosity, I tried the door.
It was open.
Then I had the blind panic moment of thinking it might be alarmed.
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
What would you do if you were mistaken for someone else?
What if when you answer a knock on the door to your hotel room, and the police crash their way in with bullets flying everywhere in a show of unnecessary force.
Of course, the police don’t know you are not the criminal, and facing a possible disaster, do what they have to, to apprehend the man they believe is a murderer.
Our main character now has time to contemplate the ramifications of what just happened in hospital. So much for attending the conference.
Of course, he has other things to think about, the self-confessed gate crasher Maryanne. The adage, if something is too good to be true, it generally is.
Looking forward, there’s some plotting to do.
How can it be possible that our main character has a doppelganger? At the moment it’s just a case of someone who looks like him, and the police have ruled him out as the man they’re looking for.
It’s a story that’s going to play out in a few chapters’ time.
On this occasion, we drove from Florence to Innsbruck, a journey of about 500 kilometers and via the E45, a trip that would take us about five and a half hours.
We drove conservatively, stopped once for lunch and took about seven hours, arriving in Innsbruck late in the afternoon
The main reason for this stay was to go to Swarovski in Wattens for the second time, to see if anything had changed, and to buy some pieces. We were still members of the club, and looking forward to a visit to the exclusive lounge and some Austrian champagne.
Sadly, there were no new surprises waiting, and we came away a little disappointed.
We were staying at the Innsbruck Hilton, where we stayed the last time, and it only a short walk to the old town.
From the highest level of the hotel, it is possible to get a look at the mountains that surround the city. This view is in the direction we had driven earlier, from Florence.
The change in the weather was noticeable the moment we entered the mountain ranges.
This view looks towards the old town and overlooks a public square.
This view shows some signs of the cold, but in summer, I doubted we were going to see any snow.
We have been here in winter, and it is quite cold, and there is a lot of snow. The ski resorts are not very far away, and the airport is on the way to Salzburg.
There is a host of restaurants in the old town, and we tried a few during our stay. The food, beer, and service were excellent.
On a previous visit, we did get Swiss Army Knives, literally, from a small store called Victorinox.
Part one sets the scene, we are introduced to the characters, and we get some insight into the machinations of business and the underlying problem of Agatha’s health.
It could be for any number of reasons, hard living when younger, and a little bit older too, it could be the pressures of work, the pressures of motherhood, trying to find the right man knowing he doesn’t exist and worry about people trying to take your money.
Being titled and wealthy is not a benefit, it’s really a curse. It often works to her advantage, but in others, well, it just doesn’t.
Her health issues have so far been undiagnosed. She has seen any number of doctors, and none can find what is wrong. Lethargy, constantly tired, often feeling nauseated, always at the mercy of common colds and viruses, the notion of taking a few months off to try and recover is not an option.
The thing is, the answer to her problems, getting qualified people to run her organisation was a good idea, and she thought she had picked the right people. And once they start, the subtle changes begin, the little things like being left out of the loop, that sense that she is being spied on, paranoia fed by the illness, and observation, cause her to become unpredictable, then, at the height of it, after discovering what is a revelation, she is incapacitated.
In a sense, she had planned for just such an eventuality, in another, it was almost inevitable.
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
