Day 20 – Writing exercise
You are just passing a doorway, and you hear, “the dumb bastard doesn’t know his arse from his elbow”, then “Richards, Monday, I can barely wait to see you. Bye.”
20 years of blissful marriage just evaporated.
…
I wondered whether all parties were the same, with over 200 invitees, people with more wealth than the national debt, who all knew the person for whom the party was for.
Isabella Rowena Elizabeth Walthemphere.
I had the distinct honour of knowing that exact person for the last 20 years, and of course, it was the one who had a team of 20 organisers make sure it went off to perfection.
And after a quick waltz around the ballroom, specially built and opened for the occasion, she told me it was the best party she had ever had in her honour.
For the rest of the time, I had watched her weave her magic among the guests, stopping here and there, a quiet word in a war, a gentle hand on an arm, a hug where it was needed.
She had no enemies.
But, a little before midnight, before the fireworks, she disappeared.
Well, not disappear, I had seen her look around first, an expression appearing on her face as it briefly hit the light, an expression I hadn’t seen before.
One of pure joy.
And she had insisted in her hand, just barely visible, a cell phone, one that she promised she would leave in the anteroom along with all the others.
One I saw her put there.
She then stepped back into the house through the summer doors of the morning room, just as I approached on the other side of the pillar.
And the hushed coversation”
“I bet you say that to all the girls…”
“Of course, I adore you.”
“He doesn’t, he couldn’t, he doesn’t know his ass from his elbow…”
“I can’t wait, Richards Cafe, Monday. See you then.”
It was a conversation that no husband ever wanted to hear, and a conversation, at the very least, not to be having at a party your husband was throwing for you.
If it actually meant what I thought it meant, which didn’t make any sense at all. Why wait 20 years to cheat on your husband?
The first fireworks exploded, and I just saw her which by, almost running. She would be missed. I would not.
…
Being married to Isabella Raisa Elizabeth Walthemphere was the opportunity of a lifetime, and somehow, out of a mass of very worthy and far more suitable candidates, she picked me.
It was, even for me, an odd choice. It wasn’t the cut of the tuxedo, it wasn’t my ability to dance like a ballroom professional, it wasn’t the fact I was neither rich nor poor; perhaps it was because I cared.
We met incongruous, I did not know who she was, but just a girl called Margaret on holiday with a friend.
Someone had called out ‘Isabella,’ and in a moment, I saw this poor girl stumble, get up and run, and then completely knock me over.
I cursed her in four languages.
She cursed me back in five.
I helped up. “If you want to be helpful, get in those people’s way.”
“Why?”
She cursed me again and then ran down a lane, then disappeared.
I got in the way.
“Do you know who that is?”
“No. Should I?”
“The Countess Isabella… oh, forget it.”
And they took off down the lane much too late to catch her.
A week later he face was plastered all over the newspapers, the Countess was marrying a Prince something or other.
Good luck with that. The Prince looked like he was a hundred years old, but one day would be king. She didn’t look like queen material to me.
A week after that, in a dumpy hotel in Paris, at the end of my sojourn from the real world, I ran into her again.
Literally.
She was hiding from the media, and apparently, her mother and the soon-to-be king. For a reason, her mother wanted her married into the rich and famous so that she could keep the Counts’ castle, after being left penniless when he died.
She had a plan, one I think she formulated after running into me again, testing to brush off runny eggs and greasy bacon, my only clean set of clothes I had to go back home in.
Would I marry her for a week, then get unmarried so she couldn’t marry the prince? She could not be divorced.
I would get a hundred thousand dollars for my cooperation.
Who would turn down an offer like that?
We married in a quaint church in Paris, her mother married the Prince, the daughter became a princess and wasn’t allowed to divorce.
It was the oddest start to a relationship i ever had, and for a year I was basically a cardboard carpet turning up at events, being the dutiful husband, having promised to go quietly at the end of a contract.
Except here we were 20 years later, doing what I had expected her to 20 days later, but didn’t and hadn’t, until now.
…
I guess the deciding factor had been the title, and the pile of stones in a wet but beautiful county in
The middle of England.
My father always moaned about the fact that death duties had destroyed the family finances and our ability to pay for the estate’s upkeep.
My older brother consumed a lot of the wealth with gambling debts and got on the wrong side of the loan sharks and my father drank himself to death, leaving my sister and I with a broken mother who lasted six years before dementia took her away from us.
I finished school, went on a gap year holiday to consider what I was going to do, and then it was all decided for me.
Isabella came and conquered; her mother and the prince bailed me out of a very deep hole, and now I was Lord of the Manor.
I didn’t want to be, but for appearances, I had to be. It became part of Royalty Inc.
20 years playing the game, 20 years of not producing an heir of my own, but Anthea found herself a nice boy and had 6 of her own, one who could take the title if I didn’t reproduce, which seemed unlikely.
20 years after which the train was about to run off the rails.
…
“Where have you been?” Anthea was holding the fore, looking every bit the princess herself.
Not quite as famous but every bit as stunning.
She hadn’t believed my luck.
I hadn’t believed my luck.
Now my luck had run out.
“You know I hate these things.”
“Four times a year, then you can go and hide in the summer house. Or wherever it is you go.”
I made a face. “You love this pompous.”
“Of course. Rubbing shoulders with the cream of society, having every move I make documented for the world at large, taking a platoon of bodyguards in what amounts to a motorcade.”
Last week, meeting an old school friend, male, saw her under a headline ‘stepping out … not with her husband’ and a picture of an innocent kiss.
“Discretion dear. Discretion.”
Isabella suddenly appeared at my side. “Where were you?” It was an innocent question with four barbs attached.
“Looking for you. The party glow had disappeared.”
“I didn’t disappear.”
“I know you didn’t, dear.” And smiled in a way that was not usual.
“You’re being strange. Too much champagne.”
And then caught the eye of a guest and dashed off as she does in the middle of a conversation.
“What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You think she’s having an affair “
I nearly choked. How could she possibly think that?
“No.”
“Would it matter if she did?”
Did she know something I didn’t?”
“Everything has a use-by date. Mine was 19 years ago, but someone rubbed it off.”
She elbowed me in the ribs. “You’re a fool. Always was, always will be. Go and mingle. They’ll be going home soon.”
…
“You were acting strange tonight.” Isabella had flipped into a large lounge chair and kicked off her shoes.
I poured a bottle of beer into a glass and took a sip. It was uncouth to drink from the bottle.
“You disappeared. Poof!”
“I did not. I was probably in the restroom.”
“With your cell phone?”
She glared at me in a manner that could be called disconcerting. Would she lie?
“I was expecting an important call?”
“Who could be so important that it transcends your birthday party?”
She didn’t answer. Not immediately. Instead, I got the, I’m working through a thousand scenarios to find one you will believe.
“No matter,” I said. “It’s none of my business. I have an early morning with the horses.” I went over and kissed her on the cheek. “Have fun down in London.”
As I stood back up, she took my hand and gave me the most intense look I’d ever received.
“How do you know I’m going to London?”
I gave her my I don’t care what you do look, smiled, and said, “You hate Mondays here, always have, and like always, you will simply leave me a note and flit off on some new adventure. I know you so well.”
She looked miffed.
“What if, for once, you are wrong?”
“I’m always wrong, dear, it’s part of my job.”
She let go of my hand. “I love you. And thank you for a wonderful party.”
“You should thank the 20 event planners you employed for me.”
“Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?”
“After 20 years? I’m sure I have annoyed you many times before now.”
She stood, brushed the imaginary creases out of her dress and looked me straight in the eye.
“What is going on with you?”
I tried looking inscrutable, but couldn’t.
“Nothing dear. I’m just tired, and I have an early morning.”
She tilted her head slightly and made a new face, one I hadn’t seen before.
“Come with me.”
This was new, too. “Where?”
“Wherever. Anywhere. Just come with me.”
“And make a mess of whatever it is you have planned. I don’t think you need me. I’m the horse and hounds part of this, whatever it is, and you are the brains behind everything else. I can order gardeners, butlers, farmers and sometimes the livestock about. That’s it.”
She shook her head.
“Only a fool would believe that Henry. If I thought that of you, we wouldn’t be here now.”
“No. You’d probably be a queen.”
“I am a princess.”
“I am a Lord or Marquis or something or other. Titles don’t define us, Isabella. What’s in our hearts defines us. My heart is yours, Bella. Don’t ever forget that. Call me when you’re finished doing what you’re doing?”
..
She came into my room at 3am when she thought I was asleep and snuggled into me.
It had been a while since the last time.
She was not the sort who wanted to have sex morning, noon and night or every day of the week, and that suited me as well.
I had thought early on that she preferred that sort of relationship with other men and didn’t bother trying to prove it was the case or not.
Our relationship was built on trust. I trusted her. I had no idea what she thought of me.
She left about three hours later, and when I got out of bed, she was gone.
I made the phone call to a man who sorted problems for me, and gave him some precise instructions, and then thought no more about it.
I did not fear for her safety. I just wanted to make sure she was protected, even though she had that as the princess, i was never quite sure where anyone’s loyalties lay.
There was mischief afoot in her mother’s kingdom, mischief she continually neglected to tell her daughter about. The king was old and getting on. It was time for an heir to take over, which was precisely the problem. There were six, other than the rightful heir, in contention.
Yes, I had spies everywhere.
I bought some horse I sold some horses, I rode a horse and gave an interview to a nice young lady who could actually ride a horse.
I took lunch in the morning room, took the call from my observer, and received the photos of the man she couldn’t wait to see. They had lunch, all very dignified, but the looks between them.
I shrugged.
All good things must come to an end. I sat in the library for over an hour, casting my eyes over the many books, some quite old, but most of the read at one time or another and pondered my fate.
I don’t think I wanted to become a joke among her friends. I was very aware of what they thought of me, despite being polite.
They were her friends.
Mine, I could count on the fingers of one hand. The rest, passing acquaintances who lingered to be in the shadow of fame, or as an introduction to the main act.
The place could survive without me. It would have to eventually.
So, having one of those faces that blended well into the background, I donned my camouflage, went to the airport with the boring nondescript passport and bought a ticket to the third plane out.
Which took me to an interesting place called Queenstown, in one of the mother country’s far-flung colonies, New Zealand, though now it was more interestingly called Aotearoa.
It took a week to get there. My tourist guide told me there were a lot of places in between that i should visit. I did.
And the marvellous thing about it. No one recognised me, I was simply Henry James. I checked, and no one had reported me missing, only that I was temporarily indisposed. The world could do very well without me, as could Isabella.
…
I should have known that any woman with the name Daphne was going to be trouble.
Day two in the idyllic tourist town of Queenstown was dissolving into a perfect sojourn when this wretched American woman practically threw herself into the chair opposite mine at the cafe where I was reading a newspaper and drinking a perfect cup of coffee.
I glared at her over the newspaper.
“You think they could at least make coffee properly.”
Flushed and annoyed, she grimaced.
“If you want American coffee, go to Starbucks.” Then went back to my paper, a suspicious death in Wanaka.
“Anyone tell you you are rude?”
“Frequently. It’s a condition that we old people acquire as we get on in years.”
She smiled, and the severity of her expression lessened. “You’re not that old.”
“Old enough to be your father. I’m sure he’d be very unhappy about the way you address your elders.”
“My father wouldn’t care. Not as much as you do, apparently. My name is Daphne.”
“Do you only have one name, like Cher? Is that an American thing?” I didn’t put the paper down, i was hoping she would be insulted and go off in a huff to the nearest Starbucks.
The waitress delivered her coffee and gave me one of those looks, I pity you, and left quickly. Had she been here before and complained?
“No. But it is polite to tell me your name in return.”
I sighed. She was not leaving. “Henry.”
She waited a minute to see if I was going to add to it, taking a sip of the coffee and making a face.
“Why are you here?”
“I would have thought that was obvious. Having coffee. Reading the paper. Being interrupted by a woman called Daphne, who doesn’t like local coffee.”
“And who is rude?”
“And who is rude. Why are you here?” Then, realising I might be opening a can of worms, added, “No, I don’t want to know.”
“Because my girlfriend had to go home to a sick mother and just abandoned me here.”
I’d have a sick mother, too, if this was what Daphne was like.
“Well, I’m sorry about that. I’m sure there are plenty of others with whom you can talk. I’m not the talkative or friendly sort.”
“You’re a tourist.”
“I’m here for some lone time. Get away from everyone and everything. The rest of the world, and everything in it, at the moment, is something I just don’t want to cope with.”
She gave me a curious look. “You break up with a wife or girlfriend. You cheated, she cheated.”
“That’s what happened to you?”
“Me? No. Boys don’t see me for who I am, just what I look like.”
I looked at her again, this time looking past the angry American. Youngish, mid twenties, though I was not an expert, fair, almost perfect skin, brown hair with reddish tinges and blonde highlights, that stuff I knew from Freda and her children, she was under that scruffy exterior quite attractive.
Perhaps it was the reason she was hiding who she was.
I shrugged. “You are what you are. Savour it while you have it. Now, I’m sure you have better things to do than annoy father figures. This newspaper isn’t going to read itself.”
“If you had an iPad it would.”.
“I refuse to live in the digital world.”
“You don’t have a phone.”
“So people can’t find me. We survived without them once; we can do it again. Try exercising them from your life and see how it changes.”
I didn’t think she would.
…
I changed cafes, thinking that Daphne would reappear. I didn’t find out if it was true.
But I did feel a little different after the verbal sparring. She was a lot like Mandy, Freda’s eldest daughter, overly dependent on devices and taciturn and critical of everything.
Day five, I took to the water on an old steamship, the TSS Earnslaw, a century-old ship that plied the lake.
It was something that I’d not done before because I was too busy doing all the wrong things when I was younger, and then didn’t have time when I was older
I sat on the deck and soaked up the fresh air. Winter was coming, and it was getting colder. The surroundings reminded me of home.
I was almost asleep when someone came and sat next to me. There wasn’t a dearth of passengers and plenty of other spaces to sit.
Then I got the faint hint of perfume.
Not Daphne.
Isabella.
Damn.
I pretended to ignore her. She took my hand in hers and squeezed it, then sat there until I could no longer ignore her.
“I was having such a good time.” I opened my eyes and looked at her.
She was hardly recognisable without the accoutrements of wealth. Not even a single necklace that would be worth more than the ship or thereabouts.
No rings, no jewellery, no fancy clothes, nothing that would distinguish her from any other British tourist.
“Without me?”
“Without you.”
“I thought you loved me?”
“I do. Enough to set you free.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Isn’t that what you want. After all, I’ve served my purpose; the use-by date has come and gone. I’m sure there are so many other fish in that sea.”
She looked at me with serious concern.
“What are you babbling about. Use by date? Fish. What had fish got to do with anything?” Then she stopped, took a breath. “That’s why you said I was going to London the next morning. You overheard my conversation.”
“I was wandering around near the morning room. You weren’t exactly whispering.”
“And you thought…”
“It was time to move on. You are famous, other than being a princess now, and you don’t need me anymore. I see you with your people. They are your sort of people, I’m not.”
She sighed. “You are a silly, silly man. I love you more than anything. Anything Henry. It’s why I’m here. I have been beside myself for days, wondering what happened to you. You’re acting strange. I thought you were sick. I thought you were dying. I didn’t know what to think.”
“It felt like I was dying.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I made my choice 20 years ago, and I’ve never regretted it. I’ve been propositioned more times than I can remember, but the only thing that I had on my mind was getting home to you. I’m not interested in anyone else. This is a nice place. What made you come here?”
“The third plane out of the airport after I arrived.”
“Good choice. Where are we?”
“On a ship.”
“No, where are we?”
“Queenstown. Going to Walter Peak Farm for morning tea. Scones, jam and clotted cream, I hope.”
“Not as good as your cook’s, I suspect.”
“She’s not my cook.”
I could see the little wharf in the distance, and we would be arriving soon. People were moving to the front of the ship to get a look.
“Why didn’t you just talk to me, Henry?”
“You’re busy. I don’t want to get in the way.”
“Don’t ever do this to me again. I had to move heaven and earth to find you. You’re very good at disappearing.”
“Do you have an employee named Daphne, though I refuse to believe that’s her name.”
“She’s going to be your new companion. There’s trouble at home, and that’s what really scared me when you went missing. I thought you had been kidnapped. I was going to tell you but…”
There hadn’t been anything in the papers, but it was not surprising.
“I didn’t know. And do I have to put up with such a rude person?”
“You were rude first.”
“Is she here?”
“No. I figured if you saw her again, you’d throw her overboard. Just so you know, I thought you might do that to me, too?”
“Can you swim?” Her expression changed. It was a good thing we were slowing down and making the turn toward the pier.
…
© Charles Heath 2026
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 