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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.  That wasn’t possible.

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

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

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

At least we agree on that, she thought.

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

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

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

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

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

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

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

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

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

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

Was that what she was expecting?

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

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

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

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

Rebellion was written all over him.

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

“Mr Henshaw?”

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

“Then my name is Michelle.”

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

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, so do I.”

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

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

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

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

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

“After a fashion.”

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

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

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

“Whatever for?”

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

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

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

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

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

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

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

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

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

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

Dinner over, they separated.

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 15

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

But it seems our hero has ‘escaped’ and has found his way back home.

Except not quite how he expected it would be.

Rest was impossible while so many thoughts about my recent experiences were swirling around in the back of my head.  Now, when thinking it through, it made sense that they make sure I was found alive, but in very bad shape.

Two reasons, one, to remind me that they could do whatever they liked to me, and the second, to appease Breeman, who, no doubt, realising a helicopter was missing, would send out search teams, a no-fly zone or not.

But it was a calculated risk assuming I would not tell Breeman, or someone else about what had happened to me, whether they believed it or not.

That led to the next thought: why was I still alive?  It would be just as easy to kill me and be discovered after dying from injuries received in the crash.  Supposition, they still needed me, or, and this was a Hail Mary at best, they needed access to the base, and Breeman.

Did that mean either of the two men I’d seen at the other camp would suddenly turn up?  My money was on Colonel Bamfield.  He was my first Commanding Officer; he had a keen interest in me from the get-go, and he was the one who facilitated my transfer to my current base before I knew he was working for ‘other interests’. 

I still didn’t want to think it was the enemy.

Another question popped into my head: what was his, or their, interest in Breeman, because the line of questioning centred on her.

My best guess was that it was no accident I was on that helicopter, that she had directed the pilot to make a flyover, and wasn’t expected that we would be shot down and that she had assumed there would be no repercussions on either the pilot or me.

It was also clear that if she had to explain how I came to be where they found me, and the fact no one had launched a similar attack on the rescue team, that what happened was simply a breach of orders, and a court-martial offence.

It would solve Bamfield and his new friend’s problem.  Whatever the outcome of the court-martial, she would be sent home, relieved of her command.

It seemed the military, as always, had a mind of its own, and did not always have the best interests of its personnel at heart.

I’d soon find out.

© Charles Heath 2019

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 37

A talk with Juliet

…

If I had the time over again, I might have chosen a different path in advising her of the possible connection to the Burkhardt’s, but that cat was now out of the bag.  I had to play that card when the police started asking difficult questions.  It’s a bit hard to give a plausible reason for people shooting at you.

“It’s possible but unlikely, but it seems someone thinks you might be, hence the assassination attempt.”

“Do you think my father was the Count, and my mother one of the servants?”  There was a curious inflection in her tone like she was mentally calculating the billions she might be worth.

“What did your adoptive mother tell you about your father, other than he was important?

“Nothing.”

“Then the description ‘important person’ could be the butler or the head gardener to a lowly servant girl, so I wouldn’t be getting too many ideas.  The count has never admitted to having any children outside of marriage, and, in fact, had only one surviving family member, the countess.  Have you ever met her?”

“Seen her only in papers, and once from afar when I was watching the house in Sorrento.  Head gardener or butler, you do know how to dash a girl’s dreams.”

“Better to understand the reality before the family lawyers shred you in court if you try to press any sort of a claim.  And if they do know about you, and they believed you were an heir, then you could be in trouble.”

“You seem to know a lot about the family.  Are you working for them?”

An astute observation.  “The answer to that question is no.  My only interest in this was to escort the countess to the Opera as a favour to the man whom I used to work for, yes, I’m still retired, or getting there.  So, I’ve met the countess, but she never mentioned anything about children, only the count dying on her, and now, from my boss, the fact she is missing.  The truth of the matter, I’m only here to find the countess, then I’m back to Venice, or Paris, or anywhere other than here.”

“But there’s more to it than that.  I know you, there’s wheels within wheels.”

There might be, but I wasn’t going to humour her.  “Well, if she’s missing and doesn’t sign the inheritance papers, the estate goes to the next brother, Alessandro.  If he was aware there was a possibly more direct heir, if the count was your father, his situation would demand that you were eliminated from the list.  If he was that way inclined.”

“Then he’s your man.”

“He’s not.  I’ve spoken to him already.  But I have another more viable candidate, your birth mother, who could tell us if the count was your father, though, as a servant girl, and later criminal, I doubt the courts would believe her.”

“You know who my birth mother is then?”  it was spoken with a little more curiosity than she should, which told me she already knew and was covering it.  I wondered if Ceceila had any success.  I would sneak away and send her a text soon.  And ask her to drop in if she could.

“We think we do.”  After analysing everything Juliet said, and the physical evidence we had, like the photograph, it was possible that Vittoria was not.  All the evidence we had was circumstantial.

The waiter chose to arrive at our table with the pizza, and I decided we had to eat first, leaving her with a look of annoyance.  It could wait another few minutes, time taken to look at her and for any resemblance to Vittoria and the Count.  It seemed to me there was none, but Cecilia would know.  Time to send her a text to meet us at the restaurant, and what I wanted her to do.  I excused myself and went to the restrooms.

Just before I went in the door I glanced back and saw she was on the phone.  Who could she be calling?

When I came back, I decided to keep going down the direct route.  “Do you know a woman by the name of Vittoria Romano?”

I watched her carefully as I asked the question.  Everyone had a tell, and I think I knew hers.

“Should I?”

The curious thing about that reply was another of those inflections in her tone, one that told me she did.

That just added a whole new layer to the game.  It also told me why she was not so shaken up by the turn of events.  It might have been a surprise to see me, but not getting shot at.

“I have reason to believe she is your mother.  She has been trying to get closer to Alessandro, but the countess had warned him of her intentions.  We understand this Vittoria was getting a payment to look after you, whether by blackmail or otherwise, and when that stopped, she started making trouble.    She is, by the way, in London at the moment though we don’t know where.”

“And you think I might?”

“If I accompanied you to your apartment, would she be there?”

“I said I didn’t know her.”  She tried to put on an aggrieved tome that I would think that she was lying.

“You’ve said a lot of things in the past, especially to me, that are not true.  We know each other fairly well, Juliet.”

That tone was now accompanied by a pained expression that was mean to convey annoyance.  “I should get up and walk out, but as you say, we know each other fairly well, and I’m guessing you’d construe that as guilt.  I am disappointed.”

I saw Cecilia arrive outside, and now that the restaurant was quite full, she was easily able to get to our table without Juliet seeing her, not until she dropped into the third seat, and sigh, “Do you have any idea what it’s like getting across this city in the rush hour?”

The look on Juliet’s face was priceless.

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: There are so many things I haven’t done

Does it really matter, you ask?

Perhaps not, but now seems to be an appropriate time, nearing the age of 72, to take stock.

We have achieved a lot in the last twenty or so years once the children have grown up and can look after themselves.

Unlike a lot of more modern couples who are travelling in their 20s and 30s and then having children, we chose to do it the other way around.

To me, it seemed easier to deal with teenagers when we were in our 40s rather than our 60s.  With the benefit of hindsight, I can truthfully say we were right.

We were older and wiser when we travelled and more aware of the dangers around us, sometimes overlooked or ignored by a youthful devil-may-care attitude.

But, in saying that ….

No, I don’t think I’ll be getting to see Mt Kilimanjaro, observing the wild animals in the Serengeti, climbing Mt Everest, or seeing the ancient pyramids.

But, if it is ever possible before I die, I still want to go to the Greek Islands, and, Santorini is at the top of my travel bucket list.

We’ve been to London.  We’ve been to Paris and Euro Disney.  We’ve been to Rome and seen the ancient ruins.  We’ve been to Vienna, Schönbrunn Palace, and, particularly for us, a visit to Swarovski crystal world, near Innsbruck, we’ve been to Salzburg, and been on the Sound of Music tour.

We’ve been to Florence and loved it, we’ve been to Venice and loved that too, and we’ve spent a few days in the heart of Tuscany, and want to go back for longer, much longer.

In fact, that’s the second item on the travel bucket list.

We’ve also been to Singapore and Hong Kong, at first out of necessity as an airline stopover, but then we went back to see the city and tourist, and non-tourist attractions.

I will not forget staying at the Hong Kong Conrad Hotel as a Diamond Hilton Honors member.  Oh, the memories.

We’ve also stayed on the French Riviera, in a timeshare apartment in Antibes where every morning when out back you had a view of the shimmering Mediterranean if the sun was out.

Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo, the billionaire’s yachts in Antibes harbour, Monte Carlo, and ‘that’ casino, taking the same drive along the coast as Grace Kelly did in To Catch a Thief, and feeling like James Bond arriving for a new adventure, minus the half-million-dollar sports car.

But now, crashing back to earth with an extremely hard thump ….

Travel in the future is looking difficult for both of us, not only financially but from a health aspect.  We are both not as sprightly as we used to be.

Yet given the restraints and if it is at all possible, aside from the Greek Islands and Tuscany, the next items on the list are:

Germany, visiting both Berlin, from a Cold War aspect, the Brandenburg gate springs to mind, and Munich at the time of the Octoberfest.  As a beer drinker that is also high on my bucket list.

Scotland, more so since we’ve started watching Outlander, and besides being a beer drinker, I am also partial to a good Single Malt, the Whiskey Trail.

Ireland, because my wife’s previous name was Murphy and at some point, in the long distant past some relatives emigrated to Australia, and she would like to visit the country of her forebears.

But with the current state of the world, our health issues, and that all-important requisite money, or the lack of it, perhaps it’s time to visit other parts of our own country.

Perhaps it’s time to do a culinary trip, particularly down south.  It’s practical, achievable, and safe.

And it’s a big country.

What I learned about writing – Emotional Responses

Have you found yourself writing a passage where you have either burst out laughing or shed a tear?

Sometimes, when we are writing certain emotional scenes, that depth of feeling required might actually be a response to something that may have happened to you.

I never thought I could write comedy, because I didn’t believe I had that sort of humour in me. And yet, not so long ago, I was writing a scene where the lines were not meant to be comedic, but just the way the words were going on paper caused me to smile. It was actually something that made me want to write more, if possible, to feed off that first line.

It didn’t quite come as I expected, but over a few days working and reworking, the whole scene came off better than I’d expected, and I was hoping the reader got it.

The same goes for more serious stuff, and I did eventually lean on some of my own feelings on the subject.

But when I was writing it, it was sad, yes, but it didn’t evoke an emotional response.

When I came back to it a few days later, for some odd reason, it did. I actually found tears in my eyes, and I realised that it did hark back to an event where, at the time, it hadn’t affected me, but with more of the story, it did.

Now, writing about my family history and finding out a lot of things I didn’t know about my parents and grandparents, those emotions sometimes run so high that it’s not possible to write. I wonder, when someone finally gets around to reading it, they might have the same feelings.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 122/123

Days 122 and 123 – Writing Exercise

…

Create and explore a character and put it in a situation

…

I should have known that something was afoot.

Sunday lunch was abuzz with the upcoming presentation for a multi-million dollar housing and parkland project on land that the city had no idea what to do with

My father, the owner of Davidson and Sons Realty and Investment Corporation, was transitioning from small-time to the major leagues.

He had thrown me a plan of the land and told me to turn it into something he could sell.  At the time I thought about it, wondering why he didn’t give it to the wunderkind son, Theodore Davidson III, the Harvard MBA graduate that could do no wrong.

Oh, and at his graduation party in the swankiest restaurant in town, with people whose names were whispered in the corridors of power, my father said he was going to take us into the statisphere.

He took himself, my sister Eileen, and my parents.

Number three son was staying firmly planted on the ground.

I took the plan and figured this was my chance to prove to him that I was everything but as good as my brother.

Of course, I was kidding myself.

I was never going to reach that stratosphere my brother lived in.  The fifteen-million-dollar penthouse apartment, the top-of-the-range sports car that was more expensive than my modest apartment, and suits that cost more than my car.

I didn’t have the same qualifications.  I went to college and studied architecture and art.  I was more interested in art and then artefacts, enough to add archaeology to the list of degrees.

No point having a graduation party for me.

Eileen graduated at the bottom of her law degree class and got celebrated like she had come first.  I guess I wasn’t one of the beautiful people.

My mom said it was a pity I hadn’t been blessed with good looks, though I would not have called myself ugly.  I chose to dress down and had this University professor thing going.

Dad said I could be the back room genius.  Yes, had used those exact words.

But he had promised that when I handed him the final plans and ran through the presentation for the next week’s meeting with the city representatives, I could present it.  He even sent me to the tailors for a proper suit.

Until…

Eileen said what I knew she was going to say.  “I think you’re making a mistake letting Richard do the presentation.  We need someone who represents who we are, and who’s going to take us forward.

I’d heard Theo and her talking about a strategy.

It had to be about one thing only.

“Dad promised.  If I did the work, I’d get the presentation.”

We all look at him.

“I did.  And as you know, my word is my bond.”

I sat back and relaxed.  Just a little.  I knew my brother and sister far better than they thought I did.  They had taken it too calmly. 

…

I had a Monday morning visit with my grandmother at her house, a hundred-mile drive up into the hills.

It was a fabulous old house with twenty-five bedrooms, servants, a dozen-car garage with vintage cars, and a ballroom that hadn’t been used in years

She came from a family that had money, but over time, successive men had lost it one way or another.
My mother had married into a wealthy family based on that fortune, and it had created the first of many problems.

I was too young, being the last of the children, but as far as I knew, the marriage had survived, but there was something about the house that no one wanted me to know about.

For years, I put it down to big people stuff.

I would have liked to stay, but there was a presentation tomorrow.

After I arrived, we had tea on the back patio.  It overlooked a garden that was rumoured to be originally designed by Capability Brown.

My grandmother looked particularly unhappy.  I would not have said I was her favourite, but she had spent the most time with me when I was younger.

She said I was like a stray dog.  I never understood why.

After the usual health and weather questions, she asked, “How successful will this presentation be?”

It was odd that she was interested in anything my father did.  She did not like him, and at times barely tolerated him.  Or Theo.  But Theo was an ass.

Eileen rarely came.

“It sells itself.  It ticks all the boxes.  Why?  You rarely want to know what the business is about.”

“There was an article in a magazine.  When people start using words like stratosphere, though wonder if they can’t see past the glossy cover and see what’s underneath.”

” I don’t have a glossy cover.”

“But the rest of them do.  I look at your father and Theo, and I wouldn’t trust them at all.  Your Aunt Matilda hated him.  She has more class in her little finger than he ever will.”

That was vicious, but I’d come to realise, in the case of being overlooked and undervalued, even being treated with contempt by my own family, she was right.

But saying this to me was a risk.  If I were to repeat it, there would be consequences.  I’d heard the muted discussion coming from Dad’s study.  Turning the old girl’s shack into a mountain resort.  It was worth billions if it was done right.

The only lament, she could not be moved.  Or would not be swayed into selling her heritage.

“I would never sell this place, Gran.  Never.  This is the very personification of my heritage.  I love this place.  You know,” I said, without realising I was sounding and acting silly, “I would love to hold a ball in the ballroom.”

When I realised I was being silly, I looked over and saw her eyes were watering.

I asked, concerned, “Are you alright?”

“I am.”  She dabbed at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.  “It’s what I have wanted, but I don’t have the energy to make it happen.”

We had this conversation once.  A few months back.  When she told me, Dad was trying to convince her to let him use the property as collateral for a project.  It was just dead money, he said.

She had refused.

It was why he had been angry for a while now.  And Theo.  Plans, no doubt, to make themselves rich at the expense of a relative.  I didn’t want to believe it of them, or that mom would let them, but she never seemed to put up a fight about anything, including protecting me.

Gran had asked me to draw up a plan that would turn the property into a resort, a different resort, one that had an equestrian centre at its heart.

My grandmother loved horses, had a few, and had taught me to ride practically before I could walk.  It was she who convinced me to play polo, and we had the makings of a polo field in the west paddock.

She remembered. “Did you get those plans we discussed drawn up?”

“I did.  I went to see Westerby at the equestrian centre, and he was very excited about the prospect.  Just the other week, he said the powers that be were looking at where they could set up a centre to start training Olympic hopefuls, and if we can put something together…”

“Good.  I’ll have a talk with him soon.  After you sort out this new development.”

My phone dinged.  A message.  From Daisy, my assistant back at the office.

A URL.

I selected it, and it took me to a news page where my father and Theodore, beaming from ear to ear, the city representatives behind them were making an announcement.  Smiles all round.

I listened to the speech for about a minute, then cut it off.

“What is it?”  She asked.

I guess my disappointed expression gave it away.

They had deliberately moved the presentation ahead so Theodore could take the honours.  I just noticed in the background, still on the screen, he had rebranded the whole project as his, with no mention of me.

No wonder no one said boo when Dad said I was still doing the presentation.  They were all in on it.

“Theo just stole my thunder and my job.  He’s going to be the project manager.”

“What about you?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “Now I have the time to devote myself to your equestrian centre.”

“Won’t you have to continue working on the reclamation?”

“Apparently not.  Theo obviously has it all under control.”

I opened my phone and went to a specific email sitting in the drafts folder.  I had hoped that I would never have to send it, but I’d finally had enough of being taken for granted.

I dated the documents and sent them to HR.  Effective immediately, I had resigned.

“Can I stay here.  I don’t think I’m going to be very welcome at home.”

“Of course.  I have a few friends coming for dinner, and Father Giles can be, well, you know him as well as I do.”

…

I left my cell phone in my room, and had a long and convivial dinner with old friends that I had known from my childhood days, when I was a far more frequent and regular guest.

It was better than sitting at a table where there were four people on the same page and a ghost sitting in isolation.  As the years passed, I felt less like a member of that exclusive club and more like a visitor on the outside looking in.

Except…

When I went back to the room, I could see my cell phone beaming like a beacon in the night, and dinging about once every twenty seconds.

The first message was from Theo. I’d say, when they asked the first question, one of many he couldn’t answer.  He hadn’t spent the time with me in the development phase, as he was supposed to, and didn’t bother prepping before the presentation.

There were seven hefty binders or accompanying documents that needed to be read and understood before giving the presentation.  It was slides and talking points, and using big words that covered trends and projections, and buzz talk.

The devil was in the details.

Theo was never interested in details, just concepts.

My guess, he would have told them any questions would be answered by the technical lead.  Me.  If only I could be found.

Fourty four messages before one from my father.

“Where are you?”

I might have been at work if they had not moved the presentation and told me.  Or not, if this was what they’d planned all along.

I was not being vindictive; I was just going about my business, which they were fully aware of.

There were missed calls from each of them, mother included.  I had heard Grans’ cell phone ringing, and the house phone, but she had seemed unperturbed.

I went to sleep with a clear conscience

..

When I went downstairs for breakfast, out on the patio, Gran was sitting looking out over the lawns, down to the fountain where I used to make wishes.

None ever came true.

Sitting beside her was Susannah, a neighbour’s daughter who used to be as frequent a visitor as I had been a long time ago.

She had also been Eileen’s best friend until Eileen betrayed her.  It ruined any chance I had with her.

About a week ago, she had sent me an email asking if I was the Richard she used to know once upon a time.  I had replied yesterday and said I would be visiting Gran this week.  She had not replied.  Perhaps the old wounds had not healed.

Or they had.

She had the gift of never aging.  I wished I were a more attractive proposition, but we can’t have everything.

“Susannah?”  I sounded surprised.  I was.

“Rich.  What a pleasant surprise.”  She got out of her chair, came over and gave me a hug like she actually cared about me.

Then she stepped back.  “Martha tells me your family finally showed their true colours.”

That was a step and a half for Gran.  She had never publicly or privately called them out. 

“It’s my misguided attempt to try and get some recognition from them, and not getting past the wunderkind Theo.  I work hard, and can’t get any traction.”

“Martha says you quit.”

“Perhaps it’s the only way.”

“What did your father say?”

“Haven’t gone home and haven’t answered any calls, texts or emails.  Not ready yet.”

“I’m staying for a few days.  You can talk to me about anything.  You know that?”

“Thank you.”

The serving girl brought over a cup of coffee and put it on the table.

Then we heard a booming voice coming towards us.  “I’ll have one of those “

I yelled back, “Get it yourself, Theo.  She’s not your slave.”

She looked at him, then me.  “He’ll get it himself.”

Martha nodded, and the girl left.

He shook his head.  The privilege oozed out of him.  I’d seen him deal with waiters and waitresses.  Someone needed to teach him some manners.

“Any reason you’re here, Theo.  Shouldn’t you be working with the new clients?”

He’d completely ignored Susannah.  She seemed amused, with no intention of going anywhere.

“We need you back in the office.  The family is taking a break to celebrate the successful conclusion.  I closed the deal, Richard.  You would have made a mess of it.”

“And yet you seem to think I won’t now?”

“Don’t be a pompous twit.  You know everything there is to know about it.  You’re just not fit to run it.  Or anything.”

As insulting as ever. Had he tempered his approach, I might have thought twice about not going. Not now.

He looked around, perhaps expecting a cup of coffee to magically turn up.

“I resigned, Theo.  Effective 10am yesterday.  The project is yours.”

“Dad says you can’t resign.”

“Tell him to read my contract.”

“What contract?”

“The one he forced on me and got your daft sister to draw up.  I was the only one of us he insisted sign.  I added a few clauses in the revised draft, and she signed it without reading it.  Both of you were painted with the same brush.  Stupid is as stupid does, Theo.”

“Rubbish.  You’re not that clever.”

I smiled.  “Then take me to court.  Goodbye Theo.  Go sort out the mess your father and sister created.”

He jumped up and pulled out his cell, and a few minutes later, we could hear him yelling at Eileen.

Both Gran and Susannah had watched the exchange with half smiles.  His badgering and bullying had no effect, but then, he hadn’t realised just how much trouble they were in.

“You didn’t deliberately set them up?” Susannah asked.

“No.  All the information is there.  Everything that was discussed, the planning, the requirements, the costings and a project plan.  They just have to know where to look and how to interpret it.  I told them that if I were the project manager, it would all work like clockwork.  They didn’t listen.  Appearances mean more than practicality.  I don’t think Theo’s ego could stand letting me run such a large project.”

Theo came back and thrust his cell phone in my face.

“Dad wants a word.”

I could imagine.

I didn’t need to put it to my ear. “You cannot resign.  Your family.  You’re in charge of the office while we’re gone.  Now get back here.  You have meetings to prepare for.”

I took a deep breath. “I resigned.  I do not work for you or anyone.  Maybe I’ll pursue a career in pizza making.  Pizzas can’t stab you in the back or lie to your face.  It’s time to see how far into the stratosphere Theo can take you, Dad.  You don’t need me.  You never have.  Have a nice day.”

I held out the phone for Theo to take it back.  I think he finally realised I was not coming back.

“Look, Richard.  This is not my fault.  Dad did this.”

“No, you did this.  You could have told him this was my turn.  But no, your ego couldn’t have that.  Well, here’s your chance to show Dad just how good you are.  You’ve never needed me, Theo.  No one in that family has.”

“Screw you, Rich.  You’ll be back, and then we’ll see what’s what.”

He snatched up his phone and stomped off.

He didn’t get that cup of coffee

…

Daisy was kept on, transitioning from my assistant to being the custodian of the documentation. Dad had the sense to realise she was the only one who knew where everything was. At least he promoted her and doubled her salary, though I don’t think he did it without a push.

Dad had to hire four new planners, architects and an engineer that were not in the original budget, and would make a hefty dent in the profit margin.

He had asked, politely, once more that I should return, given a title and double the salary, but not as project manager.

I refused.

Then he offered me the project manager position. It was too late. I wasn’t going back.  I didn’t want the hassle of listening to my brother whining the whole time.

The Davidson and Sons Realty and Investment Corporation very subtly changed to the Davidson and Son Realty and Investment Corporation.

I didn’t care.

I left the city and went to live with Gran, taking on the project of turning the family estate into a special resort for Equestrians, and becoming the perfect training establishment for future Olympians and polo players.

The family thrived without me.

I thrived without them.

About a year after the parting, a newspaper headline broke the story that my mother had had an affair and that I had been the result of it.

Dad had been caught unawares in the middle of a big and delicate negotiation, and the story blew his opportunity out of the water.

The thing was, he knew.  So did Theo and Eileen.  Mom had believed they didn’t, but I could see it had been the case.  They had always treated me as different.

It wasn’t much later that Dad was caught cheating himself, and not just with one woman, but several.  The difference between us and the rest of the new wealthy, Susannah said, was that they could keep their dirty linen in the linen basket.

Mom got divorced and came home.

Theo and Eileen stayed with Dad.

I got married to Susannah.  It seemed inevitable.  She had never really held Eileen’s pettiness against me.  She was just waiting for the day that payback became a bitch.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Searching for locations: The Glory Grand Hotel, Zhengzhou, China

Like all the hotels we’re staying in, it has an impressive foyer.  You walk in, and you think on appearances, it’s going to be 5 stars, and not the 3 and a half rating on TripAdvisor.

Pity then that it all goes downhill from there.

We have a corner room and no bathroom.

Have you ever stayed in a hotel that has rooms with no bathroom?  Yes, it’s a first for us too.  Still, this is China, and I suspect if you complain, there’s always a worse room to put you in.

For us, it’s just going to be an amusing situation we’d bear and give it a one-star rating on TripAdvisor for the hotel.

And just a word of warning, if you decide to book the hotel directly, make sure you don’t get a corner room.

At least everything else was reasonably ok.  Ok, not so much, the safe doesn’t work.

This doesn’t augur well for the rest of the tour in this particular place.

Before we leave, some photos of our room, and the lack of a bathroom.

Separate doors for shower and toilet, and on the other side of the passage, the washbasin

Feng Shui seems to have been forgotten when planning this room.

The next morning we discover that other rooms do have bathrooms but they’re small.  Some have neither tissues or toilet paper, another has a faulty power socket and cannot recharge the phone, and I’m sure there are other problems.

All in all, it seemed very odd to have the toilet and shower on one side, and the wash basin on the other side of the passage.

In a word: Page

We as authors always like to see two little words in every review, page turner.

Alas, sometimes they’re not, but usually this applied to non fiction simple because they’re reference books. Then another two words apply: boat anchor.

The good stuff is usually over the page.

Page in this instance refers to a leaf in a book, which generally has many pages.

Then the is a page boy, not what you’d find lurking around these days but were more common in days past, but refers to a boy in training to become a knight, or an errand boy for a nobleman.

These days a page boy opens doors and runs messages in a hotel.

Another variation is being paged over the P.A. system, always a major cause of embarrassment because you and everyone else thinks your in trouble.

Of course, before there were mobile phones, there were pagers, and sometimes in the deathly silence of the classroom, it went off. Definitely not advisable to have one on you if you are trying to sneak up on someone. Same goes for the modern equivalent, the mobile phone.

For the person who uses a word processor, you are familiar with pages, and having the software generate page numbers, of course, not for the title page, and a different numbering for other pages like an index, before the story starts.

Complicated? Sometimes.

And many years ago a boss of mine often used to say I needed to turn over a new page, and it did make much sense to me. That might have been because I was young and stupid. But, later on I realised what he was really saying was that I needed to turn over a new leaf.

Kind of strange, but then a lot saying are.

And did I?

Eventually.

And just to end on a high note, Paige is also the name of a girl, I think, and one I’ve decided to use in a story.

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

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

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

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

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

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

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

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

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

Then there’s the title, like

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIWalthJones1