It’s sometimes true to say that books that are not well written or on subjects that we like to think should not be published sometimes become best-sellers.
It’s like the old advertising adage, “sex sells.”
Lady Chatterley’s Lover, banned, but generated a huge following.
Fifty shades of grey, terribly written, but a huge seller along with the sequels.
The point is, no one really knows what the definition of a bestseller is because at any time, any book can suddenly go gangbusters in sales.
I’ve not had the pleasure.
I write books on the same subjects as my favourite authors, who are best-sellers and very famous names. Thrillers, detective cases, even Mills & Boon romances.
What do these books have in common? They take ordinary people out of their ordinary lives and put them into a world that can only exist in their imagination.
That’s the world I need to tap into if I am ever going to be a success in the field of spies and thrillers. I even wrote a romance once, but I’m still waiting to hear back from the publisher. No, it was not a Mills and Boon, so that might be the reason why I’m still waiting.
This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 71 this year.
Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.
Why, you might ask.
Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne
At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.
I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.
Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them
Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.
I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.
Damn!
So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years
I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.
It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.
Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.
So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.
Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.
It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.
And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.
But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.
As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life
If only I’d come from such a background!
And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.
I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.
One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.
Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.
It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.
It’s sometimes true to say that books that are not well written or on subjects that we like to think should not be published sometimes become best-sellers.
It’s like the old advertising adage, “sex sells.”
Lady Chatterley’s Lover, banned, but generated a huge following.
Fifty shades of grey, terribly written, but a huge seller along with the sequels.
The point is, no one really knows what the definition of a bestseller is because at any time, any book can suddenly go gangbusters in sales.
I’ve not had the pleasure.
I write books on the same subjects as my favourite authors, who are best-sellers and very famous names. Thrillers, detective cases, even Mills & Boon romances.
What do these books have in common? They take ordinary people out of their ordinary lives and put them into a world that can only exist in their imagination.
That’s the world I need to tap into if I am ever going to be a success in the field of spies and thrillers. I even wrote a romance once, but I’m still waiting to hear back from the publisher. No, it was not a Mills and Boon, so that might be the reason why I’m still waiting.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
This is not meant to be a treatise on short story writing. Far be it for me to advise anyone on the subject. I prefer to say how it is that I do it so you can learn all of the pitfalls in one go.
I find inspiration in the most unlikely places.
Shopping malls are great, there is so many things going on, so many different types of people, there’s often enough to fill a journal.
Driving on the roads, you get to see some of the most amazing stunt driving, and it’s not even being filmed, it’s just playing out before your very eyes.
Waiting in hospitals, waiting for doctors, accountants, dentists, friends, hanging around coffee shops, cafes, bistros, restaurants, the list is endless.
But the best source, newspapers, and the more obscure the headline the better, and then just let your imagination run free, like:
Four deaths, four mysteries, all homeless.
This poses a few interesting scenarios, such as, were they homeless or were they made to look like they’re homeless. Are they connected in any way?
The point is, far from the original story that simply covers four seemingly random murders, a writer can turn this into a thriller very easily.
It could follow a similar headline in another country where three headlines could be found, say, in London, where a man is found dead in an abandoned building, a week after he died, with no obvious signs of how he died.
A woman is killed in what seems from the outset an accident involving two cars, where, after three days, the driver of the second vehicle just simply disappears.
A man is reported missing after not reporting for work when he was supposed to return from a vacation in Germany.
Where an obscure piece says that a man was found at the bottom of a mountain, presumed to have fallen in a climbing accident.
From Mordialloc, we moved to Dandenong, a new house, 1 Bess Court. It must have been around the time I started school, because the early memories of living there were going to Dandenong State School No. 1403. Amazingly, the school number sticks in my mind all this time.
I remember thinking at the time that it was like a castle. That might have been in 1958 or 1959 when I was 5 or 6 years old, and in pre-school.
Where we lived was quite new, just up from the Dandenong Creek, and those fields from the bottom of our street were our playground. We made friends and we all played together.
My father, at the time, worked at General Motors in the Dandenong factory, where they built cars. For our holidays, he used to get a truck to deliver big wooden box sides, which we, in turn, with the other kids, built a large cubby house. One caught the eye of the council building inspector, and we had to pull it down. Why? It was nearly three stories high!
That was some holiday project.
It also became what might be called a house of horrors. We were always poor, my mother did not work, and we survived on what my father earned. There were not enough bedrooms, and to make ends meet, we took in boarders. I know, for a while, I had to live outside in a tent until a bungalow was built onto the back of the house, when the outside toilet was moved inside. I remember coming home from school one day and one of the male boarders was drunk after losing his job, and when my father came home, he sent him packing. Another boarder we had, a lady named May, was with us for a while and once went on holiday with us. For some reason, I always remember her being in a dressing gown.
My father, at one point, suffered a mental breakdown, but I had always believed it was a resurgence of malaria he caught when he was serving in New Guinea during the war. There were also the memories of being sexually assaulted by my uncle for a period while living here. It is a memory I have tried hard to forget.
There was also a period of domestic violence where my father would direct his anger at my older brother, and my mother tried to get between them and received some harsh treatment at his hands. And I remember hiding under my bed to get away from it. We had no idea why he was like this, not then, but after his breakdown, things got better.
Oh, and every year, at Easter, we would paint the whole outside of the house. As a six- or seven-year-old, I don’t think I was much of a help.
Other times we would go on holidays, packing the tent and ourselves into the car and taking off at short notice to places like Queenscliff, Adelaide, Lakes Entrance, and Wilson’s Promontory.
At some point, things must have got better. I got to live in the bungalow, school proceeded to grade six, where I remember the teacher distinctly, Mr McPhee, a hard taskmaster, but he taught us well.
We got a bottle of milk every morning, I got lunches made by my mother that were inedible, and several classes and fellow students stuck in my mind, but curiously were forgotten for many years until now. One, a boy named Andrew Stroud, who was English, I remember because he talked funny, and a girl, Elizabeth Llewellen, because she was nice to me. I also remember skipping a grade, but I don’t know why.
But that didn’t last long. We moved, and it was a whole new, but not necessarily better world.
…
Those memories will always be hazy. I was told once that what I remembered would not be the same as anyone else in the same house, and it is true. My brother’s memories of the same period are completely different. Somehow that didn’t surprise me.
From Mordialloc, we moved to Dandenong, a new house, 1 Bess Court. It must have been around the time I started school, because the early memories of living there were going to Dandenong State School No. 1403. Amazingly, the school number sticks in my mind all this time.
I remember thinking at the time that it was like a castle. That might have been in 1958 or 1959 when I was 5 or 6 years old, and in pre-school.
Where we lived was quite new, just up from the Dandenong Creek, and those fields from the bottom of our street were our playground. We made friends and we all played together.
My father, at the time, worked at General Motors in the Dandenong factory, where they built cars. For our holidays, he used to get a truck to deliver big wooden box sides, which we, in turn, with the other kids, built a large cubby house. One caught the eye of the council building inspector, and we had to pull it down. Why? It was nearly three stories high!
That was some holiday project.
It also became what might be called a house of horrors. We were always poor, my mother did not work, and we survived on what my father earned. There were not enough bedrooms, and to make ends meet, we took in boarders. I know, for a while, I had to live outside in a tent until a bungalow was built onto the back of the house, when the outside toilet was moved inside. I remember coming home from school one day and one of the male boarders was drunk after losing his job, and when my father came home, he sent him packing. Another boarder we had, a lady named May, was with us for a while and once went on holiday with us. For some reason, I always remember her being in a dressing gown.
My father, at one point, suffered a mental breakdown, but I had always believed it was a resurgence of malaria he caught when he was serving in New Guinea during the war. There were also the memories of being sexually assaulted by my uncle for a period while living here. It is a memory I have tried hard to forget.
There was also a period of domestic violence where my father would direct his anger at my older brother, and my mother tried to get between them and received some harsh treatment at his hands. And I remember hiding under my bed to get away from it. We had no idea why he was like this, not then, but after his breakdown, things got better.
Oh, and every year, at Easter, we would paint the whole outside of the house. As a six- or seven-year-old, I don’t think I was much of a help.
Other times we would go on holidays, packing the tent and ourselves into the car and taking off at short notice to places like Queenscliff, Adelaide, Lakes Entrance, and Wilson’s Promontory.
At some point, things must have got better. I got to live in the bungalow, school proceeded to grade six, where I remember the teacher distinctly, Mr McPhee, a hard taskmaster, but he taught us well.
We got a bottle of milk every morning, I got lunches made by my mother that were inedible, and several classes and fellow students stuck in my mind, but curiously were forgotten for many years until now. One, a boy named Andrew Stroud, who was English, I remember because he talked funny, and a girl, Elizabeth Llewellen, because she was nice to me. I also remember skipping a grade, but I don’t know why.
But that didn’t last long. We moved, and it was a whole new, but not necessarily better world.
…
Those memories will always be hazy. I was told once that what I remembered would not be the same as anyone else in the same house, and it is true. My brother’s memories of the same period are completely different. Somehow that didn’t surprise me.
Scattered throughout the main story are the threads that are picked up at the end and cover betrayal.
Betrayal is always a possibility, and sometimes an inevitability in being a spy. This story is no exception, and the betrayal comes from within.
There are many types of betrayal, that someone knows your secret and tells the people whom you are spying on.
That someone is informed beforehand that you are coming to them and why, and your cover is blown before you get started, and/or
You are the victim of an internecine war between heads of intelligence services that are in competition with each other for results and, therefore, funding.
Or, perhaps, it’s just two old men, one jealous and the other trying to get work done while the jealous one goes about sabotaging his best efforts.
That wouldn’t be so bad except it’s not the bosses who pay the ultimate price. It’s the agents on the ground.
The question then has to be why?
Politics?
It has a good deal of say in most matters because governments are run by political parties and politicians. First rule: politicians generally have no idea how to run the departments they are responsible for. Spies do not get to run intelligence agencies, by and large.
Perhaps the spies might be the administrators, or private sector heads of departments, but they generally have to do as they are told.
Except what if they defy the minister?
And would the minister know, and if he did, would he tell anyone fo fear of losing that portfolio?
Tricky question.
And for our agent in the field?
He has absolutely no idea what’s going on behind closed doors, just that some of the chess pieces have been rearranged, and he only knows this when a group of bad agents come to kill him.
Scattered throughout the main story are the threads that are picked up at the end and cover betrayal.
Betrayal is always a possibility, and sometimes an inevitability in being a spy. This story is no exception, and the betrayal comes from within.
There are many types of betrayal, that someone knows your secret and tells the people whom you are spying on.
That someone is informed beforehand that you are coming to them and why, and your cover is blown before you get started, and/or
You are the victim of an internecine war between heads of intelligence services that are in competition with each other for results and, therefore, funding.
Or, perhaps, it’s just two old men, one jealous and the other trying to get work done while the jealous one goes about sabotaging his best efforts.
That wouldn’t be so bad except it’s not the bosses who pay the ultimate price. It’s the agents on the ground.
The question then has to be why?
Politics?
It has a good deal of say in most matters because governments are run by political parties and politicians. First rule: politicians generally have no idea how to run the departments they are responsible for. Spies do not get to run intelligence agencies, by and large.
Perhaps the spies might be the administrators, or private sector heads of departments, but they generally have to do as they are told.
Except what if they defy the minister?
And would the minister know, and if he did, would he tell anyone fo fear of losing that portfolio?
Tricky question.
And for our agent in the field?
He has absolutely no idea what’s going on behind closed doors, just that some of the chess pieces have been rearranged, and he only knows this when a group of bad agents come to kill him.
Perhaps if I’d thought about it long enough, I might have seen it coming, but it was taking that light at the end of the tunnel as a good thing, not the double-headed train pounding towards me at breakneck speed while tied to the tracks.
It would be easy to blame my mother. She was the one who taught us to take everyone at face value, to see the good in the world, and, of course, eight times out of ten, everything was fine.
Until it wasn’t.
I was on the balcony overlooking the bay, the house that my grandfather had first built as a getaway shack, expanded into a holiday home, and then into my retreat, the place I could hide away from the world.
It was the same for my sister, who was still recovering from a bad relationship, one that she blamed herself for, but the truth was, she was not at fault, not for any of it.
But the scars ran deep, deep enough that in the pit of despair, she did the unforgivable, and it was a sixth sense that sent me to her in her in her time of need.
Now, she was well on the road to recovery, older and very much wiser.
For both of us.
“Did you see the report Jenkins sent?”
She was stretched out on the deckchair, taking in the sunshine that came with early spring. It was warm but not hot, a gentle breeze rustling through the surrounding trees.
There were white caps out to sea, and there was a ship slowly plying its way past the bay. It was a busy shipping lane, and it was the perfect distraction to watch the ships go by.
“I did.”
Jenkins was the company’s head of security, and I had asked him to investigate the man who had deceived and nearly destroyed my twin sister. In an attempt to get justice, he had gotten off on a technicality and walked free.
It wasn’t justice, but justice sometimes could be blinded.
“Did you have any idea?”
I had to say I didn’t. Who would, when the woman of your dreams, a woman who ticked all of the boxes, comes into your life when you least expect it.
At first, I believed it was too good to be true. Jenkins checked her out, and everything was irreproachable. It was not that I was the one who didn’t trust her. It was the people around me.
Once the investigation was over, I decided it was time. We had been dating off and on for over a year, and it had been a slow burn.
Then Alisha discovered just who and what her boyfriend was, just in time to prevent a travesty. She was worth a small fortune, and Jackson Pearce had very nearly stolen it all.
He only made one mistake. He told, no, bragged, that he was about to take down the Bernadine’s, one of the wealthier and blue ribbon families.
He very neatly got away with it. He was free, but he was penniless, but oddly not concerned or angry.
I asked Jenkins to find out why.
It was in the report sitting on the coffee table beside Alisha’s deckchair.
The woman I was about to marry in the wedding of the year, after letting her take control of the preparations and ceremony and spending close to three million dollars.
A lot of that money was channelled back to her brother Jackson Pearce. Her real name was Milly Pearce. She’d stuck to the Milly but was using her father’s mother’s birth surname, making it difficult to trace in a first scan of a family tree.
Or lack of one, which matched her assertion, she was an orphan, from an orphanage that no longer existed, and all records of her had been destroyed in a fire.
Only Jenkins thought it was suspicious, but we were all prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“No. She is such a lovely person.”
“So was Jack, until…” It was still painful for her, but not so that it hurt that much. “What are you going to do?”
“Play. Do you think you’re strong enough to join me?”
“Can I shoot her?”
I gave her a curious expression. As much as I understood how she felt about that family, it was not worth the jail sentence.
“No.”
“Spoil sport.”
She sighed. I took her attitude and the determination in her voice as good signs she was all but over her calamity.
Up to the unmasking of Jack, she had been almost like a sister to Milly. I had thought it was the sort of bonding one would expect between the women. Milly had been suitably disparaging towards the dastardly boyfriend, but whatever had been between them had been broken.
Knowing what she did now, it was difficult to imagine how she could be nice to her.
But it would be settled the next day. I had promised to take Milly to a special lunch with just our family, mother, who was kept oblivious of the details of Alishas breakup and subsequent events, my older brother, Wally, who was the current CEO of the company, the one I would eventually take over, and myself, basically to talk about where she would fit into the echelons.
We had talked about it, and she had suggested a role suited to her standing. She had also considered, to feel like she was part of the family and parcel of shares.
That alone should have set off alarm bells, but since Mother and Wally had suggested it, who was I to disagree?
“Are you going to tell Mother and Walter?”
It was like she was reading my mind.
“No. Let’s play her game out and see where it goes.”
“Are you prepared for it?”
I don’t think I would ever be. I had been hesitant to make our budding romance public, and on our eight-month anniversary, we were ambushed by the media. She swore she had not told anyone, but she and I were the only two who knew.
It was the catalyst needed to push us to the next level. Even then, I was not suspicious, accepting her explanation. It was not impossible that I was being followed by a photographer looking for a scoop.
“What would be the upside for her?”
“Without sounding catty, Henry, if she is cut from the same cloth as her brother, there’s always a reason.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 