…

I was happy where I ended up, far, far away from the madding crowd, a misquote from the title of one of my favourite books.

One of six siblings, I had three brothers and two sisters, and being the youngest of the six, I was the one the other five gave the hardest time

It might have been because my parents spoiled me rotten, being the surprise, they never expected.  That and much later, when our parents died travelling in a far away and relatively dangerous place, on their way home from visiting me.

That was the day I basically never saw or spoke to them.  In a sense, it was easy.  They were in England, too wrapped up in a squabble over the spoils of an undocumented inheritance, and I was happy being the forgotten son in Africa.

I had never wanted anything to do with family life in England, not living in the large house, the servants, the other properties in Europe, managing the farms, and later as grew older, watching the responsibility of it all slowly crush my father, trying to keep it all afloat while the other five siblings tried to squander the fortune in ways that beggared belief.

He knew what was happening, it was one of the reasons why he came to visit me. I wondered why he had come alone, but it turned out that the day they were both coming, she had got very ill.

It was then he told me that when they returned, the debt collectors would move in, and everything was lost.  He knew it wouldn’t bother me, I had never had any interest in the family fortune or now lack thereof as it turned out.

He had wanted me to return home and sort out the mess, but I declined.  Instead, we spent a few days together reliving old and better times l, then took him back to Nairobi and spent a day with my mother.  It was clear he hadn’t told her.  It would be a shock when they returned, but they would survive.

Except they didn’t return, at least not alive, killed in a freak accident on the way to the airport.  When I sent word home of their deaths, there was not one response from any of the children.

In the end, I made arrangements with the estate manager at their home to send them home to be buried in the family plot.  In a last-minute change of heart, I accompanied them back to England, and then to the Manor House which, when greeted by the Estate Manager, told me that the house had been repossessed by the bank and that everyone had been evicted.

In a final act of kindness, we were allowed to bury them in the family cemetery, in a service run by a priest I’d never seen before, attended by people I could not remember as family friends.  Perhaps the only relevant attendee was a man I recognised, my father’s legal friend, Dobbins.

He only asked one question: Did I have a copy of the last will and testament.  Apparently, my father had come out to discuss it.  I told him he did not, and I did not have anything.  We just talked about the old days, and he left.  He just shook his head and left.

Not one of my brothers or sisters turned up to the service.  Why would they? There was nothing in it for them.  That would come with the reading of the will…oops, there was no will.

You never get what you wish for, and apparently, Lamu Island, about ten hours’ drive from Nairobi in Kenya, was not far enough away.

It was no coincidence that I ended up in Kenya, the brother of my great, great, great grandfather had served in the British army and then retired, and instead of going home, bought a small plot of land on Lamu Island and built a place to spend the rest of his days.

Successive generations made improvements until the line died out, the place came up for sale, and knowing its heritage and connection to the family, I bought it.

It was why, on a bright autumn morning, I was sitting on the front porch staring out across the landscape, paying attention on a car heading along the road that rarely had vehicular traffic.

It could only be heading for one of three places, two further up the road, if it could be called that, to my neighbours, or to my place.  Neither of my neighbours was currently at home, and I wasn’t expecting anyone, so it was either trouble or an unexpected visitor.

I took a few minutes to prepare for any eventuality and then went back to my seat.  The car slowed as it approached my driveway, then stopped.  I could see there was only one person in the car, but it was hard to tell who it might be.

My cell phone rang.

Was it the person in the car?  If so, how did they get my cell number?

There was a phone number but not a name.  It was an English-based cell number, but no name, therefore not someone I knew.

I shrugged and pressed the green button.

“Jeremy?”

It sounded like my sister, Felicity, one year older and the one whom I had the most angst with.  I hadn’t missed her after leaving and deliberately avoided contact since.  I’d be very annoyed if my father had told the others where I was.

I could pretend to be someone else, but it would seem churlish.  I had no doubt it was her.

“Turn around and go home.”

“Can’t.  I flew in with a friend and they won’t be back for two days.  I figure you would at the very least put me up for that time.  We have things to discuss.”

“We have nothing to discuss.  You and the rest of the vultures might, but it has nothing to do with me.  I told Dad I wanted nothing to do with him, his assets, not that he has any, or you lot.”

“That might be what you think is the situation, but exactly the opposite is true.  He didn’t die intestate, nor did he die penniless like he told everyone, and despite your protestations, he left you the lot.  And I’m here to help head off the angry mob.”

As much as I wanted to believe it, this seemed a con to get in the door.  I’d hear her out and then get Adolf, a friend who lived nearby to take her back to the airport.

“Whatever.  You’ve got an hour to prove your case, and then you’re gone.  I know for a fact he had nothing. He proved it when he was here, so whatever you think you know, you don’t.”

“I don’t have any choice.” 

The line went dead, so I guess I would have to wait and see what the three of them had concocted.

I watched the car, and after the phone call, it surprised me that she did not drive in but sat outside and made another call.

I suspect she was calling the siblings to tell them she had found me and was about to plead their case.

It was stupid to think or believe that our father had left anything behind other than massive debts.  There was no way that our mother had left anything because her fortune or lack thereof was tied up in our father’s financial mess.

He had told me quite plainly there was nothing left and that the receivers were moving in the moment he arrived home.

And if her information came from our father’s lawyer, then he had not mentioned anything when I spoke to him.  He has asked if I had a copy of the will, and that I didn’t mean the last will stood which apportioned the estate to the other siblings, excluding me, because he and I had a falling out at the time.

Nothing she said made sense.

Ten minutes passed before the car continued from the front gate to the house.  I remained on the deck, and watched her park the car next to mine, get out, smooth out the wrinkles, and walk up the stairs.

That last meeting, however long ago it was, and it still rankled, and I was angry.  There were not going to be hugs nor apologies for distancing myself from all of them.  I had nothing in common with any of them, and I’d made my views quite plain the last time I saw them all together and didn’t pull any punches.

It was odd that she was here now.

“Don’t get settled,”  I noted she had left her bag in the car.  “State your case.”

I didn’t move, and there was no way she was setting foot inside.

She held out a piece of paper, neatly folded.

“A copy of the will.”

I glared at her and then at it.  “Where did you get it?”

“It was under one of the drawers in his study.”

“Who found it?”

“Jacob.  You know what he’s like?”

“I do.  His most notable trait, forging his father’s signature so he could escape school.  If that’s your evidence, then it’s not.”

I took it, unfolded it, and glanced at the contents.  It was worded like a six-year-old would, and had about ten lines that simply left all his worldly possessions to me.  The writing was scrawled, as were the witnesses’ names I didn’t recognise.

“It’s a forgery.  And he had no worldly possessions.  Who are these witnesses?”

“Dobkins partners.”

“Why didn’t he tell me that when I saw him at the funeral?  Moreover, why did he ask me if I had a copy of the will?”

OK, I could see what might be happening here. The angry mob were throwing a fake, hoping I would proffer the one they believed her left with me that was to their benefit.

This was Andrew’s doing.  He was the most devious of the lot.

I had my cell phone, and I’d put Dobkin’s phone number on it when my father visited.  He had said I would have to talk to him when things got bad.  When they had, I’d expected a call.  He did not.

Was he in league with the siblings thinking there were a few pounds to be made?

I called the number, and he answered.

“It’s Jeremy.  I’ve got Felicity here with some cock and bull story about me being the only beneficiary of a non-existent fortune my father didn’t leave behind, in a will that was obviously forged by Jacob.  I’ll be happy to prove it.”

His response was predictable. “You have a new will then?”

They were all in it together.

“We had this conversation.  There is no other will, and this one I’d rubbish, and you know it.  He died intestate.  If there’s spoilt to be had, the vultures split it between them.  If not, don’t bother me again.”

I hung up.

I glared at her. “Whatever this is, whatever you lot have conspired between you, forget about including me in it. There’s nothing to be bad.  I don’t have a copy of my father’s will.  That’s not why he came here.  While he was here, he told me between Mother and you lot, you have bled the estate dry, and there was nothing left.  Since I was the only one who wasn’t a bloodsucking leech, he thought I might have some idea of how to save the family home.  Short of a miracle, I did not.”

“Then how do you account for this?”

She pulled another neatly folded piece of paper and held it out.

“What is it?”

“A list of assets.”

I took it more out of curiosity than anything else and looked at it.  It had the title ‘Investments’ and was a list of stocks and bonds with the purchase date, and another date, about a month before he came to see me.  Under the latter date was a value.

It was written in the same spidery handwriting that was almost the same in the will but with key differences.  This was his writing. The will wasn’t.

It was the same documents he had shown me when he visited, and he had said when he cadged it all in to pay the debts, it had fallen short by nearly three million pounds.

He’d also shown me the bank documents, including the one that advised that he had a specified period to find that remaining sum or risk foreclosure.

They were still in the satchel the police had delivered along with what belongings he and our mother had at the time of their deaths.  It was all upstairs in the attic, none of which I could find the desire to look at or send home.

I could see now why the vultures thought there were spoils to be had.  That asset list was worth nearly twenty million pounds.

“I bet you and your fellow vultures eyes lit up when you saw this?”

“Only the fact he left it to you, not us.  We all need that money, and as you say, you don’t.”

I shrugged.  “You have spoken to his investment bankers before you came, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

I shook my head.  None of them had any common sense, not where money was concerned, and not while there was an endless well to draw from.  They wouldn’t because none of them considered investing or even saving for a rainy day.

“You’ve come a long way for nothing.  You can stay until your ride returns.  I gave her the two sheets of paper back.  “The will is fake.  The list of investments, he cashed in trying to save the family home.  He fell short by three million.  Is any one of you still living in the house, or did the bank take it?”

She didn’t have to answer.

“Andrew and Jacob set you up, Felicity.  If they came, I’d shoot them without hesitation.  You, I would think twice.  And I think you know that Will was a fake, and that because the bank took the house, there was nothing left.  If you don’t, then perhaps I should shoot you.”

She was sullen over dinner after I showed her around the house.  It wasn’t much, but I never had the same expensive tastes as the others.

They had all worn the mantle of the Lord’s in waiting, pushing that life of privilege to the limit.  It was never a matter of keeping up with the Joneses. They were the Joneses.

Until the well went dry, and it was interesting reading their comeuppance one by one as they found themselves explaining what happened.  Or not being able to, because none of them understood the nature of their problems.  They had spent all their time relying on our father to do it for them.

I knew that Felicity was smarter than the rest of them, she had been the only one who was academically gifted and had aspirations of being, of all things, a jet fighter pilot in the RAF.  Neatly succeeded if there hadn’t been an accident that, in the end, saw her discharged from the service.

From there, she became an airline pilot, an envious job, and how she managed to get to my place. 

It didn’t make sense to me why she would buy into Andrew and Jacob’s scheme, and I tried to draw it out of her.  Perhaps giving her the facts had made her realise what a waste of time the exercise was.

Whatever the reason, she went to bed a very sad woman.

Assuming that she was not going to believe what I had told her, I made that trip to the attic and found my father’s satchel.  I took it down to my study and laid the papers out on the desk.

Then I went to bed.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

It was a bad day when Mac appeared.

Mac was the supervisor of everyone on the floor, and he only came down for one of two reasons, to tell us that we had not met the performance statistics for the month, or he was here to retire someone.

It was an in-joke that when they spoke about retiring an employee, what it really meant was they were being fired.

We knew the performance statistics for our section were spot on, so someone was getting fired. 

All eyes followed him from the moment he stepped out of the elevator, and then as he walked slowly across the floor, sometimes stopping just to see the expression on that person’s face before moving on.

Today, he stopped twice until he reached my station.  Then he stopped and looked at me

My first thought.  I’d done nothing wrong.  I’d been there the longest and knew how to do the work blindfolded, so why?

“Clear your station, collect your stuff, and follow me.”

Had he not said ‘collect your stuff’, I would not be worried.  Now I was, trying to think of what it was that had caused my demise.  The only thing I could think of was the anonymous suggestion I’d dropped in the box, one that would improve production and make life easier for us.

It only took a few minutes to stow the materials and take the machine out of service for the night.  Another team would come later to check or repair it for the next day, if required.  Machine downtime was practically non-existent.

Five minutes after he arrived, we were crossing the floor back to the elevator lobby.  From there, we would ascent three floors to the administration level where HR was and where the paperwork would be waiting.

It was pointless asking him why.  He would only say they never confided in him; he was simply doing what he was told.  Nor would he say anything more. He was literally a man of few words.

The elevator doors closed, and the old car slowly crawled up the shaft.  It was the original elevator from the early 1900s and a relic from the past, much like everything in the factory.

The owner did not like change, nor did he like the new trend in furniture making, stuff that came out of cardboard boxes.  Stuff, he raged at one staff meeting that would fall over in a breeze.

They would never make that stuff, not even over his dead body.

Well, perhaps everything was relative.  The old man had died, and the son was looking to sell, never interested in furniture, making or selling it.  Nobody would be making or selling anything over his dead body.

The elevator made it, and the doors creaked open.

We marched up the corridor to the office at the end, the one that said ‘Production Manager’ and below that, practically faded away, George Bendon, the man who held that position 65 years ago.

He opened the door and motioned for me to pass.  He was obviously not waiting around to hear the news.  Would he miss me, I doubt it.

A man was looking out the window with his back to me, and the form looked familiar.  When the door closed, he turned around.

The boss’s son, William.  His second, perhaps third, visit to the factory.

We were friends once when his father all but adopted me when my parents died.  He grew up and shunned all ties with people not in his class, I grew up resenting everyone and everything to do with his world.

“James.”

“Mr. Reynolds.”

“You can call me William.  I’ve got over being a ponce.”  He smiled wanly.  “I’ve managed to burn more bridges than you’ve crossed, I dare say, James.”

He sat, I sat.  The office hadn’t been used in a while, and there was a thin film of dust on the desk.  It smelled musty from lack of use or more because the whole place had been around for about 120 years.  It had always belonged to a Renolds.

“Am I being discharged?”  Might as well get to the point.

“Is that what you think?”

“Why else would you send the hangman?”

“Is that what you lot call Mac.”  He looked thoughtful for a moment.  “Of course, you do.  I bet that was you’re doing.”

Guilty.

“I said to my father a long time ago that giving you a university education was a mistake.  He said, and I’ll remember this to my dying day James, said, “he’ll make far better use of it, even if he doesn’t, than you ever will and do.  The bastard was right, of course.  I spent my time chasing girls rather than learning anything useful.  I thought the old man would live forever.  Nearly did.

“So, when a suggestion turned up in the box, the first in 31 years, by the way, it was easy to guess who wrote it.  Perfect English and technically sound.  No one else in this place could, not even if I included what is laughingly known as management.”

I should have guessed.  People knew how to do their bit, but not much else.  They were never interested in teaching multi-tasking.  The old man believes that if a man stuck to the one task, he would be perfect every time.

It didn’t help when that one man went missing, or worse, died.

“You always were the one to make a long speech about nothing.  It’s why you were the perfect politician.”

He spent 15 years in parliament, but a change in government saw him tossed out in the last election. Now he was looking for something to do.

“Still got the flair for being direct, James.”

I shook my head.  He’d grown fat and lazy and never really had to work a day in his life.

“Life’s too short to spend it waffling William.”

“Direct.  OK.  My sister wants to keep this place afloat.  I want to sell it and head for the hills.  She’s more annoying than you are.” He took an envelope out of his coat pocket and put it on the table.  “A return first class to Singapore, and a week’s stay in a posh hotel.  There’s spending money, enough to buy some practical clothes.  I would like you to go to the Furniture Manufacturers Symposium or whatever it is and float your idea.  If they think it’ll work, we’ll give it a go.  Myself, I don’t think you’ll get anyone to agree, it’s all stuff in cardboard boxes these days, but there is a hotel chain that likes our stuff and a contract worth tens of millions.  If we can halve our costs.  Up for the challenge?”

“Not being discharged.”

“No.  But if this doesn’t work, it might be the end.”

“Challenge accepted.” At least no one could say I didn’t try.

It was not the first time I’d been out of the country, but it was the first time to be so far from home.

It was hot, really hot, and it was the humidity that hit the hardest.  It was fine inside the hotel, and it was a lot more upmarket than I was used to staying in.

That’s why I looked a little lost looking for the breakfast room.

“It’s like a miniature city in this place, isn’t it?”

I turned to see a woman perhaps my age, dressed for summer, with that summery air about her.

“You look lost,” she added.

“Breakfast room.  I mean, who has a room entirely devoted to one meal.  And how many different types of food could there be?”

She smiled.  “Far too many, I assure you.  Whatever happened to toast and marmalade, rice bubbles with milk and sugar, and a decent cup of Twining’s English breakfast tea?”

She just described my perfect breakfast, the one introduced to me by Williams’ father.

“Too many indeed.”

“Then follow me.  I went exploring last night when I arrived.  They wouldn’t let my elephant come too, so I had to walk.  Dammed inconvenient of them, but I guess I’m going to have to move with the times.”

I gave her the ocne up and down. Eccentric? Yes.  Quite mad?  Perhaps she may have been out in the sun too long.  She was definitely English, and I suspect good fun.  Far too jolly for me. And, although I had no idea why it crossed my mind, she was out of my league.

“I’m sure you have better things to do?”

She looked around.  “No.  I have to eat; you have to eat.” She shrugged.  “This way.”

I followed her into a large room that obviously doubled as a restaurant for the rest of the day.  There were three in the hotel.  Three.

We gave our room numbers to the man in an immaculate white suit at the door, and a waitress magically summoned us to a table, believing we were together. 

She did not abandon me, and for some odd reason, the idea of eating alone was not something I wanted to do.

“Let’s explore the food choices.  Be prepared to have your taste buds tested.”

It was a pleasant half hour, and despite the huge range of breakfast items that might be worth trying another day, we both ended up with rice bubbles with milk and sugar, toast and marmalade and Twining’s English Breakfast tea, no sugar or milk.

She told me her name was Josephine Benoit.  She didn’t say why she was in Singapore, so I thought she was just passing through on the way to another adventure.  With or without elephants.

I gave her my name and said I was an engineer without adding it was relayed to furniture manufacturers.  It sounded lame.  It was probably the first time I felt ashamed of what I did.

Other than that, It was an interesting conversation about everything and nothing, and when we parted outside the entrance, I thought it would be the last time I’d see her.

The convention centre was huge, and there were furniture manufacturers from all over the world, but the biggest exhibits were those who created the self-assembled furniture in a box.

What I disliked about it was the disposability factor.  It was not made to last, and the wood was not wood, just some manufactured board with a veneer coating. And if it was cracked or not assembled correctly, a simple glass of water could ruin it in a matter of days. 

Our furniture was made from real timber, not that there was a lot of it left in the world because a lot of the older trees had been cut down and nearly all the rest were protected in national parks.  It’s why sourcing raw materials was getting harder, why house frames were made out of metal, and why wood chips were in such large demand rather than the effort of cutting planks.

After the boxed furniture came the plastic innovators.  Plastic furniture had come a long way from those awful basic chairs in the beginning, the sort that almost gave Mr Reynolds a heart attack, not only because they were horrendous, it was the reality that people preferred cheap over quality.

I guess somewhere along the line, we failed to realise that while people were earning more, their disposable income was going into holidays and cars and the house itself with very little left for everything else.  It’s why boxed furniture was so well regarded.  It was cheap and expedient.

Reynolds was part of a world that no longer existed.  People liked the idea of beautiful furniture, the sort we made, they just couldn’t afford it.

And the thing was, those same people would spend the same, if not more, on leather-based suites, which was probably the only reason why we were still in business.  Our leather lounge range was the best in the world.  But economic times were hard, sales were down, and recovery of any sort was a long way off.

So, finding people in similar situations, but having their factories in lower-income countries making their furniture a lot less expensive, I spoke to those I thought might be interested.  The idea I had was to get the components made by these overseas factories, using real wood, and assembling the pieces ourselves back home.  It would take a considerable slice off the end price without compromising the quality.

The problem. The overseas manufacturers wanted to do it all, turning it into upmarket box furniture, or charging a fee for piecework and a premium for sourcing real timber.  On top of the shipping, we would be no better off.  And the quality, while reasonably good, was way below our standard.

What I saw on display looked good from a distance but close up, I could see it was built to a price.  Looking good and being good were two entirely different things.

“You look lost.”

A female voice, and when I turned, I saw it was Josephine.

I resisted the urge to ask, ‘What are you doing here’   and instead said, “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

“There’s only so much you can do with an elephant.  Thought I come and look at the latest and greatest furniture.  Someone said there was an exhibition, and I had nothing to do for a few hours.  This is hardly where I’d expect to see an engineer.  Shouldn’t you be building bridges or skyscrapers?”

“I did consider building a car that runs on water.”

“Well, aren’t you the dark horse in the race?  I’ll deduce from that you have an interest in furniture?”

“I help make it.  Good stuff, not this rubbish.”

“Those are fighting words, James.  People here would take issue with that description of their wares.”

“Are you one of them?”  I guessed I’d better see which side of the fence she sat on before I burned a bridge.

“Me?  No, I agree with you, but we have to move with the times.”

“Do we?”

She shrugged.  “Let’s go to the bar. You can ply me with Singapore Slings, and I’ll tell you about my adventures.  You look like you need a distraction.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

Sometimes, you don’t realise how fortunate you are until you make the mistake of taking it all for granted.

That, of course, begged the question of how dangerous it might be if you were to simply ask, what if….

My problem was that everything came too easy, not that I’m complaining, but it seemed to me that those who struggled were better equipped to deal with problems.

Again, I’m not complaining, but…

It was just a statement in the middle of an innocuous conversation with my sister, who had what seemed to be the perfect life

A husband she had known since middle school, the perfect 2.4 children, the perfect job, and the perfect life.

I, on the other hand, never found the right girl, relationships would last about a year, sometimes longer, then peter out, and there was no likelihood of children, but I did have the perfect job, running my own bookstore

It was all I ever wanted to do.

Oh, sorry, and write.  But although I could sell books, and I always had a million ideas for writing a book, I could never sit down in front of a blank page and put those million ideas down on paper.

And until I could, I would never be happy.

“And that’s why you’re a hopeless case,” Jenny said, smiling at me over the table.  “Now, pass me the salt.”

Sunday evening dinner at her apartment, with the perfect partner and perfect children, eating dinner prepared by the perfect cook.

I had just lamented again my inability to find the right one and be able to return the dining favour.

“I should learn to cook myself.”

“The day that happens, Jay is the date the works as we know it will end.  You need to get a hobby, play a sport, or go to places where you might find that special someone.  It is clear dating sites and singles bars are not the way to find Miss Right.”

I was beginning to wish that I hadn’t told her about my last disaster.

“Perhaps the girl of your dreams will walk into your bookstore and sweep you off your feet.”

Larry, the perfect husband, had that ingratiating manner of making a perfectly normal comment sound like a sarcastic retort.

To counter his thrust, I parried with, “Well, there was this dreamy young lady who came in the other day and had the most exquisite accent.  She was probably a Russian spy,”

Jenny shook her head.  “How is the next best-selling spy thriller going?”

“The same as usual.  Can’t put words on paper.”

“Perhaps you should try and act it out in real-time.  Some places can fulfil a wish, up to a certain point, for a price.”  Larry was also full of good ideas, just never remembered where he got them from.

“There you go,” Jenny said.  “Problem solved.  Now, who wants my famous Apple pie?”

It was an interesting notion that Larry raised, and one I thought about, on the way back to my apartment.  It did make me wonder how the perfect husband knew about what was essentially a fantasy-fulfilling business.

And when I searched high and low on the internet for it, or anything like it, I couldn’t find anything.  Except when I used the actual words fantasy fulfilment and came back with two women who were quite literally mind-boggling.

That I didn’t need.

That notion of acting out my story stayed in my mind and was the last thought I had before dropping into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning was the same as any other.  I got up, dressed, and went down to the cafe next to the bookstore and got a coffee and croissant.  And said hello to my sister who owned the cafe.

The two shops were part of the building that housed the shops, our apartments, and five other businesses, left to us by our parents as our inheritance.  Our little slice of New York in Brooklyn.

“How’s that search for a fantasy going?” She asked as she handed me the coffee.

“How did you.. “

“Your eyes lit up.  I could tell it made its mark.”

“I didn’t find anything.  I looked.  How does Larry know about it?”

“He knows lots of stuff about lots of stuff.  You’ll find it.  You’re just not using the right search words.  Now, be off with you. This is the rush hour, you know.”

I took the croissant from another girl and nodded, but she was already onto the best three customers, the line out the door.  Three years on a tow shed won the best cafe in the neighbourhood.

I went next door and opened the door.  I was not expecting a lot of customers because these days most people buy their books online.

My store had lots of obscure titles, out of print and first editions.  People only came. I’d they were specifically looking for something rare or hard to find.  I also sold books written by my favourite fiction authors and one day hoped to have a book signing.

That was a hope that would have less chance than my desire to write a book.

Three customers, three books each sought out at this particular obscure bookshop.  Three more five-star reviews on the internet, which probably wouldn’t mean anything in the greater scheme of things.

I didn’t need to work. The way my father had structured our inheritance gave us both a very adequate income, but Henny had insisted we didn’t become idle.  She wasn’t going to stop working, as much as Larry wanted her to because she wanted somewhere to go and something to do other than being a mother.

I liked the idea of having somewhere to go, I had several assistants who came and spent their days rearranging the shelves and keeping the dust at bay.  There were not a lot of sakes, but they didn’t care.  They had the same reverence for books as I had. We were all fighting the digital revolution in our own way.

Perry, a kid who tried to steal a book on his first visit, came from out back with a laptop in his hand.  “Found a place.”

It didn’t take long to find out he needed money for his family, so I offered him a job.  He said he knew nothing about books, I said I didn’t either when I started.

I’d told him what I was looking for and he said to leave it with him.

“Just what are you looking for.  If it’s a woman, I know if a few places, if it’s something else, there are places you just don’t want to go.”

Unlike Larry, I knew Perry knew what he was talking about.  “I have no idea what I want or what I would like.  I was hoping they might set up a few scenarios so I can do some writing.

He shrugged, then left the laptop on the desk and went back to the shelves.

Another customer came in and interrupted my search, and it took some time before we found the book he was seeking, filed in the wrong spot.  It was, I thought, an attempt by the universe to distract me from finally finding a way to start writing.

It didn’t.

I went through the list that Perry had made, and there was one place that seemed familiar, a name had heard once before in a conversation, the one time I went to the local writing group gathering at a nearby Cafe, one that wasn’t Jenny’s.

I called them.

It was an odd conversation because I had expected the person who answered the phone to announce the name of the company.  Instead, it was a simple “Hello.”.

Which left me asking if I was speaking to a representative of the StoryTime organisation.

The answer was a tentative yes as if the person on the other end of the phone wasn’t quite sure who they were working for, or it was one of the answering services who answered for a dozen different places.

Then she asked for my name and phone number and the times I would be available to talk. I gave her the information and hung up, not expecting to hear from them again.

At the end of the day, I locked the door and went up to my apartment.  Jenny had long since shut the door and had gone to collect her children from the friend who collected them from school.

Larry rarely got home before six at night, if he was not working back.

I had a container with leftover dinner from Jenny who knew I didn’t cook, often ate takeout, which was not very healthy, and insisted I eat with them most nights.  Tonight, it was chicken something.

As I got another Budweiser from the fridge, my phone buzzed, and it was an incoming message from StoryTime.  A list and a short description of the ‘products’ they were offering.

One, the romance package, where the customer meets up with a prospective target in an unusual manner, and then plays out any one of a dozen different scenarios.  Each of the scenarios will be provided, but it doesn’t necessarily need to run to the script.

Two, the romance with adventure package, where there is danger involved, and similar to the adventure package, there are a dozen different scenarios that can play out.

Three, the thriller package, is not for the faint-hearted or those with heart conditions.  Some hard work and full-on exercise will be needed.  There can be a romantic element to this, too.

A questionnaire is attached which you will be required to fill in as much as possible so we can have a good idea of what to set up as a mission biography and parameters.

It was strictly prohibited once the mission started for it to stop except for very exceptional reasons.  To date, no mission has been terminated mid-way through.  Our actors are also using these experiences to enhance their talents and sign on for the duration.

The fee paid is not refundable and covers all costs, including any necessary paperwork such as identity information required to participate.

Then it stated the price, and I nearly fell off my chair.  But if I wanted the experience, it would be worth it, or at least I hope it would be.

A quick scan of the multipage questionnaire that set the parameters of the adventure showed the level if detail they required, but not only that, was basically the level of planning I needed to do for writing the book.

Perhaps by the end of filling it out, I wouldn’t need to participate, I would have the plan I’d need meaning to do for a long time.

Of course, I picked the thriller with a touch of romance.  Running through my head at the time were the countless noir Hollywood movies of the 30s, 49s and 50s, about hardnosed private detectives like Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe, and a hankering to recreate that era, but in this day and age it was not possible

I had to pick a name and that had never been a problem, the first name of a great, great grandfather, and the last name of my mother, Alphonse Burgoine, and the theme, the search for a missing person, which I would leave to them to decide who it would be.

Various other details made up the character, a series of ticks in boxes, the most interesting, languages spoken, of which I could speak French and German like my mother who ensured I was fluent in both, and a smattering of Russian and Spanish, after my father who preferred only English to be spoken.

Other than that, It took three days to fill out that form and another seven before I sent it back and paid the fee.

The next day, I received an email that simply said,

‘Your fantasy is being constructed.  The next email will be the first instructions when you assume your character, and from then on, immerse yourself completely.

‘Everyone else associated with this construct will be in character and will ignore any comment or behaviour outside the construct.

‘You will be observed, and if there are more than three infractions, the fantasy will end.  At times, various parts of the fantasy may seem real, but they are not.  Also, always remember that other people are playing roles, and their words and actions are not to be mistaken as real.

It is important to remember that you requested this and that you should make the most of the opportunity.’

Like a Hollywood movie, I thought.

I heard nothing for a month.  I was beginning to think that it was all an elaborate scam when a new message arrived.

‘Pack for a week.’

It gave an address, the office of Bellevue Investigations, and the apartment above the office where I would be staying.  Everything I would need was there.  There were other pieces of information like the names of several others participating.

I told Perry he was in charge.  It was not for the first time.  I told Jenny the people had called and told me my adventure was about to start and packed for the week.

With no idea what was about to happen, I took a long look at the apartment, took a deep breath, stepped outside, and locked the door.

The next time I stepped through that door, I hoped I had a story to write, and not that I should have been content with what I had, and let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

The trouble with being told to ‘keep it to yourself’ I’d that quite often, later, and unexpectedly, it comes back to bite you.

I was put in that position, once, by my younger sister Josephine when she started dating this charismatic older boy she met when he came to her college as a substitute teacher.

I met him once and I didn’t like him.  He was the sort of person that you just know is bad, if not evil.  I told her so, but that didn’t seem to have any effect.  Perhaps it was only men who saw it because all her friends agreed with her; he was dreamy.

It was not as if we had any idea she would do anything silly, because at college she was away, and very lax at reporting back that everything was fine, so as far as we knew it was.  Our parents had cut her some slack after she complained they were smothering her.

I thought there was a good reason for that, but she persuaded them, like she always did, to loosen the shackles as she called them.  It seemed to work, six months passed, and everything was fine.

Until…

I was going home, and I had to pass the college so thought I would surprise her with a visit.  I went to the cafeteria where she and her friends spent every waking moment only to find two of the girls she was studying with.

Jo was not there.  Two of her friends were Debbie and Anne.  I’d met them once before when I’d dropped in.  “How is she doing?” I asked, not what I was going to ask, which was, where was she?

“Oh,” Debbie said hesitantly, “I thought you knew.  She dropped out and said she was going home.  Didn’t she tell you?”

She knew I wasn’t at home and was not as regular at communicating as I should be.  It also appeared to me she knew more but was reluctant to say more.

“No.  But I’m always the last to know.  I’ll call home and talk to her.”  I knew Jo’s aversion to cell phones, so I couldn’t call her directly.  “But she did say the last time I was here, she was losing interest.  Thanks anyway.”

Walking from the cafeteria to the car park, I had a thought and made a slight detour via the main office.

There was no one at the counter, so I pressed the button on the counter and heard a distant buzzing sound.  Three or four minutes later an elderly lady shuffled out from behind a half-closed door.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes.  I’m looking for my cousin, Albert Dmitri, he’s a teacher here.”

Her facial expression told me that she recognised the name, but her manner suggested that she didn’t like him.  She looked me up and down as people do when making an assessment.

“He no longer works here.”

The way she said it told me that there would be no further discussion, and that told me everything I needed to know, and probably not what I wanted to hear.  And the look she gave me, that being ‘tarred with the same brush’ made me shiver.

My initial assessment of him was right.

“Thank you for your help, ma’am.”

I don’t think I needed to ask any more questions.  I made it to the car and was just about to get in when I heard a voice calling my name.

I looked over the car roof to see Anne walking quickly towards me.  I waited until she arrived, slightly out of breath.

She took several deep breaths before saying, “She didn’t go home, not directly.  She had told me a week before she left that Albert had invited her to stay for a few days at his chalet in Banff.  She didn’t mention it again, just told me she didn’t like school anymore and was going home.  Nothing about Albert, which made me think she went.  She did say before she left that if anyone asked about Albert and her, I should keep it to myself, that it was nothing but a flirtation.”

‘You think it was more?”

“He was obsessed with her.  Certainly, he didn’t respect the boundaries between a student and a responsible adult, and she was not the only one.  I personally now think he’s a creepy guy.  You say you haven’t heard from her?”

“I haven’t, no, which is not exactly a red flag.  I’ll get home and see if she is there.  She probably is because our parents haven’t said anything otherwise.”

“I hope so. She hasn’t called or texted or written, which considering our friendship is unusual.  Let me know when you find out.  I’d hate anything to happen to her.  I told her once she was too trusting.”

“I’m sure everything will be alright.  And thanks. “

I always felt a sense of well-being the moment I walked in the front door of what I had always called home.  It was a house that had been handed down through the generations, and one day, it would be mine.

We had never known any other address, and I had grown up here, went to grade and middle school here, and had all my friends here, and family too.

Josephine and I were the only two who had strayed from town, seeking lives elsewhere as a part of the process of living our lives, but there was never any doubt we would come home.  Our brothers had always been content to stay, aspiring only to learn or work on the ranch, marry local girls, and start families.  My turn would come, one day.

The outside world, my father said, was just a distraction.  Everything we really needed was here.  I was inclined to agree with him.

Andy Barnes, one of the farm hands, was outside tending the kitchen garden.  Coincidentally, he was Josephine’s first love, and she had promised him that when she returned, they would be married.

He would wait until the end of the world, which was how much he loved her, but with this new fellow she was smitten with, I was not sure where that plan was. I wondered if she had said anything but wasn’t going to bring it up unless he did.

He didn’t, just waving and getting back to work.

I dropped my bag in the front hall and went through to the back of the house where my mother would be, or should I say where she usually was.

On the way, I steeled myself for the expected barrage of questions, mostly centred around why I had not found a nice woman I would want to marry and start a family, and my mother was not the only one to get on that horse.

So much for the surprise, she was not there.  But there was bread in the oven, and jam bubbling on the cooktop.  She wasn’t very far away.

I went over to the jam pot and had a peek.

“Ah, there you are.”  My mother had come inside from the back doorway with a basket of vegetables.  “Andy said you had arrived.  Did you see Jo on the way?”

I had told her I would drop in.  Perhaps I should have kept that to myself and made a mental note for the next time.  “I did, and she wasn’t there.  I spoke to her friends.  Busy, busy, busy.”

“Then you didn’t find out if she was coming home for Christmas.”

“I didn’t see her, remember.  Maybe I’ll be luckier when I return.  I’ll call her but you know what she’s like.”

She looked me up and down as mothers do, checking to see if I was taller, heavier, lighter, or stressed.  Everything was stressful on the roads these days.

“I’ll leave that in your hands.  You haven’t changed.”  She said the final verdict.  “Are you still working at that dreadful place?”

I’d taken on employment in a private detective agency that seemed to only deal with divorces and scandalous affairs.  I was getting quite adept at covert surveillance.

“It’s just a job,”

“You should be doing more with your life with those three degrees and such.”

She dropped the vegetable basket on the kitchen bench and stirred the jam, then gave me a welcome hug.

The bread had a short time to go.  Fresh bread and jam were looking good.

It seemed that Jo had not told our parents anything, so she could be anywhere, but my best guess was that she had gone with Albert Dmitri.  The only lead was Banff.  I would stay a day or two, then go find her, before our parents found out what she’d done.

Before I left home, I called my boss at the investigation agency and told him my suspicions, and he agreed to do a search on Dmitri.  I had a photograph of him with Jo taken when he didn’t know I had.  The first time I tried, he got very defensive, and that was one of the red flags that started to bother me.

He said I could do it when I returned, but I told him I was in the Banff area where Dmitri had a cabin, and if that was the case, I would go there.

He asked if I needed help from one of their enforcers, men who did the hard tasks like bodyguard, or backup in certain investigations when they were dealing with violent targets.

I thought it would be a good idea.  I had no idea what to expect.  He would meet me in Banff.

I think by the time I left home, sooner than I intended, and no matter how hard I tried to hide it, my mother knew something was wrong and that it involved Jo.

She gave me one of those looks, the one that said I know you’re not telling me something, gave me a hug, and said, call me when you see Jo, and let her know we love her.

“I think she already knows that.”

“Maybe so, but since you’ve both grown up, we don’t say it often enough.”

“Then I will.  I’ll get her to call you.”

What I received in my email several hours into the trip to Banff didn’t fill me with confidence.

From the photographs, the investigation of his case uncovered four different names and employment in various provincial universities or tertiary education institutions where there were missing girls.

We might have uncovered a serial killer, or at the very least predator.

The investigation into relatives and property was ongoing, but they needed to find out his real name because all they had so far were aliases.

The Banff police had been notified of the investigation, and I was told to visit an RCMP officer who had been working on the theory that the university disappearances were connected.  He was very interested in speaking to me and was laying the necessary groundwork to make Jo an official missing person, though I had to ask him to hold off until we had more on Dmitri because we had the advantage of knowing about him and he not knowing we had that information.  Publishing it would spook him, and he would disappear.

There was more available when I arrived at the Banff police station, I had Dmitri’s real name, and the fact his father, now deceased, owned a cabin in Canmore near the Palliser Trail.  That was conveyed to me but the company agent that had been sent to help me, and we agreed not to tell the police yet.  The agent, Phillip Rogers, was going to conduct discreet surveillance on the cabin and see if he was there or anyone else.  At the very least, he was hoping to thoroughly check the cabin itself while I was talking to the Police.

The officer’s name was Hercule Benoit and was a specialist in finding missing persons.  He’d been working on what he called the university disappearances for two years and had uncovered 13 cases, some of whom simply left, for various reasons, without telling anyone, and later found alive.  Two were dead, not necessarily murdered, but there were six missing possibly dead.  For us to eliminate you from our enquiries, we will require you to tell us where you were for five specific periods in the past seven years.

Jo was one he didn’t have on his list, simply because she left after telling those closest to her what seemed to be the truth, and everyone took it for granted.  Other cases in his book had done the same, suggesting a pattern.

And yes, each could be assumed to be connected with the departure some weeks later of a teacher, young, and able, though the descriptions were different, the base details were the same, height, weight, and mannerisms.  The differencing details were hair colour and length, beard, moustache, eye colour, glasses, dress style, and speech patterns or language.

Dmitri spoke like a refined Russian immigrant.  Another had a French accent, and one had none.  To my mind, Dmitri had theatrical training and could disguise himself, and I suspect the girls he took with him altered their appearance too. I was expecting Jo to look very different.

The question would be whether she was under his spell or if she was coerced or threatened.

It was Benoit’s plan to visit the cabin where I believed we would find Dmitri.  I was not going to tell him and take Rogers with me, but I had second thoughts because it might prejudice any chance of getting the truth, or later justice if we made a mistake.

There was also the possibility that Dmitri would run once alerted we were on to him, and we’d never find him, or Jo, though right now I was more hoping that believing she would be unharmed.

So, the new plan Benoit and I would visit, and Rogers, whom I had not told Benoit about, would maintain surveillance, and if Dmitri tried to run, he would stop him.  I didn’t ask him how he would do it. It was best not to know.

Then, suddenly, we had stopped outside the cabin, next to a RAM 2500, which Rogers had texted belonged to the man in the photograph he had sent me, a man who looked like Dmitri but was externally different.

This time, he had very short blonde hair and was wearing thick glasses accentuating blindness and was about 20 to 30 pounds lighter.  Out of the business suit and dressed like a lumberjack, unless you could be positive, he was hardly recognisable.

That same man answered the door, taking in the police vehicle, the RMCP officer in uniform, which was quite daunting even for me, and then he looked at me, squinting through those glasses.

Perhaps he hoped that flicker of recognition would be hidden behind the layers of glass, but it was not.  I glared at him until she turned back to Benoit.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“There might not be.  Do you mind if we come in, Mr Francois?”

The office had discovered that the photo of Dmitri was that of Antoine Francoise, originally from Montreal and the grandson of Albert Francoise, the heir to a fortune the family had made from the Railways and shipping.

Dmitri or Antoine didn’t need to work, and it appeared kidnapping and murdering college girls was his hobby.  Perhaps he had the belief that being rich, the laws didn’t apply to him.

“Not unless you have a warrant or evidence, I’ve done anything wrong.”

And the arrogance to go with it.  I saw Benoit’s expression change and not for the better.

“If that’s the way you want this to go, Mr Francois, so be it.” He pulled out his cell phone and started dialling a number.

Perhaps the notion of giving a dozen police crawling all over his property changed his mind.  “I’m sorry.  I can be a little prickly in the morning.  By all means, come in.” He stepped to one side, and we went in.

“Good choice.”

The cabin looked to have a main room with a kitchen, a dinner table, set for one, a fireplace and two chairs, one looking very used, the other less so, and a bedroom, door open, bed unmade, what one might expect of a single man living on his own.

“What’s this about?”

“A man with similar features to you has been identified as a suspect in a kidnapping case, well, more than one.  You are one of three men picked out of a set of photographs of male teachers who worked at various colleges and universities where girls have disappeared or been found dead.  For us to eliminate you from our enquiries, you will need to tell us where you were for five specific periods over the last seven years.”

I was watching Antoine carefully, and he was good, showing no emotional response to what was tantamount to an outright accusation.  Didn’t bat an eyelid, as the saying goes.

“That’s a particularly tall order, as you can imagine.  But, I’m sure you are well aware of who I am, and as it turns out, a philanthropist with an office and a gaggle of assistants running it, shouldn’t be too hard.  I will make a call and have that information on your desk tomorrow morning.  Is that all?”

“We’d like to have a look around?”

I watched Antoine very carefully as Benoit asked the question, and had I not been carefully watching his eyes, which flicked to a carpet square under the dining table for a fraction of a second, I would have missed it.

“Here?  There’s only two rooms, what you see is all there is.”

Benoit shrugged and perhaps conveyed the fact a demolition team could beg to differ in his expression because a moment later Antoine waved his hand, “Search away.”

Benoit missed the inference, but I didn’t.  Why use the word search when there was no reason for us to, if he was not guilty.  I would mention it to Benoit after we left.

The search took all of a minute.  There was nothing to confirm anyone, but Antione lived there, and then only temporarily.  There was a half-filled suitcase on a corner and a few items hanging in a closet.  He had not been there long nor apparently staying.

“Thank you, Mr Francois.  I will be expecting your communication tomorrow.  We will speak further on this.”

Antoine was eager to get us out the door, but she didn’t push it.  He was, in my opinion, slightly agitated and definitely guilty of something.

Of course, it might be my imagination, or simply that I wanted it to be him, inventing in my mind those two tells, but it felt like it was him because I had that creepily feeling when I saw him after opening the door, and initially reactions were usually right.

He remained on the doorstep watching us leave.  I watched him watch us.

“It’s him,” I said. “I’m sure of it.  Innocent people don’t ask for search warrants.”

“You’d be surprised. If it is, he’s long practised at being what I would call detached.  And he’s had a string of assault charges, all dismissed.  Money talks, especially lots of it.”

“What’s the next step?”

“Wait for his alibi.  He’ll already have one for each of the dates with photographic evidence.  Mark my words.  People like him have alibis before they need them.  The thing about that cabin is that it’s a manufactured scene, everything in its place, and a place for everything.  In other words, staged.  He knew we were coming.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

…

I stood on the edge of the cliff and took in the view, which on any given day could be either magnificent or the equivalent of Dante’s inferno.

Today, while being majestic, it was also like being in hell.

It was day 37.  I didn’t think I’d last the first week, yet here I was, having survived the worst that could be thrown at me.  I was one of six out of the original intake of fifty.

People who were stronger than me, smarter than me, better educated, better physically, full of confidence, and some full of themselves, unexpectedly failed.  As they fell, one by one, all shocked at being cut, and as each day passed, I was always last to go look at the list of survivors.

Every time I expected to see my name and surprised, like many others, that I was not on the list.

They wanted four, there were six of us left.  The odds were not good, not after one of the instructors told me I had to up my game, that I’d barely made the last cut.

“Hell is on earth they said,” a voice in my head, or…

I turned, Kerrilyn O’Connor.

She was my choice to succeed.  I selected her on day one as the most likely to succeed.  She looked ordinary, but under that banal exterior was the fire and brimstone, the guts and determination needed to succeed.

“Been there already, and compared to this place, it was like Shangri-La.  No, it’s what you make it.  I came with no expectations, I’ll leave with no regrets.”

“You sound like you’ve given up?”

“I’ve been paired with Wally in the final test.  We’re the two bottom candidates, and I suspect they want us to fail.”

She smiled.  It was an ongoing subject of discussion, how Wally made it past day one, let alone to the final six.  Popular belief was that he was related to some director. Yes, that was how bad he was.

“You haven’t been to the notice board, have you?”

“Is there any reason to?  I was told yesterday what my fate would be.”

“Then I suggest you pay a visit.  You might be surprised.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

There might have been more, but relationships with other candidates were strictly forbidden.  It still didn’t stop the more adventurous from trying, and over the weeks, I guess some didn’t handle the isolation very well, nor the penalty for breaking the rules.

An island you couldn’t get off.  Fifty candidates and twenty staff, and a very long swim if you wanted to escape.  The only communication was a boat, every night at six, to take away the candidates who failed.

Kerrilyn and I had an on-off thing, and if it happened, it happened.  Other than that, I was under no illusion it was anything other than dalliance.  Once she became an agent, there would be no room in her life for relationships.  Mine, either if I managed to get through.

I wasn’t going to look, but something dragged me to the noticeboard, perhaps an unconscious death wish.  It explained the odd look on her face when she said I should.  The pairings had changed, and now I was with her.

I shrugged.  I just hoped I didn’t drag her down with me.

Sitting in the briefing room, once bustling with a lot of eagerness, some over-eager recruits, waiting to learn what the task was for the day or days, there was only silence.  It was not a companionable one. If anyone could read our minds, it would be to learn that we were taking a good, long, hard look at our competition and going over their strengths and weaknesses. We all knew this was it, the end of the line.  Fail this, and you were out

We had been paired with all of them several times, times we had been told if we cared to listen, to learn everything we needed to know about them because one day we would be pitted against each other.

Today was the time to put what we learned from the instructors and what learned about each other into practice.

Three days.  It was going to be the longest test we had participated in.  We would be taken to different parts of the island, and working as a team, we had to capture the other two teams.  By any and all means at our disposal.

One pair would be safe if they fulfilled mission parameters.  It was a big island, and there was not a lot of time, as we were told; in real life, the time we had now was a luxury.

No one asked what would happen if no one succeeded.

We were blindfolded and given noise-cancelling headphones, so trying to determine where we were being taken was almost impossible.

The helicopter landed and we were hustled out, the camp commander jumping out too.  He went with us to the point beyond the rotating propeller, the stop being brief.  We didn’t know if we were first, or last.

He pointed in a particular direction and then had to yell to be heard about the helicopter’s engine.  “One mile in that direction.”

“What’s there?” I asked.

“A boat.  You get on it and don’t look back.”

“Have we washed out, sir?”  Kerrilyn knew the value of respect, unlike some of the others.

“No.  You two are the best recruits we’ve had in years.  The assessment is that you’re ready, so we’re giving you a fortnight to get over whatever it is you’re doing and report to GHQ at 06:00 on the 21st.  Congratulations.”

He shook each of our hands and then went back to the helicopter.   A minute later it was lifting off, and after three more, it was gone.

I looked at her.  “What was that about?”

“You don’t believe him?”

“That we’re the best, yes, that we’re leaving this place, no.”

“A test?”

“After 38 days I think you have the same deep-seated distrust of anyone on this island.  What was the first lesson we learned?”

“Trust no one, and let your paranoia guide you.  He said gut, but to me, it could only be one thing.  The might be a boat waiting, but we have to get to it first, and I suspect four very willing candidates will do nothing to stop us.”

“That’s a bit cynical.  Why?”

“Because they can’t make up their minds who the other two are, and they’ve left it for us.”

She shrugged.  In time she’d come around.  in the meantime, we had a boat to find.  “OK.”

Before we’d taken three steps, four bullets had thwacked into trees near us.  It was clear they’d dropped the other four near our location, and, interesting development, they were using live ammunition.  Clearly, this was a do-or-die mission, a true simulation of what it was like in the field. 

“Bastard,” she muttered.  “But if that’s the way they want to play it, it’s game on.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

…

You know how you see these people on the street selling raffle tickets for unbelievable prizes?  The ones that you decide are a scam because the prizes quite simply are unbelievable or because the person looks suspect.

Or you know that it’s an email address gathering exercise, but still, everyone gets sucked into it because of the unbelievable prizes, only realising later that the people will sell the address a hundred times over, which is why you should give them a throwaway email address.

And then you make that decision that, what the heck, the person might be getting something out of it, and you’re feeling charitable that morning.

After all, what is $5 these days in the greater scheme of things?

Then, instead of throwing the ticket away, you put it in a dark corner of your wallet, thinking the next time you see it, years will have passed.

It was Wednesday morning, the train arrived on time, and I was feeling charitable.

It wasn’t a year. It was a few months.  An email arrived in my inbox, one of which was a few of very few because it was the throwaway email that usually was filled with scams.

It was from the name of the charity.  I’d pulled out the ticket when I saw the email and checked.

The subject line said, “You are a winner.”

There was the first red flag.  I never won anything.

On the back of the ticket was the list of prizes.  The first prize was a holiday house in the Caribbean, worth $500,000.  I doubted you could get a house in the Caribbean worth that unless it was a shack.

At the other end of the scale, 100 prizes of a ticket in the next raffle.  That was more my speed.

So, I opened the rest of the email.  I read and read until I got to the bottom where it said, your prize.  ‘Congratulations, you are the lucky winner of the Caribbean holiday house’.

That’s when I decided it was a scam, particularly after it said that I would soon receive an email telling me how to claim the prize.  No doubt it would end up with me paying a large sum of money to secure the prize.

Me and about a hundred others.

The next day, the second email arrived from the charity, and it was a debate whether I bothered.  I left the inbox on the screen, and the message was left unread while I had a cup of coffee.

Then, curiosity got the better of me.

The email was simple.  Attached was a boarding pass and a voucher for a 3-day hotel stay in Kingston Jamaica.  The plane was leaving in three days.

I went onto the airline site and, using the booking code, checked to see if it was real.

It was.

I also checked the hotel and called them.

It, too, was real.

It simply made me very wary.  In three days, when I turned up at the airport, I fully expected to be told it had been cancelled.

When I handed over the boarding pass document, the lady behind the counter gave me one of those looks, the sort that told me she knew what this was about.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re a prize winner.  There are a few this morning.  You’re going to be surprised, and then you’re not.”

“Can you tell me if this is a scam or not?  It’s not much point going if it’s a scam.”

“Go for the three-day stay in a great hotel.”

“Were you a winner?”

“No.  But I know someone who was.  Go, lap up the stay.  It’ll be worth the $5 you paid for the ticket.”

That’s all she would say.

At the gate waiting for boarding, I wondered if there were any other ‘winners’ in the hundreds waiting to get on the plane.  That conversation with the boarding clerk had not filled me with confidence, and more than once, I almost got up and walked away.

But when the boarding call was announced, I joined the queue to get on the plane, and when I reached the gate, I got the first surprise.

“You do realise you’re travelling business class and didn’t have to wait in this queue.”

I said I didn’t, that I didn’t fly very often, and certainly not business class.  I was usually down the back of the place with the families with miscreant children.

This would make a pleasant journey.

When I reached the plane, I was directed in the opposite direction, to a cabin where there was plenty of space and a bright welcoming smile.  I could get used to travelling in business class.

Could.  I shuddered to think what it was costing.

I sat in my seat, in what was like my only little world.  Yes, there was another passenger next to me, but she was behind a wall that made her appear as though we were completely independent.

Or would be when the plane took off.

In the meantime, she looked up as I flopped into the seat and gave me a cursory glance, one that told me I was a pretender and didn’t belong there, which was probably true.

And then, if I thought I was going to ignore her, I was wrong.

“It’s rather good up this end of the plane, don’t you think?”

“What makes you think…”

She smiled.  “The look on your face.  Don’t worry, I had the same gobsmacked look when I got here.”

The steward offered me a drink, either of water, orange juice, or champagne.  It wasn’t a hard choice.

“See,” she said, after the steward moved on, “the pretenders always go for the champagne.  I’ve been on long enough to realise the real people drink orange juice.”

I shrugged.  It was French champagne, not the bubbly I usually had.  I knew the difference, as I also knew I could not afford it.

She left me alone to savour the drink and settle.  The rest of the cabin filled up, and then, with everyone on board, the main door was closed.

There was time for one more drink, and the glasses were collected.

Once the plane was in the air, I noticed from time to time that she glanced sideways at me while I was immersed in the entertainment system.  When the plane had levelled out, the steward was asking for lunch orders.

It was a hard choice.  Usually, I avoided airline food like the plague, but the choices in this class were interesting enough to want to try them.

When he moved on, she took a moment to ask, “What are you having?”

I looked over to her side of the seating.  Her cubicle was a mess.  And now I took the time to look she had messy hair, and rather interesting if not matching clothes, though that might have been a trend I missed.

“Fish.”

“Me too.  Safest option.  I’ve never travelled in this class, and I guess it shows.  Even the posh kids give me funny looks. “

“Then they’ll grow up missing out on discovering what wonderful and diverse people there are out there.”

She smiled again, and it made a difference.  “Wow.  No one has called me wonderful, let alone diverse.  My name is Judy, by the way.”

She held out her hand, and I shook it.  I hope she was not expecting anything else.

“Ian.”

“Going to Jamaica for a holiday?”

“A three-day adventure.  Perhaps.”

“So am I.  In a manner of speaking.  I won a raffle, a holiday house, but my dad says it’s a con and I should’ve stayed home.  He’s fretting that I’m going to be kidnapped or worse.”

Another winner.  There couldn’t be more holiday houses than one, so it was a scam.

“As it happens, so am I.  I don’t believe it either, but three days in a posh hotel and this flight.  I nearly didn’t come.”

“Neither did I, but you’re right about the hotel.  Post isn’t the word.  Perhaps you and I should stick together until we find out what this is about.  More people are so-called winners on this flight.  I heard them talking back in the lounge.  I didn’t see you in the lounge.”

“Didn’t know about it.  I don’t fly business class, or very often at all, and when I do, it’s down the other end.”

“We must have that sort of face.  It’s where I end up with the naughty children.”

The steward arrived with the food, brought individually to us and not on a trolley or with the possibility our choice was no longer available.  ‘If I were rich, this would definitely be the way I would travel.

They just managed to clear away the dishes when it was time for the plane to come in for a landing.  It was a relatively short flight, and time seemed to pass very quickly.  Judy had something to do with that.

We didn’t say much after lunch was served.  I got the impression she might have decided talking to strangers on planes was a possible health hazard, and I didn’t push it.  After all, the notion we would find out about the scam together made sense, but then how did I know if she was an axe murderer or not?

She smiled at me before joining the queue to get off the plane.  Being in first and business, we were first off before the others, but when I came out into the terminal heading for immigration and customs, I couldn’t see her.  I decided against buying some duty-free alcohol on the way past. It would be too much to carry.

I thought I saw her at the head of the immigration line but was probably mistaken.  Then it was my turn, a pleasant welcoming expression from the officer and the return of my travel documents.  Then it was straight to customs because everything I needed was in my backpack, which I had brought on the plane with me.  A few minutes while an officer decided to search my bag, I didn’t ask why, just waited patiently until it was done, and they sent me on my way.

It was, in a way, far smoother and less painful than arriving back at JFK.  Fewer people, I suppose.  I wandered out of the terminal building in search of a bus that would take me to the hotel. 

I heard my name, probably for someone else with my name, but I turned anyway.  Judy.

How did she, with a suitcase, get through immigration and customs so fast? 

She caught up.  “Sorry, I had to see a man about getting immigration sorted.  My dad knows people everywhere.  I’m sorry I didn’t wait, but I didn’t want the guy telling my dad I was with a guy off the plane.  And that sounds as bad out loud as it did in my head.”

“I get it.  My mother, on the other hand, would be astonished if I got off a plane with a girl, so I guess that makes us even.”

She used her smile to smooth the waters.  She seemed very happy to be here.  “Share a taxi?  My Dad hates buses.”

I shrugged.  Why not?  “OK.”

The taxi ride took about half an hour, and I think we got the almost grand tour getting there.  Again, Judy thought it was our faces that got us into trouble.  I could also see that her father had weighed her down with endless instructions on what and what not to do, and it wasn’t going to be fun.

The hotel was the Terra Nova, and I had been reading up about it.  Old world charm, which to me, made it more interesting than staying in the concrete and glass Hilton or Marriot.  I’d also see several of the reviews that said to get as far away from the nightclub as possible.  Somehow, I got the impression that would be high on Judy’s to-do list.

When we arrived, there was no one from the plane, and I suspect we managed to get there before the others.  We gave our names, and then spent ten minutes convincing the desk clerk that we were not together, and eventually got our rooms, as it turned out, next to each other. 

When the porter tried to wrest the case from her, she resisted.  Another of her father’s rules is never to let your case out of your sight.

She went to her door, I went to mine, and we disappeared into our rooms at the same time.

The hotel did not disappoint, nor did the room as it was in a remote place from the nightclub.  I had three days of this, after whatever was going to happen tomorrow, and, of course, so long as my continued stay wasn’t dependent on having to spend wads of money for something that was supposed to be a prize.

I guess I’d find out in the morning.

An hour passed before two things happened.  The first, an envelope appeared from under the door from an invisible delivery boy, or girl, because when I opened the door just after it appeared, there was no one in the passage.  The second, ten minutes later, Judy knocked on my door rather than using the bell.

She ignored my greeting, walked over to the bed, and sat cross-legged on the end, almost as if it was her room, not mine.

She had brought the envelope with her, but hers was open.  Mine was still sitting on the bench.

“You got anything in the bar?”

I shrugged.  I hadn’t looked.  She got off the bed, opened the door, pulled out a bottle of beer, and after removing the lid went back to the bed.

Thanks for the offer of one of the others I thought.

“It’s a fucking timeshare.”

I knew she would tell me what she had on her mind, eventually.  I’d heard of them but hadn’t quite put two and two together.  Perhaps by morning, I would have.  I also wondered if she had realised she swore.  Perhaps, because it seemed to roll naturally off a lot of younger people’s tongues.

“Damn,” I said, after a minute.  “Here I was thinking it was a ticket to a portal to another world.”

She looked long and hard at me, perhaps to see if I was joking or telling the truth.  People told me I had a warped sense of humour, and it wasn’t a good thing.

She looked at me oddly, then curiously.  “You a science fiction freak?”

“Not sure about the freak part, but I do like a good story with a scientific background.  Mostly though I just wish I could step through a portal to a better place.”

She got off the bed, went to the bar, took out another bottle of beer, took the lid off it and handed it to me.  “Sorry.  I can be a little self-absorbed.  And it is your beer, I should have asked.”

“I should be flattered that you would feel safe enough to come into a room with a man you’ve never met before and feel that comfortable as to sit on his bed and drink his beer.  Just exactly who are you?”

That look of curiosity just got a little more wide-eyed and elicited another smile.  “I can be a little too forward, my father says.  You seem a nice guy.  Besides, we’ve got a situation.”

“Not really.  I’ll admit it’s an odd way to get customers to look at a timeshare, but I’m guessing if the people who brought us here get a ten per cent hit rate, then it pays for the airfares and accommodation, and they get the ongoing benefits.”

“You know about timeshares?”

“I went to a hotel once, and it was a timeshare.  When you check in they try to stitch you up for a permanent week, and use of the resort facilities for an annual fee.  It can be quite expensive, but I’m guessing some of the resorts might be quite exotic.  This is the Caribbean so it might be quite good.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Neither can I, which means you and I might be out on our asses this time tomorrow.  Or not.  Maybe if we can pretend that we’re interested until the three days have passed…”

“And act like we’re a couple, then we’d only have to listen to one pitch.  We could act all bratty and ask ridiculous questions.  I mean you just about told me everything that was in the envelope, which is not bad since yours is still sealed.  It didn’t have a fee, but it did say I would get a week which I could use at this resort, or another anywhere in the world, once a year.  it’s at Montego Bay and sounds impressive.  We’ll know tomorrow.  Tonight, there’s a bar downstairs, and interesting cocktails to be had.  I don’t want to go on my own, so if you have nothing else to do…”

How could I refuse after being asked so nicely?

If I was one of those people who attached labels to their fellow humans, I would have called Judy crazy.  More than once in the ensuing five hours I was with her, she showed plenty of signs that she could be trouble and could also be very easily misunderstood.

She drank too much and got tipsy, but not drunk.  Although it was not my problem, I thought it was a good thing to keep a close eye on her in case she got into trouble.  She liked talking about herself, and several of her friends, who, if the truth was known, were not friends as such.  She didn’t travel much outside her hometown and was not inclined to live in a big city. 

She said her mother left when she was younger, she had two sisters, older and restrictive, and a father who tried to let her live her own life.  It was no surprise to learn her father was a policeman.

I tried not to tell her about my non-existent life, the boring job I had, or the miserable circumstances of where I lived.  Better she just thought I was a nice guy.  I bought her drinks and watched her dance, and once or twice tried not to make a fool of myself.  The noise was very loud and followed us along the passageways on our way back to our rooms at an ungodly hour of the morning.

At the door to her room, she kissed me on the cheek, told me I was nice to make sure she was safe and then disappeared.

I shrugged.  It was easy to be with her, better than any other girl I’d known and remembered that come the end of the three days she would be gone, and life would go back to the way it was.

…

…

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.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

It was a case of the best-laid plans of mice and men.

I was never quite sure why mice were involved, but over time, I began to think someone knew and was not telling anyone.

The problem with being in a death or glory job, all too often it ends in death and very little of the thing called glory.

Too many times, things went sideways, with either unintended consequences or consequences that were untenable.

That’s why, one day, too many years past my use-by date, I was sitting at a small table outside a Parisian Street Cafe contemplating what retirement might look like, when someone walked past and bumped into me.

My immediate thought, a Russian assassin was about to, or just had, jab me with poison.

I reached out and grabbed the hand of the would-be assassin, and dragged that person around, checking that hand then the other for a weapon, and realising in the same instant it was a woman, not a man, and definitely not Russian.

She gave me a very painful, if not angry, expression.

I let her go.  “I’m sorry.  I thought you were someone else.”

She regained her composure, and the two other customers who had taken an interest in what might have become an altercation went back to their coffee.

“Do you do that to everyone who bumps accidentally into you?” She asked, rubbing her arm where I had grabbed her.

I probably would, but I didn’t think that was a justifying answer for my actions.  Even so, I was still wary.  An assassin didn’t have to be Russian, but conversely, she could be well-versed in Western ways.

“No, but I have had a previous bad experience from someone who didn’t bump into me accidentally.” It sounded lame for an excuse, but I didn’t have a lot of time to come up with something better.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but it was accidental, I assure you.  Tell you what, buy me coffee, and you can explain what it is you have against people bumping into you.”

She sat opposite me.  I called the waiter, and she ordered.  When he went back inside, I sat but not before my suspicious mind had started analysing her.

Mid-thirties, American, or perhaps that was based more on the fact she may have spent a lot of time there.  She had the accent, but I suspect she had been born in England if not somewhere in Europe.

Dressed smartly, not summery, so there for work, and the business suit suggested one of those tertiaries educated professions, doctor, accountant, executive, or at worst, a lawyer.

It seemed then it was unlikely she was an assassin because what she was wearing would make her stand out in a crowd.  Or perhaps that was just her.  What made me notice her was the brunette hair with subtle blonde streaks.

I shook my head.  Where did that come from?

“In Paris for business?”  Not my best opening line.

“Long story short, my husband just dumped me by text.”

Perhaps the angry look wasn’t just reserved for me, and perhaps, the bumping was accidental because now I thought about it, she had been looking at her cell phone.

“That’s pretty dumb,” I said without thinking.

She looked up sharply at me, perhaps wondering if I was referring to her or to the husband, then relaxed a little.  “That’s what I thought.  And yet I also wanted to believe he asked me to come here, spend the week with him, and try to smooth things over.  A second honeymoon, so to speak.  God knows the first one wasn’t anything to write home about.”

What had I just walked into the middle of?  “And alas, it’s not to be, I’m guessing.  Is he here in Paris?”

“He was.  I arrived last night.  We had dinner, then he had to go to Brussels for an early morning meeting, and when I asked him when he would be back, he said it was over.  He said he was going to end it last night but couldn’t tell me to my face.”

Her coffee arrived.

While she took a sip, then another, the thought struck me she didn’t look too upset about it.  Nor had she protested enough about what amounted to assault and battery.

Then, before I thought about it, I asked why she was not more upset.  Sometimes, I forgot discretion was the better part of valour.

“I had my suspicions.  A friend told me she had seen him with another woman, and he simply said it was one of his clients,” she said.

I noticed that she subtly gave me a quick study, perhaps to determine if I was an axe murderer. The trouble with that was that I had been called that once after a particularly nasty assignment.  How not to look like one, I did not know.

She shrugged.  “My name is Melissa, by the way.”

“Monty.  It’s better than my real name, and I’m still suffering nightmares from kids who ragged on me over that name.”

“Monty, it will be.”  She finished her coffee.  “Enough about me and my woes.  Thanks for listening.”

She stood.

I didn’t. “Perhaps we’ll meet again,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t.

She smiled.  “Who knows.”

I watched her leave, walking all the way to the metro station and then disappearing into the bowels of the earth.

I was still undecided whether or not she was an assassin or, more likely, the assassin’s apprentice.

My hotel was a small anonymous place in Rue nnnn picked for its quaintness, and unless you knew it was there, it was a very safe place to hide.  I had a choice of five and tried not to stay in the same hotel whenever I was in Paris.

It was one of those unwritten rules written in concrete, never stay in the same place twice, along with never creating traceable patterns.

It was hard work in itself to adhere to that rule, but when your life depended on it, it was worth the effort.

I had taken the time, after she left, to have another cup of tea and ponder what just happened.  A half-hour later, after dismissing the encounter as a coincidence, I had taken the metro to Montmartre and was wandering around the small market near the station when I saw her again.

Melissa.

Once is an accident, twice is not a coincidence. Another unwritten rule is that there’s no such thing as a coincidence.

I considered simply avoiding her and going to the hotel, but she was there for a reason, and I was one of those people whose curiosity would one day get the better of them.

I kept wandering slowly from one vendor to the next until we met.

She appeared to be pleasantly surprised when I accidentally ran into her, but I could see that fractional hesitation before making the appropriate gesture.  She, too, had seen me earlier and had been watching my progress.

It meant she knew where I would be and where I was staying.  It meant the accidental bump was anything but accidental.

My first question was, who was she and what did she want with me.

The next unwritten rule was to keep your friends close but your enemies closer.

“I had no idea you lived near here,” I said.

“Monty, what a pleasant surprise.”  She left off the rest of the question, ‘Do you live near here too’, trying not to be too obvious.

I’d just completed a scan of the marketplace for anything out of the ordinary.  Melissa was the distraction. The real enemy would be lurking close by.

I’d seen a likely suspect, a male, in his mid-forties, well-covered and almost indistinguishable.  He didn’t want to be recognised, and in being so, stood out.  Clever and yet not so clever.

“By yourself,” I asked casually.

She looked at me sharply again, then smiled to cover it.  “Of course.  I thought that after the bastard dumped me, I might as well make the most of it.  Are you here with someone?”

She looked around as if she thought that I should be with a wife or girlfriend.  After all, someone had once told me, that it’s Paris, the city of love.

For some.

“No.  Quite alone.”  I put an inflection into my tone that conveyed a suggestion that if inclined, she might offer to fill that void.

“That’s a shame, but perhaps not.  It’s like serendipity. We keep bumping into each other like this.”

A nice pun.

“Perhaps the universe is trying to tell us something.  Have you been to Paris before?”

“Once or twice, but I’m not the best tourist.  I didn’t have much spare time to see the sights.”

“Then it could be a case of the blind leading the blind if you have the time.”  Then, with an apologetic look, she added, “I’m sorry.  I have no idea if you’re staying or working, and here I am, prattling along, making assumptions.”

If I were any other guy, I would be flattered at the suggestion.  “I hardly know you, and perhaps it’s not the right time after what happened to you.”

I wasn’t an expert on rebound romances, but it was an excuse to make her work harder.

“You’re right, of course.  I’m being an ass.  Maybe some other time.”  With that, she gave me a smile and continued on with her exploration of the marketplace.

Rule number seventy-two, try not to be obvious you’re trying to set up a meeting or date with a target.  Try too hard they get suspicious.  Try to make it their idea, not yours.

Now I knew I was the target.  Why, I intended to find out.  I would not be surprised if she was staying at the same hotel.  It also meant someone either knew a lot about me or knew someone else who did.

That I would have to give some serious consideration.

The following morning arrived, and I was tired.  Several phone calls home to ask questions gave me no answers.  Was everyone lying to me?

Had I become expendable?

There was a time when your worth to the organisation became less because of fatigue, too long in the field, and the cost of retraining outweighed the agents’ worth.

Although the director had said my time was coming to an end, and expressed his surprise I had not been killed when clearly there were times when it was an almost certainty, he had given me a retirement option.

Except agents only ever retired when they were dead.  It was almost the first thing we were told at the induction.  And it was true.  Six of the eight in my intake were gone.  The other ended up in a facility in a coma he was not expected to recover from. 

It gave me no pleasure to be the last man standing

Then there was that other problem, the fact I was a walking encyclopaedia of the organisation’s inner workings, information an enemy could use to destroy us.

Melissa was potentially one of the enemy agents waiting in line to extract that information.  Her, the hidden man. He had disappeared before she had left me and may have confirmed my location.

Yes, paranoia was in overdrive.

I had expected an attack overnight, hence the tiredness and it only served to underline that it was time to get out.  Sleeping with a hand on the gun under your pillow was not the way to live.

It didn’t make me feel any better to find Melissa in the breakfast room when I walked it.  It was not a shock or surprise to find her there, and if she had been by herself, I might have shot her.

She was bright and breezy with the appropriate surprised response.

“Monty.  I had no idea you were staying here.  What a coincidence.”

I held my tongue.  A coincidence, my ass.  I looked around the room, but no one matched the man I’d seen loitering the day before.

She noticed.  “Looking for someone?”

I glared at her.  “Why would you think that?”  It was time to be a bad cop.

The bright breezy expression disappeared, replaced by concern. For me, I doubt it.  But she wisely didn’t answer that question.

“Right.  I’m going to be walking out the front door in about five minutes.  If I see your friend loitering out there, you will discover who I really am.  Just to be clear, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

I left her there. Perhaps the stunned look was real, but she had her mobile phone in her hand before I reached the stairs.

Sprung.  There was no doubt she was the honey trap.  Now I needed to find out who was after me.

When I made it out onto the street, I saw him just disappearing over the road and heading down towards the metro station.

I headed back inside and towards the breakfast room.  She would be very inexperienced if she was still there or incredibly stupid if she thought she could ride this storm out.

It was almost a relief not to find her there.  The idea of having to torture information out of her made me feel ill.  It showed just how far I’d fallen off the mission.  That sort of thing was a matter of rote and should not register any repugnance.

I sighed.  My cover was blown, and my usefulness in this mission was over.  I’d called in a replacement the night before, and he was awaiting the call. I made it.  Now I was free to go home.

Except…

I saw her scuttling out the front door, a complete change of clothes; a blonde wig, large sunglasses, and a backpack.  A student on sabbatical.

Would she check to see if she was being followed or for general surveillance?  She knew her cover had also been blown, so if she was well-trained, self-preservation would be paramount.  And had she checked the area earlier for a plan b escape?  It had been my priority when I first arrived. 

Not so far.  She was heading in the opposite direction to the man, to the gardens a short distance away.  I knew a shortcut, and it would come out ahead of her.  I waited, and then as she passed, I stepped out and said, “What a surprise to see you here?”

Foolishly, she stopped and turned.  In her shoes, I would have run.  I was not going to chase her, remember, don’t bring attention to yourself.

“How…?”

“Check the whole area where you’re staying.  You never know when things will go south.”

Of course, the darting eyes told me why she had stopped, and I had been almost expecting that it was a well-rehearsed trap.  The expression on her face told the story.  It also signed her partner’s death warrant.

Just as he reached out to grab me, I drove the knife in and up, then twisted it.  He was dead before his body could sink to the ground.  I almost carried him back to a doorway a few meters from the street and gently put him down there.  He looked like a drunk sleeping it off.

The face was familiar, I had definitely seen him before, but I couldn’t put a name to it.

She then decided while my back was turned to finish the job she was sent to do, except there was a mirror above the door that showed foot traffic from the street.  I saw her coming and easily disarmed her.

She thought about running but changed her mind.  A knife in the back before she made it to the street wasn’t appealing.

“What now?” she asked.

“A simple question; why?”

“I don’t ask.  To me, it’s just a job.”

“And the fact you failed?”

“It’s not the first time.  It was clumsily conceived.  I told them you’d work out what’s happening, but Benson, the guy you killed, was adamant.”

Benson.  Now, there was a ghost from the past.  Three years before, he was on another botched mission that got his partner killed and left him with severe injuries.  I was not surprised he would hunt me down.  Yet another rule; one should never be motivated by revenge – it was a matter of learning the old saying – first, dig two graves.

“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

I realised that at that moment, she was still there.  Again, I would have run the minute I seemed distracted.  “Nothing.  Just tell me who he worked for.”

“I don’t know.  I don’t care either.  It’s just a job, my boss tells me where to go, and they tell me what they want.”

“Who trained you?”

“You don’t need to know.  I won’t be coming after you.  Revenge is a waste of time.  And I’m not worth the effort of chasing down if that’s what you’re thinking.  But I did learn a few valuable lessons if that’s any consolation.  I bet you sleep with a gun under your pillow.  I was going to visit you last night, but the fact you look anything but what you are told me that would be very unwise.  Now, if you don’t mind, I have a train to catch.”

“Do you like what you do?  It seems that if it was anyone else, you’d be dead.  If you had become a problem, you would be.  I’m retiring as of now.  I’m over this looking over your shoulder stuff, and it’s something you’re going to have to get used to.”

“And yet I sense a but…”

“I’m not the worst person you could end up with.  And you know I can protect you.”

“You were just a job, Monty.  I like what I do.”

It was a random thought that popped into my head.  I had the funds to disappear and have a very good life if I wanted it.  And I had got a strange sensation from her the moment she bumped into me.  That eye contact had been almost electric.

I shrugged.  “Then go get your train.  If you change your mind, I’ll be at the Charles de Gaulle airport, making up my mind which plane to get on while getting some lunch and champagne.”

She just smiled and shook her head.  There was nothing to say.

I ended up in terminal 3 and hadn’t realised that I’d not given her a more precise location.

It had the Bistro Benoit, the best of the restaurants at the airport, and there I ended up with a glass of champagne and the job of looking through the upcoming departures. 

It literally was much the same as throwing a dart at the world map and going there.  It would be more fun going with someone, but my life had been dedicated to service, and there never had been anyone special.

I’d felt a spark with Melissa, and it would have been fine to explore the possibilities.  Of course, she might take the opportunity to finish the job, no doubt it would be a request from her boss, so I might yet get a surprise.

An hour passed.

That notion that the airport was very large and had several terminals to explore increased the odds exponentially.

At that time my short list of places to go included Uruguay, though I was not sure why, Kenya, because the idea of going on safari appealed, New Zealand, because no one would believe I’d go somewhere so remote, Jamaica, in search of pirate history, or New York, on the way to somewhere more obscure like Montana.

I was buried in a page on Quebec in Canada when I heard the shuffle of a chair and looked up.

Melissa.

“Don’t tell me, your boss asked you to finish the job.”

“He did.”

“And….”

“I told him it might take some time to track you down.  In the meantime, I don’t see why I can’t have a little fun.”  She reached out and took my hand in hers, and there was that spark.  “And you sure look like you need a little fun.  Where are we going?”

“Jamaica.”

“Good.  My samba is a little rusty.”

If nothing else, I was going to die happy.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

…

…

There is only one possible problem about starting a relationship in a city like New York, a melting pot of people from all over the country.  It’s quite possibly the home of what could become long-distance relationships, mostly because in essence it’s a long distance between your hometowns.

But, for everyone, it’s never the first thing in your mind, that’s just trying to get through those first few weeks, then months, then the steps that get you to the point where it’s time to go visit either your or her parents and family.

It’s a thing that some stave off as long as possible, particularly if you know your family are going to be over-inquisitive or likely to make your life hell with precious little details you hope no one would ever bring into the light again.

And of course, you know that is utterly impossible.

Of course, if you haven’t been home for a while, it makes the announcement all the more poignant at home, especially if you’re bringing the new partner, the one you have been praising to the hilt.

It was never going to be a problem for me, my parents were always on a cruise to somewhere or other and never home, and my brothers, quintessential men of the world, were scattered around the globe and it had been ages since we’d all been together.

But that first Christmas together, I knew Gabby was going to ask me to go home with her.  Like myself, she came from small-town America, a picturesque small city where opportunities were not as varied as those in the larger cities, where many migrated if they wanted better opportunities.

A lot often forget their origins, or more likely due to the pressures of establishing themselves in a new job, it took a while before going home.  Gabby had let three or so years slip by, and after being, as she put it, implored by her mom to come home, she had relented.

And since my office has decided to close for the holidays, she knew I didn’t have an excuse not to go with her.  And for better or worse, I turned up at the airport at the appointed time, and she was waiting.  I didn’t know until later that she had fully expected me not to go, the result of the last trip she had organised with what had been ‘the one’.

On that occasion, she had told the now ex that there was only one thing he had to do once they arrived home.  What she told me once the plane was in the air, “You will be meeting on various occasions my maternal grandmothers, Faith, Hope, and Charity.  They are, how should I say, somewhat strange, but they’re harmless.”

Usually, the mother-in-law was the leader of the Inquisition, and the father-in-law was the one that’s happy to tell you what he would do to you if you hurt his ‘little girl’.  Three essentially quirky old ladies were a new twist, and it was going to be interesting

I have always been a cautious fellow and very rarely dived into the unknown without a little investigation first.  I mean, that’s what an investigative journalist does, isn’t it?

Of course, that could be construed as uncool when it came to your hired friend, but I wasn’t very good at relationships, and this one with Gabby was a surprise.  She was different, but I knew that initial expectations were quickly dashed and over time completely shattered, or it could go the other way.

I had not expected she’d think our relationship was at the point where we would be meeting the parents, but to refuse would not be a good idea.

So, being the person I was, I wanted to know everything about her town, simply because it had a web page, the council, the sheriff, and upcoming Christmas activities.

It also had a sidebar about a certain Prom King and Queen, the town’s two most popular teenagers, and their plans, which were not the least of which was a long happy life together.  Gabby Saunders and John Prince.

It wasn’t hard to see why they were the golden couple.  John was the star of the football team; Gabby was the captain of the cheerleaders, and both families were prominent in the town.

Her father was the mayor and rancher, and John’s father was a farmer and agricultural industrialist.  She had said little about her father other than he ran a ranch, and her brothers and sister were ranch hands

I asked why she thought she needed to chase a career in the city when there was a perfectly good job at home, all it got was a pout and and a mumbled reply about being something more than a cowgirl.

I did a quick scan of the local paper’s digital back copies with her name and found two very interesting items.  The first, a month after the prom, was an incident involving Gabby and John that was remarkably short in detail, and it told me just how much pull each of their fathers had in that town.

The second, the prodigal daughter was leaving to go to New York to seek a career in fashion design, being a notable up-and-coming designer who designed and made clothes for her Aunt Faith to sell in her dress shop.  That raised a question: Why was she now simply a personal assistant to a crabby old lady?

John, in the meantime, had stayed home and was actively working in the management of his father’s business, with no inclination to join his bride-to-be.  He was happy enough, he was quoted, to bide his time whilst she shook off the desire to see what life was like on the other side.  The other side of what, I wondered.

Was this the reason why she had stayed away from home so long?

I thought about that whole scenario, and it was going to be a fascinating dynamic when I turned up with what he believed was his girl.  I came from a town like hers, and I knew how those ‘most likely’ scenarios worked.  He still carried a torch, as the saying goes.  She, apparently, was not.

I searched for a bed and breakfast to stay at if or when things started going south, and they would, no matter what she thought I felt about her.  When I rang up, I got a charming young lady by the name of Pricilla, and when I mentioned Gabby, there was a sharp intake of breath.  That was followed by a warning.  The last chap Gabby brought home to meet the parents was virtually hounded out of town.  He lasted two days.

I smiled to myself.  This might just be fun.  I asked her to be at the airport, just in case, and she said she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Gabby was strangely subdued for most of the flight, unusual because she normally had what I called an effervescent personality.

I put it down to nerves, returning after so long away; and perhaps what lay ahead.  I had not told her that I knew a little about her former life and planned to keep it that way. 

She had said that her mother was coming to get us, but I fully expected to see John in his dilapidated pick-up where only two could sit in the front.  Yes, Hollywood romance movies had a lot to answer for.

It was one of those airports where the steps went down the front of the plane, and you walked across the tarmac to a small building that served as the airport terminal.  Alongside, a fence where people could line up to see who got off the plane.

I saw her scanning that fence line for her mother and not seeing her.

We went into the terminal, a modernised and extended interior, because of increased passenger numbers, or perhaps because a congressman lived nearby.  That always helped.

I saw John before he saw her.  I also saw Priscilla, who, catching sight of me, hung back.

We passed through the arrival gate into the main floor where about 30 people were waiting to greet arriving passengers, and the look on her face went from an impending smile to a scowl, and a mutter under her breath, “What the fuck?”

She never, ever swore.

“I hope that’s not directed at your mother,” I said.

She glared at me.  “This is not what I hoped would be your first look at my hometown.”

Just as that was said, John loomed all six foot six two hundred and forty pounds of a devilishly handsome cowboy.  It was not hard to see what she had seen in him.  But appearances were deceptive.

He tipped his hat.  “Hello, Gabby.  Welcome home!”

She switched the glare from me to him.  “Where’s my mother?”  It was not the politest of tones.

“She was unavoidably detained.  I offered to come in her place, and here I am.”

He had noticed but chose to ignore me.

In her annoyance, Gabby had forgotten to introduce me, so I just leaned against the handle of my suitcase and waited to see how this was going to play out.  Since I was not supposed to know anything about her and him, I couldn’t say or do anything.  Yet.

She had her phone out, calling her mother I guessed.  I heard an answer on the other end, then, “Where the hell are you?”

A moment later, “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.  This is exactly why I haven’t been home in years, and if you have any more of these surprises in store, I will get back on the next plane out, and I will never come home again.”

There was a minute when her face made various contortions, and then she disconnected the call.

She looked like she was going to scream, but didn’t, just counted to ten under her breath, then looked at me.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  These things happen.”

“I’m afraid there’s another problem?”

“No room at the inn?”

Her face changed to one of surprise. “How…”

“Good hearing; your mother has a loud voice.  Storms are unpredictable, and I did check last night to see what the weather conditions were going to be, and I was surprised we were allowed to fly in.  That’s why I took the punt I might need somewhere to stay until your accommodation issues are sorted.”

Priscilla took that to be her cue.  “Hello, Gabby.”

“Prissy.”  It wasn’t a term of endearment.

“I told you I had no part in that.”  Straight on the defensive.  There was a mountain of issues that needed to be resolved, and I was now wondering if this trip was going to have a few unexpected surprises.

Even so, I knew despite everything I was witnessing now; Gabby was everything I could want in a partner, but she had issues.  And if I could help…

Awkward silence.  I broke it.  “So, instead of becoming the next hot news item for the Gazette, if we stand here much longer, I suggest, John, you take Gabby home.  Pricilla will take me to the B and B for a day or so, and I will get myself out to your place tomorrow.”

“This is not… “

“What you planned for.  No.  I fear the best-laid plans of mice and men can easily be waylaid in a small town like this.  I suggest you take the time to reunite with your family, I’m sure John will be happy to drop you off and give you some space.  He has the look of a boyfriend who hasn’t accepted that you’ve moved on.”  I looked at him.  “And I’m sure before the holiday is over you and I will have a chat about that.  In the meantime, I expect you to be a gentleman.”

That look of surprise on her face deepened.  “You knew?”

“I had an inkling.  I come from a small town too, as you know, that had a similar situation.  You are a gentleman, aren’t you John, not some creepy stalker?”

He was going to say something, but Gabby cut him off.  “I bet you brought that shitty little truck?”

His expression told the story.  “Best laid plans of mice and men, as you say David.  There would have been no room in the cabin, and I would not expect you to sit out back with the pig shit.”  She shook her head.  “I truly feel sorry for you, John.  I do.  You and I will be having words on the way to my house.”  Then a final glare in my direction, “I expect to see you tomorrow morning, David.”

In the end, I don’t think John wanted to be there.  And I did see an enterprising young lady taking various photos of us.  A reporter or photographer for the local newspaper?  Or would our encounter go viral on the internet?  I couldn’t wait to find out.

Priscilla had stood back and watched the fun.  So did a dozen or so others who probably knew exactly who they were.  We both waited until they had left the terminal building before moving on ourselves.

“You should just get back on the plane,” she said.  “You still can.  I know the airline staff.”

“It might seem a little rocky at the moment, but the test of a couple’s relationship is to be thrown from the frying pan into the fire.  The whole episode feels like a hiccup moment in a romance movie.  I’m guessing for a while that they were the star attraction given their school graduation and parents standing.”

“What did you read?”

“Nearly all of the back copies of the newspaper for a hundred years.  Might as well be prepared.”

“Did it tell you that neither of them wanted to become a spectacle?  That was Gabby’s mother, who had to take a simple childhood romance and turn it into headline news.  It might have worked had John not believed the story.  Yes, Gabby liked him, yes, they were cute together, but no, Gabby didn’t love him.  After it was broadcast far and wide and their friendship was put under such a large microscope, it became too much.  The only place for Gabby to go was as far away from here as she could get.”

“And he still doesn’t get it?”

“To be honest, John is not a man of the world.  He lacks sophistication, he is a hopeless scholar but is a good football player.  Good enough, but not that good.  He played college football but not NFL as such and just faded into obscurity.  He married twice, but his heart is not in it.  He thinks the only girl for him is Gabby.”

“Well, we’ll know soon enough if she is or isn’t.  I’m not going to force her to choose.”

“Do you love her?”

“Would I be here if I didn’t?  The girl I know from New York, that’s not her who got off the plane.  It’s like we stepped through a portal into another world with another Gabby.’

“For a lot of people, it’s hell.  if you come from a small town like this, you’ll know what it’s like.  We keep getting told it’s going to get better.”

“It isn’t much better in the big cities, just more people and more problems.    If I hadn’t met Gabby, I would have been going home myself permanently.”

“Farmer or rancher?”

“Ranch, though my older brother runs it while my parents see the world from a cruise ship, one long endless cruise, it seems.  Still, it could be worse.”

“You’re right.  That will be tomorrow morning when you meet the three witches.” 

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

…

It often came as a surprise to anyone who knew me that I reached adulthood with anything that resembled sanity.

My parents died early in my life, when j was about seven, probably a good age, if it could be said that there was anything good about it, having been shoved in a boarding school, and having parents who travelled the world as diplomats.  They had been interested in everything bar their son, so consequently I didn’t miss them as much as I should.

But…

What to do with a seven-year-old that no one really wanted.  I remember sitting in the headmaster’s office waiting to be taken to the funeral.  I didn’t know what to expect, all the headmaster had said was that my grandparents were coming.

That gave me a choice.  My father’s parents, the severe, strict, bible-thumping minister and his wife, a more sinister-looking pair than anything I’d seen before and was positively petrified when we visited them twice a year.

Then there were my mother’s parents who lived in a castle, not the fairy tale sort, but one with over a hundred rooms and a dungeon, and places where children should never venture.  Of course, telling a child no was the same as saying go for it, and that was a source of contention.

Needless to say, I knew who I wanted it to be.

Equally, I knew who I wanted to live with, but we always never got what we wanted, or so I had been told repeatedly by everyone.

So, until I was old enough to leave school and fend for myself, I had to split my time between the two, not that there was much left after school.  And, yes, neither took me out of boarding school, deciding that a break in my routine would be a disaster.

Nobody thought to ask me my opinion.

When I left school, finally, it was with the necessary qualifications, but not necessarily life skills.  Those were supposedly learned in the family environment.  Of the two, if I strictly applied what I learned in those few brief weeks at home each year was, on one hand, eccentric based on based on the notion I would become a minister, or eccentricity based on the notion I would become lord of the manor.

At no time was it suggested I would become a diplomat, even though I had applied when my parents’ old boss who came to the funeral offered me a pass to join the ranks after graduation.  You know, like father like son.

It gave me an escape, to get away from the stifling life I’d had for the past twelve years, standing at the station waiting for the train to take me away from basically everything I knew, and everyone, it seemed like the end of the world.

Perhaps then, had I not accepted an invitation to go on a holiday with Horace Arbuthnot Esq., my life might have turned out a lot differently.

Or not.  After all, destiny is what it was because it was not written in stone.

Twenty years on, when looking back, it seemed almost an eternity.

That summer, the year I turned eighteen, was memorable for many reasons.  I started out being introduced to Horace’s family and acquaintances as the eccentric Mr Alexander Wilberstone, the only son of highly regarded diplomatic problem solvers who disappeared mysteriously in the uncharted jungle of Africa.

The way he spun the tale was so much different from the reality of what happened, being gunned down on the back streets of Nairobi in a random drive-by shooting. I was, at that time, almost as mysterious as my parents, and the sort of character that added street cred to a lonely boy with no friends.

I didn’t tell him I was in the same boat, but since I was heading for the minister’s manse anything other than that was a godsend.  Besides, I like Horace and the tales he spun to make his ordinary life far more interesting.  And the fact he used my looks and charm to get girls to come and talk to us.

That was the second memorable thing about that year, Anna Louise Romano, an American girl with her family visiting Italian relations in Florence. 

She had a friend who I eventually discovered had been planning to meet Horace in Italy and it only dawned on me later why he seemed to move about constantly seeking tourist attractions and after each visit, noticing his mounting despair.

That of course led to the third thing about turning eighteen, it unlocked my inheritance which was, when an old dusty lawyer in an old dusty office right out of a Dickens novel, told me one dusty afternoon in London.  It was, to an eighteen-year-old, an unimaginably large sum to do whatever I liked.

Within reason, of course.  The minister and the lord of the manor had taught me one thing; to be miserly.

Perhaps Horace had known about it. He certainly knew everything about everyone, ensuring he was not bullied or his friends, the advantage of which I recognised early on.  He was always perpetually short on funds and was always going to pay me back, the mysteriously unavailable funds just about to drop when…  well put any excuse you like in there.

I didn’t mind paying his way.  Twelve years of friendship needed repaying.  And I regarded it my job to ensure he got to meet the love of his life. As for myself, just enough time to fall hopelessly in love, to spend the most incredible four weeks of my life, and then watch her slip through my fingers like the sands of an hourglass.

Horace was lucky, though, in time, he convinced me that very little came to anyone being lucky.  He married his girl, moved to Tuscany, started a vineyard and winery, and told me I had a home any time I wanted one.

I travelled the world, noted all the shortcomings of travel agencies, and everything else in between and created an app that solved firstly my problems and then everyone else’s and sold it for a staggeringly large sum, more staggering than the original inheritance, and on the very day of my thirty-eighth birthday moved into a quaint loft in Brooklyn, New York, to contemplate my next venture.

And as it happened, Horace and Beverly were in the city, and I was taking them to dinner, a sort of birthday party to celebrate everything.  All that was missing was the girl I could share my life with.

I’d tried over the years, but there was never that one, not the Anna Louise Remano that I fell in love with and would never forget, as much as I tried to.  But don’t get me wrong.  I was happy.  I had experienced in those few short weeks what many couples never could in a lifetime.

The restaurant was not far from the apartment, and I’d invited Horace to stay with me, far less expensive than a hotel, and easier for me to show them the city starting the next day.  They had brought their children two remarkable but seemingly unrelated people who had ideas of their own that didn’t include being seen with us old people.  I hired a nanny, much to their dismay.  Until they met her.

We walked, the evening warm but not hot.  It was an ideal time of the year.  Horace was different. He’d lost weight and was looking fit and healthy, more than he had when he was a child.  Life in the countryside, hard work, and finding the perfect partner had cast a spell on him.  I was happy for him. His life had always been harder than mine.

But there was something.  It was like he had a secret, and it was going to burst out of him.  He was making small talk, and he only ever did that when he had a secret and was trying hard not to spill it

Until that moment…

When we reached the restaurant, he opened the door for me.  Usually, it was the other way around.  I gestured for Beverly to go first, but she hung back.

Had he invited one of our old friends, one I hadn’t seen for a long time.  He’d been skirting around the old memories, the time we had been in Florence, taken the train to Piza and driven to Venice.

The mention of Venice had brought back a flood of memories, all of which involved what I had believed to be the love of my life.

Anna Louise Romano.

And the moment I stepped through that door, I knew she was there.  It didn’t matter that the restaurant was crowded, I had that tingling sensation go up and down my spine.

And it was as if the crowd parted and there standing before me was the girl herself, all grown up and as beautiful as the first day I saw her.

Then he was beside me.  “Surprise!”

“How? Where?”

“You were just two ships passing in the night, Alex.  She’s recovering from a nasty divorce, so treat her with kid gloves.  Who knows what might happen?”

…