tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57963376021375301352024-03-13T16:17:31.606+00:00Mills & Boon WannabeThe day-by-day creative journey of a stay-at-home dad writing a romantic novel and wondering if he can possibly take it seriouslyA Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-16767721398733465602012-06-26T19:47:00.002+01:002012-06-27T19:04:19.512+01:00Are we nearly there yet?<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Yes, dear Reader, we are. At long (very long) last, Anna has provided a continuation, of sorts; and although I had rather hoped that she would cover some of the awkward infill that is now necessary to explain Cleft’s transformation from feckless womanizer to self-made pallet-provider, at least it gets me to the point where I can start thinking about a climax.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">PS: Blazing <i>red</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> letters? Can’t the girl read? I had it as ‘huge <i>gold</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> letters’.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 51 (by Anna)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>220</o:Words> <o:Characters>1258</o:Characters> <o:Lines>10</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>2</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>1544</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Barely had Topaz digested the blazing red letters on the side of the vehicle, barely had her hand fumbled for the coiled brass banister up the cascade of marble stairs behind her, than daylight was obscured by a large shadow in the doorway. Large, and yet somehow diminished. Topaz could discern the change even as she struggled to focus through her long lacquered lashes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Wotcha!’ said Cleft, for it was he. The voice, the greeting, was at once familiar and imperceptibly altered. There was, in the deep, throbbing tones that sent an echo through her womanly core, a note of doubt. Or was it pleading?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Cleft!’ said Topaz. She could almost taste the name on her tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">As she turned to collect her thoughts, she caught the reflection of the man in the flank of the sculpted silver stag poised in the hallway. A tiny reflection, dwarfed by the contours of the beast’s metal sinews. It was in that moment that Topaz realised that her struggles had reached a climax. The flame, deep within parts of her that she had never before probed, still burned but, as she fixed her eyes on those sculpted hindquarters, she realised that her feelings no longer controlled her. This Thing between them was no longer bigger than she was. She loved, possibly she even forgave, but in forgiving she achieved dominion.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Coolly she raised her chin and her eyes finally met his. There was a beat in which a communion that was beyond words passed between them. Then, in a voice that startled her with its steadiness, she uttered it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Hi!’<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment--></div>A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-52706999437131865472012-05-05T14:11:00.001+01:002012-05-06T14:35:54.114+01:00Part 50 – Return to Brinkworth Place<div class="MsoNormal">It’s been a while, I know. I blame Life: what with earning a living and being a responsible parent and having the decorators in, there hasn’t been much time for blogging. Even so, I realise that expecting my readers to go for two months without Topaz and Cleft is a big ask, especially since we really are on the home run now. I apologise.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 50 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Still Topaz stared, not understanding, barely hearing. But the liquid that filled her huge brown eyes and started to trickle, glinting, down one cheek showed that, somewhere deep within, the thunderbolt had hit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">She stood, seemingly calm, her poise heartbreaking in the face of the turmoil that her life had become, Terence thought. Then, with a rasping sob, Topaz clutched the sticky formica table as her legs buckled and she slid into the blessed velvet blackness of a swoon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">It was later – much later – when the first shards of light pricked through her unconsciousness and Topaz found herself swathed in the familiar luxury of crisp Egyptian cotton. Saw the glimmer of water reflecting from the pool on the suede-covered ceiling of her own room at Paradise Heights. Heard the hushed tread of feet on the deep black shagpile. Felt the cool, tender touch of caring hands on her forehead, soothing, nurturing – sustaining.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Terence’s face loomed into view, his brow puckered with concern but his mouth perked with relief. Topaz smiled weakly, yet the comfort of the surroundings and a friendly face could not thaw the icy clench that gripped her still. At first she could not recall the reason for the numbness, for the aching void she felt deep inside. She thought first of Cleft – but the yearning space within her that only he could fill was such an intrinsic part of her existence now that she knew there must be something else, something still raw and tender, that was causing this new sense of hopelessness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Then she remembered. The airport hubbub. The long wait. The unexpected sight of Terence and another young man in a pink tuxedo. And with a low moan, she turned onto her side, curled up, and sobbed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Have your cry,’ said Terence. ‘There’s so much that needs to come out. Which reminds me; you haven’t met Pedro.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Hiya,’ said a voice, and, turning, Topaz saw through a film of tears the slender figure of the young man who had accompanied Terence to the airport. She managed a wan smile and a murmured ‘how do you do?’.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Just fabulous, darling,’ said Pedro. ‘Terry’s told me so much about you, and I have to say your pad is to absulutely <i>die</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> for! Isn’t it, Terry dear? I’m just mad about the swivel-touch handbag carousel in your closet.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz’s quick mind processed the significance of Pedro’s words almost instantly. Evidently, she told herself, her relationship with Terence would never have worked out. The realisation came a huge relief, as the lingering guilt she still sometimes felt about breaking their engagement melted away.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And so began a period of quiet contentment at Paradise Heights. The death of her parents, Topaz conceded, was a blow; yet she couldn’t help but acknowledge that it removed several issues that had been niggling her for some time: the prospect of her father losing everything he had worked for, lived for; the agony of seeing her own mother as the adulterous lover of Duncan Dunkley; Dunkley’s sinister hold over her father, her inheritance – her very body. And as the Spanish sun warmed the frigid core of her grief, and the stimulating banter of Terence and Pedro buoyed her spirits, she learned to accept her new life – as an orphan, yes, but also as an unencumbered woman of property.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The knowledge galvanized her. ‘Make busyness your business now, girl,’ said Topaz to herself; and she knew, with a thrill of worldly self-knowledge, that action might help to fill the comfortable but empty existence her life had become. Flicking open the gold-plated iPhone 4 that she had bought in a half-hearted effort to console herself, she reserved flights to Heathrow. ‘No return,’ she said; ‘I don’t know when I’ll come back.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Brinkworth Place had the air of all houses whose owners are dead: a dowdiness that shadowed even the crisp white leather sofas in the den; a clamminess that seeped into Topaz’s pores as she stepped into the marble-floored hall; a silence that muffled Life itself, like a closed coffin. And every room held memories. Happy ones from a life long-gone; but, more, the trauma of recent events.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz had moved into the apartment above the garages, safe from the gloom of death and the tugging fingers of the past. Her days were filled with sorting papers, clothes, books; meeting auctioneers, estate agents, solicitors; saying goodbye to gardeners, grooms, maids. And as the Eversleigh-Brinkworth estate was dispersed, she turned her back on the old life at last.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">One bright morning, as the sun slanted into the atrium and gilded the dust motes in the air, Topaz sealed the final box and labelled it in her clear, firm hand: ‘Paradise Heights’. All around were the few items she would keep from her old home; items whose significance or beauty were so tied up in who she was, what made her Topaz Eversleigh-Brinkworth. A tall, bulky shape was the bronze Venus de Milo, its 100,000 Swarovski crystals safe behind layers of bubble wrap. Propped against the wall, the smoked-glass dining table waited to be reunited with its cavorting dolphin supports. A whole life waiting to be reassembled in sunnier climes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘The packers will be here soon,’ Topaz said to the village woman who had come in to help pack these last remnants of the old life. ‘Let me know when they come.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">But even as she spoke an engine sounded outside, and Topaz crossed the atrium to open the front door. The panthechnicon had arrived. And emblazoned in huge gold letters on its side were the words ‘Cleft’s Paletts’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-14005437446206707122012-03-02T13:43:00.000+00:002012-03-02T13:43:37.463+00:00Part 49 – Mourning morning<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>702</o:Words> <o:Characters>4002</o:Characters> <o:Lines>33</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>8</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>4914</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The vote – such as it was – was conclusive: kill ’em. I like death in a literary context: it can make things so much simpler by cauterising numerous worrying sub-plots.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It looks as though Anna has also incorporated another idea from one of our loyal readers, who suggested that Terence should discover his inner gay. Or am I simply jumping to stereotypical conclusions at the mention of a young man in a pink tuxedo cocking his hip?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 49 (by Anna)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">There was that limbo feeling common to all airports. Air that was not quite air. Light that was not quite light. People neither coming or going, but waiting, passively, as though for Fate to give them a steer. The newspaper stands in the arrivals hall told of the real world, but not very convincingly. The frenetic headlines seemed no more than titles in a book of fairytales.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Nothing seems real any more,’ Topaz mused, adjusting her gilded iphone that jabbed at her denim thigh. Then the heat that flamed through her told her that she was wrong. There was something real. Possibly realer than she had ever known. Just not real enough to make it really... Topaz sighed. Her mind was twisting into knots.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Her Laboutin heels rapped the glossy floor as she veered towards a nearby coffee bar. ‘Can I, like, get a skinny latte to go?’ she asked in her newly perfected Spanish.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Her fingers pulsed against the flaccid cardboard of the cup, the warmth of the viscous white liquid within relaxing her flesh a little as she surveyed the arrivals board. The lines of writing clicked and scrolled as each new plane disgorged its human cargo.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Briefly Topaz removed her Prada sunglases to decode the hectic bulletins and briefly she felt unmasked, denuded, as helpless as the figures slumped on the airport benches, as though they had lived whole lives there. 1750 Helsinki. Arrived. 1755 Prague. Arrived. 1800 London Heathrow. Arrived. She flipped the coffee cup into a bin and resettled her sunglasses. Her father always travelled light. He should be one of the first through the gates.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The British passengers were easy to recognise. They wandered blinking through Customs, flesh as grey and lumpen as porridge and inadequately restrained in lurid holiday wear. Topaz gaze slid easily over them. Her father, his face a cheery scarlet and his dapper grey suit glowing with the same sheen as his silvered Lamborghini, always stood out from the crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The human tide began to ebb. Topaz glanced at her Rolex. She’d been standing there for nearly an hour. She delved into her jeans and flicked open her iphone. Nothing. Worry flickered. With a last glance at the arrivals barrier she strode across to the British Airways desk. Her gold bracelet clinked as she laid her arms on the desk and awoke the woman behind it from a visibly absorbing reverie.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I’m looking for my father. Eversleigh-Brinkworth. He was supposed to arrive on the 1800 from Heathrow,’ she said rapidly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The woman, fully alert now, rattled her fingers over her keyboard and there was a silence as she digested the list that she had conjured onto her screen.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘No show,’ she said at last. ‘Your father never checked in. Neither did Mrs Eversleigh-Brinkworth.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Mrs Eversleigh-Brinkworth?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The woman looked confused. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘There’s a passenger of the same name who was booked onto the flight. I assumed that it was your father’s wife.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz felt something inside her shudder and slip.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Thanks,’ she said dully, and turned away. Fumbling for her iphone, she jabbed the number. Somewhere, her father’s phone rang out, then his familar voice sounded: ‘I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now...’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">It was nearly two hours later as Topaz, loathe to leave the airport in case her father arrived on a later flight, was drooping over a cup of cold coffee, that a familiar figure loomed uncertainly over her table.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Terence!’ she cried, astonished, and barely registered the young man in the pink tuxedo standing close behind her ex-fiance’s shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I took the first flight I could,’ said Terence, and he sat down and knotted his fingers on the formica. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got something rather difficult to tell you.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz stared.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Your father,’ Terence went on, after a glance – was it for reassurance? – at the young man who still hovered, hip cocked, behind him. ‘There’s been an accident. A crash. On the motorway near the airport. A pile up. Your father didn’t make it, Topaz. And Topaz – I’m so very sorry, but the car behind was crushed into his car and both of the people in it were killed.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz, continued to stare. The only movement was a shadow of grey that crept over her tanned features.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">‘In that second car –’ Terence swallowed – ‘was my father… And – I don’t know how to say this – but in the front seat beside him was… your mother, who they found clutching two plane tickets to Malaga.’</span><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-1896682373573570602012-02-27T15:04:00.001+00:002012-02-27T16:33:35.024+00:00Meme, me?<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://motherventing.wordpress.com/">Motherventing</a> tagged me on a fiendish meme that involves 7x7x7. Actually, it’s probably quite simple, but numbers always faze me. I need to list seven of my favourite blog posts, then pass the buck to seven other bloggers. And then tell you seven things about myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Then the <a href="http://adventuresofamiddle-agedmatron.blogspot.com/">Middle-Aged Matron</a> tagged me with 11 questions I have to answer. Don’t know why; nosiness, I imagine. I think I’m supposed to pass it on to 11 other bloggers, but frankly I’m hard pressed to come up with seven on which I can speak with authority, and I’m sure everyone’s been memed to death. So I’m going to stick to seven and hope they haven’t been bagged before now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">First things first: seven blog posts I admire:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This is from <a href="http://ayearinlancashire.blogspot.com/">A Year in Lancashire</a>. I love this blog; it is gentle and beautifully observed, and here's the post that got me into it: <a href="http://ayearinlancashire.blogspot.com/2011/09/going-to-church.html">Going to Church</a><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://themalenanny.tumblr.com/">The Male Nanny</a> is priceless. The language can be a bit fruity (and that’s just from the teenagers), and I quibble over his description of the family as ‘upper class’ – they sound distinctly <i>nouveau</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> to me. But he writes like a dream. Try <a href="http://themalenanny.tumblr.com/post/7195438748/kill-it">this</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’ve got to hand it to her: no one does it like the <a href="http://adventuresofamiddle-agedmatron.blogspot.com/">Middle-Aged Matron</a>. Any one of her posts is a thing of wonder, so I’ve picked <a href="http://adventuresofamiddle-agedmatron.blogspot.com/2011/10/downton-effect.html">this one</a> almost at random. Almost.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">When I started blogging and was looking for blogs to admire, <a href="http://sahdandproud.wordpress.com/">SAHDandproud</a> was the first must-read I found. I even wrote to tell him so, which he probably found creepy. He says he isn’t a writer, but he is, he is… I’m being brave here and linking to <a href="http://sahdandproud.wordpress.com/2012/02/01/7x7/">his own version</a> of this 7x7x7 thingy. That’ll show me up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://maidinyorkshire.wordpress.com/2012/01/23/crunch-time/">This one</a> by <a href="http://maidinyorkshire.wordpress.com/">Maid in Yorkshire</a> combines everything I like in a post: amusing, self-deprecating, all the commas in the right places…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I haven’t paid much attention to <a href="http://mammasaurus.co.uk/">Mammasaurus</a></span> lately, which is my loss: she’s magnificent. She gives so much altruistic support and encouragement to recalcitrant/clueless novices such as myself. <a href="http://mammasaurus.co.uk/christmas-karaoke-we-must-never-speak-of-this-again/">This video post</a> typifies her brilliance. It’s original, generous, witty and impressively executed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Finally, how can I omit <a href="http://motherventing.wordpress.com/">Motherventing</a> herself? I bet she’s rollicking company. She acts, which I used to love doing. She writes, which I still love doing. She did a virtual striptease on Twitter, which I loved so much I stuck a virtual fiver down her virtual knickers, before she virtually took ’em off. <a href="http://motherventing.wordpress.com/2012/02/11/sisterhood/">This post</a> makes me wish I could be in the sisterhood with her.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Right, on to those seven Things about myself. I’ll try to keep it short.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">1 I can wiggle one eyebrow at a time. Toddlers love it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; text-indent: -35.45pt;"><span lang="EN-US">2 My first kiss – you know, lips and all – was on stage playing Pontius Pilate. Mrs Pilate wore very sticky stage make-up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; text-indent: -35.45pt;"><span lang="EN-US">3 I once paid my sister 10p to let me slap her leg as hard as I could. It was in the car. She screamed. Our dad nearly crashed. I got all the blame, even though she accepted my terms.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">4 I smoke about two cigarettes a year, but my mother doesn’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; text-indent: -35.45pt;"><span lang="EN-US">5 Before we were married, my wife said she liked a man with a hairy chest. I’ve spent the past 20 years growing one (a hairy chest, not a man).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 35.45pt; text-indent: -35.45pt;"><span lang="EN-US">6 I accosted Suggs in a pub in Seven Dials while inebriated and told him how much I love ‘It must be love’. Probably happens all the time, poor chap.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">7 I am the most pedantic bore I know.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Now for Ageing Matron’s questions and, more worryingly, my answers:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>If you could have an audience with any British monarch which would it be?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I sometimes fancy meeting Edward VIII so I could punch him in his weak, treacherous, self-indulgent face. But on balance I’d prefer Elizabeth I.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What is the most frightening thing that has ever happened to you?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The lid of the loft blowing open one stormy night just after I’d seen <i>House of Wax</i></span><span lang="EN-US">. I’ve led a protected life.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>If you appeared on Desert Island Discs what would your luxury be?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">A fully crewed ocean liner. Or a piano with a teach-yourself-piano book.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What kind of museum or gallery exhibition would you cross a city to see?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Paintings, I suppose. A two-man show of Ghirlandaio and Andrea del Sarto, perhaps, or an overview of British portraiture 1900–1950.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What would you choose as your last meal?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Boiled eggs with white bread and butter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>If you became leader of a political party what would your slogan be?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I’m always right.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What piece of music makes your pulse race?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">There are heaps, some of them mentioned <a href="http://millsandboonwannabe.blogspot.com/2011/11/part-19-musical-interlude.html">here</a>. Overall, probably this, the tremendous finale to Boito's <i>Mefistofele –</i> try it from 6 minutes in:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/uAXItVau698?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Strangely, I find the ovation at the end as moving as the music itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What human quality to do value most highly?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Charm and courtesy. With those, so much is forgivable.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What is your greatest regret?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Not noticing that, according to my wife, plenty of girls wouldn’t have minded…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Can you do a forward roll? (if yes, photographic evidence is required)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Yes, but I can't prove it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What would you like your epitaph to be?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Life is not worth living without him’. None of that ‘be happy when I’m gone’ rubbish. I want tears and lots of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What ingredients do you rate in a blog?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Wit, self-deprecation and correct grammar.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I have to pose 11 questions myself now. Then it’s all over, I promise.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Katie Price or Kristin Scott Thomas?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What is the most beautiful view you’ve ever seen?</b></span><span lang="EN-US"> (And no mush about newborn babies please – I mean a proper view, like with fields and all).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What is the most revolting thing you’ve ever eaten?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What, if anything, makes you cry?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Who, in your opinion, has/had the most beautiful face ever?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>If you had to live in another era, when would you choose?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Why?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Which work of art would you most like to own?</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Everyone has a book in them, apparently. What’s yours about?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What’s your most embarrassing moment?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>What’s your best physical feature?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Not that I’m prurient or anything<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">And so I pass the whole shebang on to the following. Just do the 7 bit or the 11 bit or none of it, as you like. Apologies in advance – I know you won’t thank me.</span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://maidinyorkshire.wordpress.com/">Maid in Yorkshire</a></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://ministryofmum.blogspot.com/">Ministry of Mum</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.chezmummy.com/">Chez Mummy</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://margot-and-barbara.com/">Margot and Barbara</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://ahellofawoman.blogspot.com/">A Hell of a Woman</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://faycglasshalffull.blogspot.com/">Glass Half Full</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://tattooedmummy.blogspot.com/">Tattooed Mummy</a></div>A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-66115972775764539952012-02-24T14:01:00.000+00:002012-02-24T14:01:22.757+00:00Part 48 – We’re all in this together<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>683</o:Words> <o:Characters>3894</o:Characters> <o:Lines>32</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>7</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>4782</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I’ve never tried romance as a group experience before, but today I’m calling for a spot of audience participation. After all, it’s a odd business, writing Romance with your sis – we could both do with some company.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">What I’d like you to do is vote for one of the following plot development options. Whichever gets the most thumbs up decides the fate of Topaz’s heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">1<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And mother comes too…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">2<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The plane crashes and Topaz loses more than she bargained for<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">If you fancy helping out, post your vote as a comment below. Thanks in advance for your input; let’s see if this eases Topaz’s path to fulfilment, or complicates it…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Actually, this instalment was written as part of the previous post, but it got so long that I didn’t have the nerve to serve it up all in one go…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 48 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The man’s voice sounded at last. ‘Hello?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Dad, it’s me, Topaz.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Baby! How are you?’ The voice sounded pleased, but also tired, worn down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I’m good,’ she replied. ‘But I’m kinda lonely. Want to come and keep me company, like, as soon as?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘You bet, bunnykins. But – er – I’ll have to see what Mum wants to do about plane tickets.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz was suddenly confronted with the apparition of her mother’s face looming close to hers. She could see the pale folds under her chin that the tanning spray had missed; feel the brittle brush of her hair, too brightly yellow; hear the moist unclamping of those vivid, magenta lips as they leaned in to whisper threats. ‘You will not leave this place until you are wed.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">With a shudder, she pulled herself back from the painful past, and when she spoke her voice was wintry. ‘Mum? She’s not to come. I don’t want her at Paradise Heights.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Yeah, babes, but there’s a problem. She holds the purse strings now. I’ll need to ask her to buy me the ticket. And she won’t.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz’s mind whirled. Her mother, in charge of the Eversleigh-Brinkworth fortune? How could Daddy, so confident, so used to wheeling, dealing and sealing a deal, have let her take it all?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I don’t understand, Dad,’ she breathed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">There was a faint sigh on the other end of the line, and when the voice came again it sounded broken. ‘I had no choice, Topes. When Duncan Dunkley realised that our – erm – plan had fallen through concerning you and Terence, he called in his heavies to put the screws on me. But Terence tipped me off, and I had time to make a few arrangements. It meant putting everything into Mum’s name – the house, the horses, all the cash. I have nothing. Everything I worked for, in the hands of that woman!’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And he broke off, his voice cracking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘What do you mean, “that woman”?’ asked Topaz. ‘Dad, are things OK between you and Mum?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘They’re fine as long as we don’t see each other. And that’s not difficult, since she spends every spare moment with –’ and here his voice hardened – ‘Duncan Dunkley.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz’s sudden gasp hissed as if she had been whipped, but the shock of what she had just heard did not impair her quick intellect from deducing the masterplan at work. The man whose malevolent hold over her father, over her very body, had spurred on the juggernaut of destiny now saw the warped devotion of her own mother as the path to the fortune he was owed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘But Dad,’ she said quickly, ‘if Dunkley’s aim is to get his payment through Mum, he’s on to a loser. Brinkworth Place, the horses – even with all your other assets, the estate isn’t worth twenty mill.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘It’s not about the money any more,’ sighed Mr Eversleigh-Brinkworth. ‘It’s about revenge. When the news broke about our – ah – agreement, the press went to town on me. My name was mud. Oh, fluffbun, the humiliation! But that wasn’t enough for Duncan Dunkley. He wanted to make it personal. And what’s more personal than my home, my cash – my wife?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And Topaz saw, for the first time in weeks, how love had blinded her; how desire had blinkered her from the tragedy unfolding back in Berkshire. She had responsibilities to those closest to her; debts of honour that must be paid.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Almost distractedly, she spoke into the iphone: ‘Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll fix the tickets for tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at Malaga airport.’ And with an absent-minded flick, she closed the phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Debts and responsibilities: what a woman of the world she had become! Still, the first was easily discharged. A few clicks on the ipad, and she had set up the standing order with Terence’s bank. ‘I’ll make sure you’re OK,’ she had promised that long-ago day at a very different Paradise Heights; now she had.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And responsibilities: they could no longer be ignored. So Topaz prepared herself as best she could to face them. Booking a stretch limo from Malaga Executive Motor Solutions and the Dream Gleam Colour Touch package at the Garden of Eden, she knew she was ready to meet her father once again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-66953124803235326122012-02-21T11:07:00.000+00:002012-02-21T11:07:14.199+00:00Part 47 – Muscling in<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>847</o:Words> <o:Characters>4829</o:Characters> <o:Lines>40</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>9</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>5930</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I’m on a bit of roll at the moment, and since Anna has been bogged down with half-term childcare (so have I, but I’m a worse parent than she is) I’ve decided to leapfrog her and muscle in with the next instalment. It’s my blog, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 47 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Is that the last one? Put it over there, next to the Vettriano.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz’s voice had a new authority as she directed the small team of workmen who were finessing the arrangement of artworks at Paradise Heights. ‘Look where you’re going! That’s an original Rolf Harris you nearly bumped into.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">With a small sigh, Topaz turned from the buzz of activity at the far end of the oval saloon that formed the social centrepiece of the new villa. She ran a careless hand through her tawny tresses, a habit of old that she found hard to drop, even now that her coiffure was sleek and businesslike beneath the Gucci glasses that glinted on her head. And, for the first time in weeks, she longed to tumble into one of the oversized Chesterfields, invitingly upholstered in magenta velvet, and nestle under the zebra-print throw that was draped artlessly over its pert-buttoned back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">What a mad few months it had been. Mad, but exhilarating. A ceaseless round of planning meetings, site meetings, logistical meetings – more meetings than she would ever have felt capable of attending just a year ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And just a year ago, who would have thought that her priorities would have changed so much? The newest gossip from Monaco and Dubai; private previews of the Paris Spring collections; anticipating the Duchess of Alba’s wedding one month, the Beckhams’ latest christening the next, Elton’s white tie and tiara ball come summer – a meaningless and empty charade, it now seemed to Topaz. How much more exciting were soil pipes, plumb lines and s-bends; lagging, soakaways and the cost of copper. Exciting and real, as the social whirl could never be real.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz smiled a little to herself and left the workmen to hang the last of the pictures on the mulberry leather that covered the walls of the saloon. Clasping a glass of chilled Orvieto to her heated breast, she slipped through the Christian Clive kitchen, its black crystal chandelier glinting in the early evening sunlight, and out onto the wide marble terrace. She sank onto one of the faux leopard-fur floor cushions and idly dipped her hand into the cooling waters of the infinity pool which seemed to meld with the indigo Mediterranean far below the mountain bluff.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Paradise Heights was finished, and it was all her own work. With a surge of satisfaction – and pride, she admitted – Topaz surveyed her masterpiece through her thickly curling lashes, which were starting to close under the suns scorching rays and a heavy wave of drowse.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">A sudden zephyr, skitting in from the sea, played soft but chill across her shoulders, and Topaz shivered slightly and opened her eyes. Had the sun gone in, or did Paradise Heights really seem slightly drearier?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Then she remembered. This ceaseless round of activity, of directing, leading and creating, had never entirely shut out those feelings, so close still, that were inextricably linked to this mountaintop. The villa was a thing of wonder – even now <i>Elle</i></span><span lang="EN-US">, <i>Vogue</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> and <i>Essex Life</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> were jostling to schedule features and photoshoots. Yet was it really more wonderful than the flat-topped stone, the stand of prickly pears and that hallowed rut which had thrust Topaz into the muscular arms of – no, she still could not bring herself to breathe his name.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Would it always be this way? Pulling her vintage stole closer, Topaz thought of the times he had strode unbidden into her mind. That time outside the English church in Malaga, when the strains of an old, half-forgotten hymn drifted to her ears: ‘Rock of ages, cleft for me’. And, not understanding at first, Topaz had let out a low moan of mingled desolation and desire, until passers-by turned to stare.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Then there was the shopkeeper who, in thickly accented English, had gestured to the empty cupcake counter late one afternoon and said apologetically ‘Very sorree, is nothink left.’ Again, that stab of aching loss coinciding with the surging upward of something hot from deep within. When a friend had suggested drinks at the Treble Clef bar in Marbella, Topaz had been forced to decline: she knew herself too well to believe she could get through an evening in a place whose very named screamed to her of love, of longing. Of loneliness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">For she was lonely. At night, when she returned to the rented apartment and the heavy door swung shut behind her with a rubbery suck, Topaz felt as though she were in a deluxe vacuum. The apartment’s chill impersonality, its mass-produced luxury, made her feel as though she were in a tomb, severed from all those who made the world a living, breathing mass of warmth and excitement. Her father – how long was it since she had last seen him, that dove-grey, dew-dampened morning at Brinkworth Place? Terence – dependable, good-natured Terence who, in seeking the heat of her love, had won the warmth of true friendship. And him. Always him. Always, yet never again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Even the unfathomable turns of destiny, constantly plaiting lives together only to hack them apart in the end, seemed locked out of this silent, double-glazed, en-suite tomb. Thank God, Topaz thought, that I can move into Paradise Heights next week and shut the door forever on that half-life of rented rooms. Now I can be me. Now I can look fate in the face as my own woman, and take what it deals me on my own terms.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Sighing, Topaz stood and ran her wet hand, coolingly, across her forehead. Suddenly, unbidden, a yearning for company, for laughter and delight, swept through her, and she knew what to do. Snapping open her iphone, she jabbed the speed-dial and waited, her fulsome lower lip caught between her teeth in anticipation.</span><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-72756200829154004072012-02-17T09:17:00.002+00:002012-02-17T09:17:29.988+00:00Part 46 – Respect!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>487</o:Words> <o:Characters>2777</o:Characters> <o:Lines>23</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>5</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>3410</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I remember once at university incurring the incredulity of a (very right-on) tutor by commenting that I thought most younger people were feminists these days. You know, in terms of supporting women’s suffrage and the 1882 Married Women’s Property Act and equal opportunities and maternity leave and stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Do you honestly think,’ she asked, aghast, ‘that a <i>man</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> can be a feminist?’ And I don’t think she was merely trying to stimulate scholarly debate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Well, this’ll show her. See how in tune I am with the female respect agenda?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 46 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The jeep juddered to a stop as Cleft’s foot slammed on the brake. It couldn’t be! The dusty swathe of virgin mountain that had seen the shaping of his destiny, barred behind a forbidding rampart of hoardings and portakabins. In the thin darkness of the waning night, the site loomed black and hostile, an ugly obliteration, it seemed, not only of Cleft’s recent past but of his dreams – quicksliver dreams, precious and beautiful yet ever-harder to contain, slipping through his fingers every time he tried to realise his destiny at last. Paradise Heights was barred to him, as he was barred from Topaz’s inner recesses.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">With a low moan, Cleft dropped involuntarily to his knees, not feeling the scrape of the stones through the rough denim of his jeans, heedless of the chill dawn breezes that skirled around the mountain and tousled the thick dark hair that hung over his bronze forehead. As he knelt, vainly trying to gather his scattered thoughts and understand this latest loop of Fate, the first gleam of sunrise picked out the rough ground before him, and the planes of a flat rock that lay across his vision.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Almost unknowing, Cleft reached out to the stand of prickly pears that partly screened that sacred stone; the altar on which he had offered his love for Topaz; on which she, almost like a sacrifice before the Dunkley stratagem, had lain helpless, beseeching him for his strength – and his love.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Cleft’s fingers toyed thoughtlessly with the rubicund tips of the prickly pear, deftly twirling the swelling orbs until a milky sap leaked through his fingers, its sticky unctuousness recalling him to here, to now. And he understood. He could not build Topaz’s home: Paradise Heights was not his to give. If he was to feel Topaz’s velveteen body supple in his arms again, search out that firm yet yielding mouth with his own once more, he had to meet her as his own man. Not as a penniless adventurer, working day-to-day in an aimless series of jobs. Nor as Destiny’s plaything, existing only as a recepticle of a woman’s desire. How much more would she respect him if he had achieved tangible success!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And – the thought, pleasingly surprising, took him aback – how much more would he respect her if she asked for him back on her own terms! No more the certainty that his questing tongue and a glint of his ice-blue eyes would be enough to secure a woman’s love; he had to deserve Topaz’s desire, her heart… her body. He had to earn happiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">His torso rippling lithely and with a new certainty in his gait, Cleft rose and turned his back on Paradise Heights, the brightness of a new day now gleaming on its hoardings and fencing. And with a determined smile curling the corners of his wide, sculpted mouth, he strode back to the jeep and drove away from Paradise Heights without looking back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-19449305257130589502012-02-15T15:31:00.004+00:002012-02-15T16:18:06.168+00:00Part 45 – Wrong Direction<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I haven’t been blogging with my usual monotony lately, what with having the kitchen replaced and moving in with parents for 10 days and trying to keep up with work and flooding new kitchen with stagnant water. And what with Anna taking <i>ages</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> to come up with this little number.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I was keen to see where she’d go next, because it feels as if we’re making a new beginning with this part of the story. And I don’t agree with her direction: Topaz must be in the driving seat from now on, otherwise no one will believe that we have our fingers on the pulse of modern, kick-ass womanhood. I can’t quite see her chipping her nail polish building Paradise Heights herself, but Cleft cannot do it for her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I don’t know what’s harder: dealing with ballsy women or describing them Doing It. But we must face up to our responsibilities, and once again Anna has shirked them (the ballsy women bit, I mean). Nicely written, though.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 45 (by Anna)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The first milky light of dawn had yet to seep over the bristling hills and valleys as the jeep ground its way up the dusty spiral. A puny moon hung over the mountain side, its beams too feeble to challenge the blackness of the windows and pick out the taut figure within.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Cleft, wrenching at the wheel with one calloused hand, stared fixedly ahead, his shades making a double darkness as the track uncurled almost invisibly before him. There was a thudding from the back as errant stones pitched his cargo from one side of the vehicle to the other, but the noise was a pleasing one. Cleft thought with grim satisfaction of his tools, each one as familiar and dependable as his own flesh, that had carved his progress across the globe. Now they faced the most vital challenge of their shared existence; to carve out his future, his happiness, his life.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And here was the canvas: the arid plateau faintly etched in the fading darkness, the air already pulsing with insect life. Time was short, he knew. Paradise Heights, that drew him like a magnet, would draw Topaz too, and Terence, as the three executed the complex, agonised, intimate dance to which Fate had condemned them. He had this single chance, to build with his own sweat and blood, the future: to offer it, unconditionally, to the woman who had both enslaved and liberated him; to acknowledge that he came as a supplicant, with only raw muscle and a blazing heart to recommend him; that paradise was not in his gift, but hers, and he must trust her to choose the rightful recipient.<o:p></o:p></span></div>A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-48741764492340755672012-02-12T14:35:00.003+00:002012-02-12T20:35:35.839+00:00The sunny side of life<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">There’s not much sunshine around in February, so we have to make our own. Which, presumably, is why this meme is doing the rounds. I’ve been memed by the redoubtable <a href="http://adventuresofamiddle-agedmatron.blogspot.com/">Middle-Aged Matron</a>, who, being the co-creator of Topaz ’n’ Cleft, I shall berate privately.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Not that I don’t like memes and tags and links and things – it’s just that this one isn’t the most galvanizing one I’ve seen. But nor is it the most difficult – that honour goes to <a href="http://motherventing.wordpress.com/">Motherventing</a>, whose tagging of me is still in development but should be along soon, given how long it is taking Anna to come up with the next instalment of <i>Desire Be My Destiny</i></span><span lang="EN-US">. Too busy meme-ing, I suppose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Anyway, this meme requires me to answer the following questions in order to win a February Sunshine Award. Here goes:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Favourite colour?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Blue. Green. Bluey green. Eau de nil. Whatever.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Favourite animal?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Cat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Favourite non-alcoholic drink?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Tea. Hell, it’s my favourite <i>drink</i></span><span lang="EN-US">. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Facebook or Twitter?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Twitter, of course. Do I look like someone who wants their identity stolen by sinister Californian geeks?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Favourite number?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Five. Probably because of using fingers to add up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Favourite day of the week?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I work from home – all days of the week are the same and days off don’t feel like days off. Thursday, then, because after-school football doesn’t end until 4.30, giving me an extra hour of sanity.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Getting or giving presents?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">That rather depends on the present. I have been known to get and give the same present in one seamless sequence; glad to get it (initially), equally glad to give it to Oxfam.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Favourite pattern?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">What’s that supposed to mean? The only pattern I know the name of is the Greek key pattern, and that’s quite ugly. I’m rather partial to William Morris wallpaper; does that count?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Favourite flower?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Cut, garden or wild? Cut: anenome. Garden: Verbena. Wild: primrose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Now let’s pass the sunshine on: fancy having a go, <a href="http://www.chezmummy.com/">Chez Mummy</a>, <a href="http://ayearinlancashire.blogspot.com/">A Year in Lancashire</a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"> and <a href="http://chaptersofclaire.blogspot.com/">Chapters of Claire</a>? </span>A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-78085564196747243252012-02-06T10:34:00.000+00:002012-02-06T10:34:11.055+00:00Part 44 – Reputation trepidation<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>307</o:Words> <o:Characters>1752</o:Characters> <o:Lines>14</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>2151</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Two things worry me. First, that my readers think I really am a Mills & Boon wannabe. Second, that my readers think I share Topaz’s taste in interior decoration.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 44 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Half an hour later Topaz was following the Armani suit across the cool dim of the apartment-block lobby: veined marble, deep-polished mahogany, the diffident gleam of bronze and antique mirrors. Then the sucking swish of the apartment’s heavy door opening, and Topaz saw the apartment that held her future. She cast a desultory glance around the entrance hall, barely taking in the glimpses of spacious room, the sparkle of the ocean beyond the enswathing picture windows.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Yeah, I’ll take it.’ Her voice was flat, unenthusiastic. For what was there to pique her enthusiasm for anything now? It was just a pad, somewhere to exist, while her existence flickered to life again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Yet there was a spark still, somewhere deep within, as her thoughts turned to Paradise Heights and the plans she had for the beloved site that seemed to be the ever-drawing focus of her destiny. Already she could see the finished house: pink marble nudging against amber-tinted glass; the deep gloss of black granite offsetting the gold taps in the bathrooms; the spiral staircase, a dazzling swathe of snowy marble twining around a waterfall cascading two storeys through the atrium into a frosted-glass bowl illuminated in alternating shades of green and peach. Perfection. A showcase. A new life.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">That night Topaz lay in the wide copper bath in her Guadalphin suite and flicked through the contacts on her i-phone. Not, this time, the list of friends who would be flying in that week for the latest round of house parties, or docking their superyachts for the next charity reception; nor yet the fashion houses and spas whose numbers she knew by heart anyway. No: construction companies, builders’ merchants, heavy vehicle hire were now her focus and her passion. By midnight, when she slid between the cool purple satin sheets, Topaz had arranged tomorrow’s schedule. ‘It’s down to business now, girl’, she said out loud: and she smiled as she fell asleep.</span><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-52277520235212305242012-01-31T10:13:00.000+00:002012-01-31T10:13:40.220+00:00Part 43 – Men: who needs ’em?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>505</o:Words> <o:Characters>2884</o:Characters> <o:Lines>24</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>5</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>3541</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Who needs a man? Well, every Mills & Boon heroine, naturally; and probably Mills & Boon readers too. But in the modern age it is not the Done Thing for a heroine to <i>need</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> a man. She can want one; she can adore one; hell, she can even buy one, what with escort agencies advertising in <i>The Times</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> these days. But she mustn’t <i>need</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> one.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">So we are toughening Topaz up. For far too long Desire has been her Destiny. For the past 42 posts she has been Fate’s plaything. That won’t do. She must take control, be her own woman, live life on her own kick-ass terms, not Cleft’s musky ones.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Can you imagine Topaz doing that? Neither can I. But this is Modern Romance, and we need to up the modernity. So here Anna starts cutting Topaz free from the shackles of Desire to face a new dawn of independent self-fulfillment. Prepare to suspend disbelief.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 43 (by Anna)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">For now there was a different priority, however. Her womanly contours were caressed once more in the silks and weaves to which they were accustomed. Her burned chafed skin was burnished by Eden’s expert fingers into a healthy apricot glow and there was a pleasing shimmer of silver from her new fibreglass nail extensions as she adjusted the Scheherazade gemstone necklace at her throat. But with her past sloughed off like her soil-stained rags and her future a pile of untamed breeze blocks on a mountain summit, she lacked one essential: a place to lay her newly coiffed head.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz paused for a moment on the simmering pavement. She could see her reflection fragmented in the the lacquered quilting of her Marc Jacobs hand bag. It seemed an omen.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I must become whole again,’ she thought, and the resolve propelled her along the boulevard, through the milling crowds and across a square bleached white in the sun and clustered with shaded tables where expensively groomed couples sat sipping early cocktails. Topaz gazed upon them with momentary hunger, then swiftly looked away. Too long ago, it seemed, that she too was a careless, leisured creature browsing unpriced menus.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Plate glass flashed in the light on either side of a gilded marble portico on the other side of the piazza. Exclusive Estates wove in gold letters across the pediment. As Topaz crossed the threshold, shedding the heat like a mantel and subsiding, almost, into the tomb-like cool, a young man in an Armani suit rose from his desk in greeting. ‘Can I help you, Madam?’ Topaz eyed him levelly. Did he know what he was asking? Was this stranger equipped to point her along fate’s byways?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Yeah, I need, like, a crash pad to rent as soon as,’ she told him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Minutes later she was enveloped in the black suede of a sofa, leafing through a sheaf of particulars. Apartments processed meaninglessly before her eyes. Vast apartments, intimate studios; apartments done out entirely in white, apartments balanced seemingly miraculously among the clouds with walls of glass and steel. Topaz stared tiredly, willing each one to spring to life; willing one of them to whisper ‘home’; willing the shadow of Cleft to be exorcised from the alien rooms she scrutinised.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I’ll look at this one,’ she said at last, plucking a sheet almost at random from the glossy pile. ‘Can I see it this afternoon? And can you get someone to book a room at the Guadalphin for as long as it takes?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Involuntarily she fingered her sheaf of gilded credit cards in their snakeskin casing. ‘You’re my future,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just you and me now, and we’re going to take on the world.’</span><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-65242442723247109522012-01-27T09:29:00.001+00:002012-01-27T09:31:09.460+00:00Around the World in 80 Words<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">A great idea from king of the bloggers, <a href="http://sahdandproud.wordpress.com/2012/01/22/around-the-world-in-80-words/#comment-1753">SAHDandproud</a>: a description of your favourite/least favourite/fantasy place in 80 words. A challenge is a challenge, and I cannot resist. Anyway, what with my kitchen being replaced and the house being a dusty, noisy hell-pit, the Literary Muse is avoiding me at the moment. This is easier. So come wiz me to ze Casbah, as Charles Boyer once said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Marrakech. Spice-scented air; night blossoms; shimmering pools reflected in ancient tiles of voluptuous hue. The bustle and swirl of the casbah; the click and whirr of crickets in parched gardens. Shifty men offering drugs in the streets. A starving goat bleating incessantly, only partly drowned out by the chainsaw screaming beneath the window. Stains dotting the dining room carpet. And the sudden skid of my shoe under the breakfast table as my foot hits a slippery pile of cat shit.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Why not go to SAHD’s <a href="http://www.linkytools.com/wordpress_list.aspx?id=126696&type=basic">linky thing</a> and have a look at where everyone else has been? Eat your heart out, <i>Lonely Planet</i></span><span lang="EN-US">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-7646642762755114292012-01-25T15:08:00.002+00:002012-01-25T15:08:28.090+00:00Part 42 – In Which Topaz Regains Her Sparkle<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>719</o:Words> <o:Characters>4100</o:Characters> <o:Lines>34</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>8</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>5035</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I am entering decidedly female territory here. Not that romance fiction isn’t feminine terrain in itself, but at least the romantic urge is a universal phenomenon. Beauty treatments and designer clothes, on the other hand, are not; it should be Anna writing this bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">But I think perhaps <i>Desire Be My Destiny</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> has too much grit and not enough glam, what with building sites, fly-blown hovels and broken limbs, and I don’t want to lose my girlier readers. Luckily, I am sufficiently metrosexual to know the difference between a jacuzzi and one of those tanks where fish eat your feet, so am risking an excursion into pink fluffydom for the benefit of those who like that sort of thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 42 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The voice that answered, hissing slightly through the iphone, was so familiar, yet so strange; a voice from another life, Topaz thought, from when she was still a girl, not the woman that she had budded into, so swiftly, so thrillingly, over the past… could it really be just over a week?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Eden, it’s Topaz Eversleigh-Brinkworth.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Topaz! <i>So</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> long time no see! Are you back in Marbella?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Almost – Malaga at the mo. Can you fit me in tomorrow?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Of course. What’s it to be – your usual Buff and Fluff Express?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I’m, like, so in need of more than that!’ Topaz smiled ruefully to herself. Eden would not recognise her if she could see her now: nails ragged, hair unkempt, legs scratched and toes scuffed. ‘Can you give me the full works?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘You mean the Princess Pamper Package? Sure. Sounds like you’re out to impress someone!’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And, smiling again at the irony, Topaz clicked the iphone off.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Shortly after dawn, Topaz checked herself out of the hospital, invigoured by her new plans, her new start. Nervous now of cabs and their drivers, she hired a VW Golf on her father’s account with Malaga Executive Motor Solutions and drove the hour to Marbella in a zest of new-found freedom.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">As the hot wind caressed her forehead, her lobes, her nape through the open window, part of her could not help swelling with the memory of other hot nudges in her secret places, other summer zephyrs that had played on her slim, taut body, albeit under skies of amethyst, not the lapis of today.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">She pulled up outside the Garden of Eden heedless of parking restrictions and lurking wardens: there were some aspects of her old life that she was pleased to embrace once more. And there was Eden to greet her, to shepherd her swiftly into Marbella’s most ultra-chic spa and salon, away from the paparazzi who patrolled the streets outside with monotonous unpredictability. The marble floor felt cool under Topaz’s thin Manolo soles and the air conditioning sent chill fingers under the thin stuff of her Prada sheath, frayed now and rubbed rough on the hard-baked Spanish soil.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Facial first, then all-over deep muscle aromatherapy massage, hot pebble back re-alignment ritual and organic exfoliating body detox. Finally, Topaz’s favourite: Eden’s Blingertip manicure and pedicure special. Then, lightly fingering her platinum AmEx card, Topaz flipped the iphone to life once more and made a rapid few calls to her favourite Marbella boutiques. Eden, she knew, would let her view a selection from the Paris Spring collections in the private suite when the stores had sent her personal shoppers over with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz leaned back in the cream leather recliner and pressed the frosted glass of chilled Pinot Grigio refreshingly to her breast. Before her, racks of Prada and Dior shimmered voluptuously; Juicy Couture and Dolce & Gabbana blinged lusciously against Eden’s calming taupe décor; Armani and Versace jostled for primacy in her fine-tuned vision. Deftly, Topaz drew together her new wardrobe: new not for the sake of novelty, as she had always shopped in the past; new for the new her, the new life that was, even now, opening like a bougainvillea blossom in the misty haze of a bright new dawn.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And she knew she had come home, to herself and to her vocation. Picking out the must-have designs, assembling ensembles that spiced decorum with daring was what she did best. Just a small step sideways to assembling rooms, interiors, homes in the same way. And where better to start than in Paradise Heights? Why should she not build the villa herself as a showcase for her own taste and flair, a calling-card for a new career creating the ultimate in opulent homes for the international jet set?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz let her mind wander through the white rooms of Brinkworth Place, and she realised that her loving thoughts were not for the parents who lived there but for the exquisite furnishings that, for her, made the house a home: the life-size porcelain cheetahs that flanked the chrome fireplace in the den; the smoked-glass dining table supported by three gilded dolphins; the bronze Venus de Milo studded all over with 100,000 Swarovski crystals. With such a heritage, Topaz’s calling suddenly seemed pre-ordained. And for the first time in days, certainty surged through her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-22649200384065860222012-01-23T12:17:00.000+00:002012-01-23T12:17:58.258+00:00Part 41 – In for a Penny...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>24</o:Words> <o:Characters>141</o:Characters> <o:Lines>1</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>173</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I feel I should pay some kind of tribute to Penny Jordan. No, me neither, but apparently she was Mills & Boon’s most prolific author, and I’ve been reading her <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/9026164/Penny-Jordan.html">obituary</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>437</o:Words> <o:Characters>2491</o:Characters> <o:Lines>20</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>4</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>3059</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">It raises two points which are relevant to the work in hand. First, and I quote from the obit here, ‘Penny Jordan admitted… that she found it difficult to write the sex scenes (Mills & Boon couples usually do it at least twice per book), observing that it is difficult to find new ways of writing about male and female genitalia without sounding silly. In any case, the sex was not the most important aspect: “The appeal of romance is love,” she declared. “And that’s universal.”’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">My point exactly. If she couldn’t do Doing It, how am I supposed to? And TWICE? I know M&B is supposed to be escapist, but that’s pushing plausibility, surely? Anyway, Penny’s reticence has vindicated my own coyness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Second, reading samples of Penny’s prose makes me think that, spoof though it may be, <i>Desire Be My Destiny</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> is actually pretty spot-on, stylistically. Take this typical passage, for instance:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘She risked a second nervous look at the strong, almost cruel lines of his face, the nose that spoke of a lineage that went back to the days when Wales was the birthplace of men born to lead others; the tight aristocratic line of his jaw; and most of all, that almost shockingly sexual, rich, thick hair that for some reason had her fingers curling into protestingly protective small fists as she fought against their instinctive urge to reach out and touch it.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Maybe I have a future with Mills & Boon after all. Just as long as they don’t expect me to read any more of their books.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And now, on with the show…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 41 (by Anna)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Later, much later, when the sun, a swollen red orb, had slithered behind the brown rim of mountains, when Topaz’s charcoal lashes had dampened with memories, when the wall-eyed nurse had checked the bedside monitor and crept from the room, Topaz’s weary fingers found the square of paper. The words on the envelope, penned in an unfamiliar hand blurred and danced before her. Unfamiliar, and yet only one hand could have scrawled those powerful thrusts and curves.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">A manicured forefinger twitched at the seal, then stilled. Fragments of remembrance, jagged, tortured, seared through her mind. Her head burned on the white pillow and the envelope slipped to the floor. She knew what must lie within it, could feel the heat of the unread words, but she knew that if she were to be true to herself, to become the woman she must be, she must wean her heart of its intoxication.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">As she lay there in the gathering dimness, the sound of other peoples’ busy-ness clattering down the corridor, faint forms shaped themselves in her mind. The past tethered her. She must throw off its bonds. She had shown herself that she could live without her parents’ wealth. Now she must prove that she could live without Cleft.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">And Terence? She had promised she would compensate him for his sacrifice. She would keep that promise, but her flesh would not be the currency. As for the future, she would forge her own destiny. Half smiling as she made her vow, she reached for her iphone and began to tap in a number.</span><!--EndFragment--> <br />
<!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-15751768475432374782012-01-19T09:42:00.001+00:002012-01-19T09:58:54.795+00:00Part 40 – Reality Check, or Why Mills & Boon Have Unrealistic Expectations<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Writing <i>Desire Be My Destiny</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> is heaps of fun, and I hope reading it is too. But I have my doubts about whether it will find a huge following among the genuine Romance afficionados out there. Not because it isn’t brilliantly written, witty and emotionally acute, of course, but because I have just read on the Mills & Boon ‘<a href="http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/AAIntro.asp">tips for aspiring authors</a>’ these chilling words:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘First, we expect you to enjoy reading romance fiction. If you are already a fan, your appreciation for this type of book will be apparent in the writing. If you have not done so already, we encourage you to read many, many books from each series.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Many, <i>many</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> books? I simply can’t. I have read half a book – two chapters of one about a magic wedding dress, which was such drivel I felt my brain dribbling out of one ear as I read it; and about four chapters of <i>The Greek Billionaire’s Lovechild’s Mother’s Revenge</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> (or something), which, although well written and plotted, didn’t exactly strike an intellectual chord. Or any other kind of chord, come to think of it: I certainly didn’t <a href="http://millsandboonwannabe.blogspot.com/2011/11/part-10-research-findings.html">clench any pages</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">That’s not to say I’m not susceptible to the thrill of romance – one of my favourite films is <i>Random Harvest</i></span><span lang="EN-US">, for crying out loud. But maybe I should have known that, being English, middle-class and male – not to mention having my own sister as a co-author – I faced an uphill struggle. Still, I’d rather have a laugh than clench a page. As long as you’re laughing with me…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 40 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz had moved away from where Terence sat in the dust. She stood facing the sea, rippling far below Paradise Heights like a great swathe of indigo silk, lace-edged with the tiny waves splintering silently on the beaches that swept out of sight towards Marbella. A view that she had dreamed of seeing from the windows of her marital home – until last week. A Mediterranean idyll that had promised a secure, luxurious future – until last week. All of this was what could have been. No more.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And the alternative? She had seen her true destiny marked for her in the sinewy arms of Cleft; a future of new promise and thrilling uncertainty, save for the knowledge that she had found that all-consuming love that she had never imagined would be hers. No more. And with a small sob, Topaz caught the full pout of her lower lip between her perfect white teeth and allowed a tear to moisten the corner of one eye.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">A groan behind her, and Topaz turned, remembering Terence. He had slumped now, the anaesthetising effect of laughter, surprise and relief having evaporated in the merciless sun. His leg rigid against its makeshift splint, he had fainted again. Suddenly Topaz was confronted with the full force of the situation. Terence seriously injured. No food or water in the blazing Spanish heat. The i-phone out of range of a signal. And Cleft gone, and with him all her dreams of happiness and trust and love.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Never had Topaz felt so helpless, so alone. With a low moan, she leaned against the gnarled trunk of an ancient olive tree – the tree around which she had planned the central glass atrium of the villa which destiny was drawing inexorably away from her grasp.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">In the shimmering heat she seemed to see a jumble of jagged images: Brinkworth Place, a swirl of gilt and crystal, tinted glass, white leather and mirrored walls; the dampness of the summer house and the musky trophy hidden within; her mother’s magenta gash of a mouth snapping ‘You will not leave this place until you are wed’; the darkness and fear of her flea-bitten mountain prison; Duncan Dunkley looming unexpectedly out of the Spanish sun; Terence, lessened by pain and betrayal yet so much more a man; and, through it all, Cleft, striding confidently into her destiny – and out of it, his broad back diminishing down the mountainside. And she ebbed into blessed unconsciousness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">So Topaz did not hear the firm footfall drawing closer to the the plateau of Paradise Heights; did not see the manly form mount the ridge, the sun’s rays fanning behind it like the alcove of a Baroque shrine; did not feel the hard yet tender hands lift her effortlessly, caressingly, from the stones beneath the twisted olive. She was oblivious to the cool, soft interior of the ambulance that waited on the track below, and to the efficient hands that immediately attended to Terence’s injured legs and swabbed her dust-caked flesh.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Perhaps there was some part of her inner being that thrust longingly upwards at the feel of the soft kisses planted on her yielding mouth, on the hot eyelids that were shut at last to the trauma of recent days, on the palms of her still-manicured hands. But she could not have known the newness of those kisses; their velvet tenderness, urgent no longer but profound and sobering in their depth and intensity.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">She slept dreamlessly in the hospital bed, unaware of the tall, dark man keeping unceasing vigil by her bedside. It was only when her eyelids fluttered open and the room started coming into focus that he rose and, slipping an envelope onto the pillow among her tousled honeyed locks, walked silently from the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-16239190935431108742012-01-17T16:17:00.002+00:002012-01-17T22:43:10.979+00:00Part 39 – Cleft Bereft<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Well, Mills & Boon expect it – a Parting of the Ways – but I think they expect it a bit sooner than this. I hope this doesn’t mean we’re only half way through this opus.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">What’s worrying me is that without Cleft around to define her and provoke periodic low moans, Topaz is going to have to become her own woman. And I honestly don’t think there’s enough going on beneath those tousled tawny tresses to justify any kind of independent life at all…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 39 (by Anna)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">When he was out of sight Cleft sagged. He sank down onto a low rock, his elbows on his wide-spread knees and his tousled head in his hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Goddam it!’ he hissed through clenched white teeth. He kicked savagely at a stone with his booted foot and sent it scuttering over the precipice. Its rattling progress echoed with startling intensity in the still and waiting air. The sun was hoisted high in the sky now and burned viciously down on the slumpled figure on the mountainside, but Cleft was heedless of time and place and of the rivulets of sweat sliding down his muscled grooves.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Goddam it!’ he ejaculated again. Fury subsumed him. Fury at himself for the crass joke born of jealousy and fury at his own vulnerability to this woman, this almost-stranger, whose fluid brown eyes dissolved the barriers that had always shielded him from heartache<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Life had been accommodating to Cleft. Oh, he’d voyaged through stormy seas – walking out on his parents’ Californian ranch with only a fistful of dollars and his sunshades to make his own way in the world and drifting unfettered round the five continents. He’d laboured under unforgiving sun when the cash flow ran dry and prostrated his long lean body in bars and on beaches when his wallet was full. Romance for him had been a passtime, sometimes amusing, occasionally thrilling, but always transitory as his restless spirit propelled him on to the next new horizon. It had been in many ways a hard life, but he had always been at the controls.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Until now. Or rather until that evening that seemed an eternity ago when a stranger’s profile had lassooed his heart. Now the unfolding horizons had shrunk; the aimlessness evaporated. Cleft had confronted his destiny and found that it resisted his control. For the first time in his life he experienced doubt.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Formerly the rugged beauty of his rippling bronzed body had been his currency. It had always sufficed. Now he looked inwards and wondered. Was he as much Man within as without? Was Terence, behind that scrawny yellow-tinged surface, perhaps nobler than he? He had been prepared to sacrifice his future for the woman he loved. He had perceived through those watering myopic eyes that Cleft was her irresistible fate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Cleft understood at that moment that it was not enough to desire Topaz; he had to deserve her. Slowly he raised his head. His path was clear now. He knew what he must do. With an ease that defied the exertions of the night he rose to his feet, tilted his chiselled features towards the sun and wordlessly made his vow.</span></div>A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-71339056447369251542012-01-14T08:00:00.000+00:002012-01-14T08:00:37.449+00:00Saturday is Caption Day<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I love <a href="http://mammasaurus.co.uk/">Mammasaurus</a> – she’s full of ways to entice the witty, the curious and the simply prurient to blogs near and far. Like this fun caption linky thingy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I like to think she does it because she loves us all, but it’s probably to get a good laugh out of our bad home décor and hamfisted attempts at photography. Never mind. Just post a caption to this photo and boost my stats while you’re at it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRWAYs4l9KK_SpriXTK_mebL6BxOPZQSN5NMtB4AHnhWKygLMWo9-_ndP5fut9aeRTbRCQiWFHirwuWA9wSsqgQc8DY38dBVG-F8_znSItRe9Ox14P5fjI9dDbo_5XXhWCCpOEop78adGa/s1600/S7000442.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRWAYs4l9KK_SpriXTK_mebL6BxOPZQSN5NMtB4AHnhWKygLMWo9-_ndP5fut9aeRTbRCQiWFHirwuWA9wSsqgQc8DY38dBVG-F8_znSItRe9Ox14P5fjI9dDbo_5XXhWCCpOEop78adGa/s400/S7000442.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div>A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-50232462323937440852012-01-13T16:52:00.000+00:002012-01-13T16:52:31.792+00:00Part 38 – Split Lit.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>579</o:Words> <o:Characters>3305</o:Characters> <o:Lines>27</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>6</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>4058</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I love it when things write themselves. I got so carried away with this touching scene that Cleft’s interjection was quite spontaneous. Timely, though: Mills & Boon require a falling out and a separation. Trouble is, they also require a reunion, and while I’d like to think that means a catch-up over a nice cup of tea, I rather think that on Planet Romance it means Doing It.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 38 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">For a while in the silence that followed, the air seemed to thrum still with the roar of the BMW’s engine, the ground to throb with the whirr of its tyres. Somewhere a stone clattered gently, loosened by the whisk and scratch of a lizard’s tail. Then the stillness thinned, and Topaz spoke first.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I’m sorry, Terence,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t mean…’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I know.’ Terence’s face was set, staring down at the the yellow toenails protruding from his sandals. ‘But maybe it’s for the best. I need a new start, new challenges. And –’ his face breaking into a grin ‘– it’s time Dad learnt a lesson. I’m the one to teach it to him!’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz reached out her hand and touched Terence’s arm, warmly, comfortably, and they smiled at each other gravely. Behind them, still towering against the azure sky, Cleft watched through his mirrored shades, his eyes shielded but his mouth suddenly tight.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Listen,’ Topaz said. ‘This is all my fault. It’s not fair that you should lose everything because of me. I’m going to make it up to you. No, there’s no going back,’ she said quickly, seeing hope spark fleetingly in Terence’s eyes, ‘but I’ll make sure you’re OK.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Oh Topaz,’ Terence stammered, flushing with emabarrassment and self-consciously fingering his collar. ‘I’d really rather you didn’t…’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Ha!’ The derisive snort erupted from Cleft before he could stop it. Topaz and Terence looked up, startled.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I beg your pardon?’ Topaz’s voice was icy, even as the surges that she felt rippling through her inmost parts as she beheld anew his taut beauty sent heat flaming through her body. Cleft paused awkardly before saying: ‘Sorry. But if I’d realised how easy it was to touch you for cash, I’d have tried it myself.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">He had intended to indulge the jealousy that, for the first time, a woman was arousing in his breast: to deflate Terence and break the comfortable intimacy that seemed to be burgeoning between him and Topaz. Too late he realised that his quip had fired its poisonous dart into the wrong target entirely.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz gasped and stared, her stunned face twice reflected in Cleft’s shades. She saw herself in miniature fixed rigid in that blind gaze, as memories of the shabby jeep, the flaking room at the inn, Cleft’s rootless – impoverished – existence came jostling in. Then she saw the tiny Topazes raise a hand and run it through their tousled tawny manes before the fists clenched with determined finality.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Get out of here,’ she said, levelly, low, crumbling silently within as the words came out almost without her noticing. ‘I never want to see you again.’ Knowing, even so, that every fibre of her being shrieked for his touch, his hard lips on hers, the enveloping warmth of that deep manly scent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Please, Topaz, you don’t understand –’ Cleft began.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘But I do. I have undertood people like you since I was old enough to know that my wealth makes me a target for every gold-digger on the planet. Daddy was right.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘No!’ Cleft did not hear the rising urgency in his voice. ‘It was just a silly joke. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean…’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I know what you meant. That’s why I never want to see you again.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And Topaz’s voice was so flint-sharp, her face so terrible in its resolve even as inside she churned with anguish and loss, that Cleft knew that it was useless to respond. He held both hands up, palms outwards, and backed away slowly. Then, with a shrug that spoke too loudly of forced bravura, he turned and began walking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Topaz watched numbly as the dust rose in ochre billows behind him, so that even before he descended below the lip of Paradise Heights Cleft’s figure was lost to her.</span><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-59363094791253942652012-01-11T18:28:00.003+00:002012-01-11T19:23:53.964+00:00Part 37 – Very Terry<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I am now worried that Terence is far too prominent a character for the Mills & Boon guidelines to countenance. He’s also far too likeable – mainly, I think, because my brother-in-law got the idea that Terence was based on him, so we felt obliged to treat him gently.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">So I think this must be the last of Terence. From now on he needs to withdraw gracefully. Oh heck, that means we’re left with only the panting and the moaning…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 37 (by Anna)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Duncan Dunkley made no reply. Instead he bent slightly, the shadow of his Panama eclipsing the pale gleam of Terence’s face. A bony hand reached out and prodded Terence’s injured shin. Terence let out a cry and his father straightened. There was a silence, briefly, on the moutainside save for the itchy whirr of insects and a metallic exhalation from the huge BMW. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Terence subsided into the hot dust, his gaze fixed on his father with a mixture of alarm and defiance. Topaz’s eyes darted between the two men as she rose slowly to her feet and Cleft stood waiting, his muscled legs planted wide on the rocky ground and his face inscrutable behind his sunglasses. When Duncan Dunkley spoke his voice cut the humid air like ice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I assume,’ he addressed Terence, ‘that this cheery little outing is to check the progress of your marital home.’ He smiled mirthlessly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Terence shivered, whether from pain or fear Topaz could not tell. She put out a hand to touch his hunched shoulder, then turned calmly to face her intended father-in-law.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I know what your game is,’ she told him. ‘And I’m not playing it. There will be no wedding next week and you’d better accept it.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Mr Dunkley turned as though she had not spoken and fixed his gaze on his prostrate son.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Do not confuse spinelessness with nobility,’ he said quietly. ‘Dunkleys never surrender. Defeat is not in our blood. How do you think we got where we are today? Through backbone and initiative, that's how.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">A flame of anger ignited Terence’s face.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘And where are we now?’ he asked bitterly. ‘Near bankruptcy. Stealing the freedom and fortune of an innocent young woman to get us out of the hole. You call that backbone do you? You call that initiative? I call it cowardly, invidious skulduggery.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Duncan Dunkley froze. Topaz watched disbelief turn to fury in his cold grey eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Fine words,’ he said contemptuously. ‘And that’s all they are, Terence – words. I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake here. If there’s no marriage, there’s no family business and those words are going to sound pretty hollow to you when you have to give up your private suite, your comfortable allowance, your social standing.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Terence snorted. He was half upright now, his face blazing with emotion.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘It’s you who worships wealth, not me,’ he said. ‘I don’t give a toss for any of those things. Oh sure, it’s nice to have a soft bed and a string of servants, but I don’t need any of it. I went along with your dirty little scheme because I didn’t realise then just how unimportant those things are, but I’ve changed.’ He glanced at Topaz. ‘Life’s not about what you have and who you are; it’s about what you give, and I pity you, Dad, because that’s a lesson you've never learned.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The old man’s stillness was frightening. He stood there cool as stone under the burning sun and even his lips seemed barely to move as he spoke.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘You need to understand, Terence, that if you disobey me, you are no longer any son of mine. You will no longer have your rooms at The Winnings and your allowance will cease forthwith. Do you comprehend me? No home, no income and precious little talent for earning one.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Terence swallowed hard. Topaz could see the conflict that crippled him. She stepped forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Terence has nothing to fear,’ she said levelly. ‘You are the loser in this, Mr Dunkley. One day you’ll realise that.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Duncan Dunkley’s mouth twitched beneath his Panama.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘You’ll regret this,’ he replied. ‘All three of you will. One day, sooner than you think, you’ll be begging me for mercy.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">He turned his immaculate shoes, incongruous against the gritty dust, and climbed smoothly into his 4 x4. The engine belched into life and with a lurch that shot a billow of dust over the trio the vehicle roared away down the track.<o:p></o:p></span></div>A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-74798422895511525882012-01-10T19:47:00.000+00:002012-01-10T19:47:30.394+00:00Part 36 – An Unexpected Arrival<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>472</o:Words> <o:Characters>2692</o:Characters> <o:Lines>22</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>5</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>3305</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I know, I know – I have no idea how Mr Dunkley got there either. But my self-imposed rules forbid me to make any revisions. Maybe if I’d never mentioned it you wouldn’t have questioned his appearance. So let’s pretend I never did.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 36 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The pounding rhythm of Cleft’s tread was hypnotic. Every step was a shudder coursing through Topaz’s being, and as she drank in the tangy musk that simmered from his sweat-soaked body, her eyes remained fixed on the clenching tautness of Cleft’s denim-clad buttocks, flexing inches before her face.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Then a groan reminded her that Terence dangled alongside her. Glancing at him, she saw the pale face sequinned with sweat, the spectacles dangling absurdly in his sparse hairline and the whites of his eyes showing between his half-closed lids. And as he scrambled back to consciousness and caught her stare in his, a look somewhere between longing and loathing seemed to shimmer across his face. Then his mouth twisted into a kind of smile and he gasped ‘Oh, my dear!’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Such was the delight that shone through the parched croak of his voice, the pallour of his moist face, that Topaz was smote with a feeling she had never felt before: shame. The impact came not so much from the nature of her sentiment as from the realization that this was the first time she had ever felt anything forceful at all for Terence.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">She gasped as she saw the truth at last: through years of childish friendship and family expectation, Terence had quietly occupied a corner of her being. No matter how fast she ran towards Cleft, no matter how the endgame played out, she would always have to accept that Terence was there, somewhere, in her destiny.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Terence’s cheek was growing red where it rubbed and knocked against Cleft’s denim buttock. Topaz began to feel sick from the swaying motion mingled with the heavy scent of Cleft’s man-musk. And whatever bond had appeared between Topaz and Terence, it was now strengthened as they looked each other straight in the eye, bobbing and swaying upside down – and both let the laughter come.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">At once Cleft halted. ‘What’s up?’ he growled, breathless through effort and irritation. But as he swung them off his shoulders, Topaz and Terence laughed all the more, until Cleft had no choice but to join in. Lying on the rock-strewn Spanish dust, all three laughed away the weeks of confrontation, conspiracy and confusion.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Terence spoke first. ‘Look here, Cleft’ he said, weak from mirth and pain. ‘It’s time to end this ridiculous charade. We’re old enough to be frank with each other: I love Topaz – truly I do, dear. Topaz likes me, but she loves you. Nothing will change that, so I’m not going to try.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Terence!’ gasped Topaz, catching her full lower lip between the glacier whiteness of her teeth. And for the first time in her eyes, he seemed to become something like a man. ‘But what about your father?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Indeed. What about me?’ The voice cut in like a knife, and, looking up, the three saw the substantial figure of a sweating man, his white suit tightly buttoned against the Mediterranean heat, a crisp Panama shading his face and a glossy black 4x4 looming expensively behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Dad!’ Terence paled still further and winced as he sat upright. ‘What are you doing here?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-79118996135120995692012-01-09T18:14:00.002+00:002012-01-09T18:14:35.409+00:00Part 35 – Scents and Sensibilities<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>634</o:Words> <o:Characters>3615</o:Characters> <o:Lines>30</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>7</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>4439</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">This is the sort of thing I like: a good bit of momentum in the plot. It would help if I knew what direction that momentum might be taking us, but one can’t have everything. And I’m not even going to think about what Mills & Boon would make of our characters constantly falling over, swooning and being generally flaky.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">One question for the ladies: is it attractive for Cleft to be constantly in need of a good wash? Because he’s exuding more pungent perfume in this, and it seems to me that anyone that whiffy must be a turn-off. Still, presumably Anna, being a woman, knows best. And maybe I’m too metrosexual, what with my soap and deodorant and stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 35 (by Anna)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘All right. You win this round. But I’ll make sure it’s a hollow victory. What are you but a lump of brawn and musk? She’ll tire of you, don’t you doubt it, but I won’t wait even that short while. I’m on your case, Stone, and you’ll never be rid of me until you give me back what’s mine.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">A low moan somewhere behind his left ankle caused him to turn. Topaz had raised her head, the imprint of the hard, puckered ground flaming on her tanned cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Terence stepped over to her prone figure and, not ungently, caught her wrists and drew her upright. She felt his skinny fingers damp against his skin. Involuntarily her black eyes flickered over to where Cleft towered. Terence saw the look and snorted.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘He’s yours,’ he said, ‘for the moment. But think carefully before you surrender your family’s fortune on a whim. I'’l be waiting for you when you change your mind.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz’s lips moved to form a reply, but no words came, only a tortured shuddering gasp which seemed to exhale the tears of centuries. Terence paused. His resolve seemed momentarily shaken by her crumpled anguish. Then, indefatigably, he hitched his sagging Bermudas and swung round towards the descending track. Blindly, he strode.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Too blindly. There was a cry, a raw animal sound, a scruffling of stones and a small plume of dust. Then silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Cleft’s shades flashed jagged darts of sunlight as he turned. Topaz scrambled to her bruised feet, unheeding of the pain, fear pulsing visibly in her delicate throat as she peered through the radiance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The dust cloud shimmied briefly in the hot white light then sank back to earth. Behind it lay a form, quite still, spread over the burning shingle. One leg was flung out at an angle. And a goat, possibly the same creature that had blocked Topaz’s path to her fiancé those few days that seemed a lifetime ago, was limping bleating into the undergrowth, its morning siesta ruptured by the painful impact of Terence’s blundering trajectory.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">In one easy stride Cleft moved over to his rival and crouched beside him. His bronzed hand reached out and touched Terence’s pallid leg.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Cracked femur,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t worry, mate, I’ve gotcha.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Terence’s eyes, bulging with pain and fear, fixed on him as he moved over to an ancient olive tree and with a single powerful twist snapped off a small branch.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I need a tie,’ he said, turning to Topaz. Their eyes locked for an instant and intuitively their minds worked as one. Wrenching at her Kurt Geiger sandal, she unwound the leather ankle strap and held it out to Cleft.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">It vanished almost into the hugeness hand as he bore it to his mouth and, savouring swiftly the intimate scent of the woman he loved, he caught the strap between his white teeth and pulled. The leather cleaved like butter. Kneeling now he laid the branch against Terence’s damaged limb and, with deft gentleness, fixed it in place with the amputated thong. Then, delving for the bulge in his Levis, he drew out his iphone and punched in a number.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘No signal,’ he growled. ‘We’ve gotta get him outta here fast and get the leg seen to.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">He stooped and, inserting an arm beneath Terence’s shaking torso, he lifted him easily over his right shoulder. He turned to Topaz who, stepping gingerly after him, was trying to conceal the pain in her feet. He took a step back and, stabilising Terence’s long body against his collar bone, he wound his free arm around her slender waist to raise her and draped her over his free shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz, dangling against the soaked, salted fabric of his polo shirt, inhaled the spiced scent of his manliness as, impervious to the heat of the strengthening sun and the weight of his twin burden, he set off down the mountainside.</span></div><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-14776343661629496542012-01-08T15:28:00.000+00:002012-01-08T15:28:37.482+00:00Part 34 – Fight Club<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>515</o:Words> <o:Characters>2937</o:Characters> <o:Lines>24</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>5</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>3606</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Last time Terence and Cleft <a href="http://millsandboonwannabe.blogspot.com/2011/11/part-18-beta-males.html">confronted each other</a>, I copped out and admitted that I have no idea about the finer points of fisticuffs, and therefore am unqualified to write about them. But the wonder of writing fiction – especially spoof Romantic fiction – is that personal experience is the last thing you need. At least, I hope the authoress of my research tool, <i>The Greek Billionaire’s Love-Child’s Mother’s Revenge</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> (or something) didn’t experience what her heroine did.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">So at last Terence shows his Alpha side. It’s not very impressive, but good for him nonetheless.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 34 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The two men faced each other, spicing the air with the insistent tang of testosterone, the heavier musk of enmity. The space between them fizzed over Topaz’s prone figure, and both knew that the time of reckoning had come at last.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Cleft’s gaze was inscrutable behind the gloss of his shades. Motionless he stood, a slight pulse quickening the sculpted, hair-fringed hollow that showed in the bronze V of his open-neck shirt, ticking tense moments away. Terence swallowed once or twice and mopped his slick forehead with the sleeve of his linen jacket. Then he said:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Say goodbye to all this, Stone: you’re off the job. And –’ gesturing to Topaz’s slender body at his feet – ‘say goodbye to her too. This is where it ends between you.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Cleft opened his mouth in a silent snarl of contempt, then his lips curved into a smile, easy and slightly swaggering. ‘That depends,’ he said, evenly. ‘If you think you deserve her, you’ll put up a fight for her, man to man. So why not? Why not sort this out here and now? If you had what it takes, you would.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">What happened next took even Cleft by surprise. Terence looked up into Cleft’s face, shaking slightly, Cleft thought, with the sweat beading again on the pale dome of his forehead. Cleft felt almost sorry for this little man, so indecisive, so powerless in the pulsing presence of raw male strength. Then suddenly Cleft felt a blow to his stomach, and Terence was a ball of energy, bent double, launching his shoulders and fists into Cleft’s taut, muscular frame like a pugnacious goat tackling a mountainside.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Hopeless though Terence’s attack might have been, it unnerved Cleft momentarily so that he took three or four paces backwards before bracing himself against the onslaught of Terence’s frustration and anger. And in the brief pause between realisation and retaliation, Cleft knew that this fight could never be a fair one. The drooping Dunkley frame could never match the primeaval strength of Cleft’s chiselled body, as firm and as unyielding as weather-hewn granite, despite its unexpected nimbleness and the sharp, cutting blows that swiped Cleft’s thighs and abdomen. And small blame on Terence to fight for his woman – Cleft would have done the same himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">So Cleft unclenched the ball of a fist that his hand had involuntarily coiled into; instead he dodged and ducked, parried and recoiled so that in a short while Terence had vented his ire and his strength and subsided into a panting huddle on the very rock where once Cleft’s rough, tender hands had caressed the supple softness of Topaz’s body, felt through the flimsy stuff of her sundress to the bubbling wells of desire beneath.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">His jacket smeared with the dust of Paradise Heights and his wiry white legs still trembling from unaccustomed effort, Terence sat panting on the rock, looking with loathing at Cleft through the haze of thin hair that had straggled across his face. And when he spoke, he almost spat the words:<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-60235964397395538602012-01-06T14:06:00.002+00:002012-01-06T14:06:49.673+00:00Part 33 – Cop Out<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>384</o:Words> <o:Characters>2193</o:Characters> <o:Lines>18</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>4</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>2693</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Well. All that simmering, all that sighing, all that lip-melding. All for nothing. Anna has ducked her responsibilities and left Topaz still not Wholly Woman. I call that a really poor show.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 33 (by Anna)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Cleft’s mouth brushed her soft eyelids. His lips were hard, insistent and yet meltingly tender. She caught her long fingers in his tousled black hair and threw back her head in a movement of blissful abandonment. The lips instantly slipped to the warm silken curve of her neck. Muscled fingers teased the frilled boundaries of her top, then, abruptly Cleft rolled over and raised his torso so that his sculpted features blocked out the hanging moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘This is not how I wanted it to be,’ he said throatily. ‘Not here. We must find our paradise where Destiny planned it.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Topaz sank back onto the itchy ground. For a moment she was speechless. Her flesh simmered still with anticipation of the moment nearly realized; the moment when, by some mysterious musky alchemy she would become whole. Cleft was gazing at the tangled slopes rearing inexorably above them; his angular face, tinted by the moon, looked as flawless as Grecian marble.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘How’s the ankle holding up?’ he said, turning to her, so that the ethereal light faded from his cheeks and she read tiredness in his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘It’s fine!’ she lied, biting her lip against the burning throb.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Stooping, Cleft inserted his strong hands into the yielding hollows of her armpits and lifted her to her feet. Briefly, Topaz staggered against him and briefly she was held, hard, urgently, and then, moving as one through the seeping moonlight, they began to climb.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Night gathered protectingly around them. Tendrils of bushes reached out and plucked them. Leathery leaves scraped at their clothes; thorns pierced weary flesh and every now and then their footsteps spiced the darkness with the scent of crushed herbs.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Then slowly the darkness began to thin. The moon’s watery light weakened dissolved and a slow flush spread like blood across the canvas of the sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Not far now,’ murmured Cleft, bracing an arm against her struggling back. The sinews, flexing against her spine, gave her strength and when she next looked up she could see Paradise Heights above them, waiting for them beneath the humid dawn. Unbidden, her bruised feet trod the final steps and then Topaz sank onto the ground from which should have arisen her marital home.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘What the…?’ ejaculated Cleft.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Before she could raise her head, a pair of feet had planted themselves before her lowered eyes. Smooth yellow-toed feet moistening slightly in monkish sandals. A gasp escaped her:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">‘Terence!’ she whispered. Then she swooned.</span><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-85285960299047397362012-01-04T16:17:00.000+00:002012-01-04T16:17:32.511+00:00Part 32 – In Which I Outdo Myself<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>657</o:Words> <o:Characters>3749</o:Characters> <o:Lines>31</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>7</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>4604</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">When they come to make the film of <i>Desire Be My Destiny</i></span><span lang="EN-US">, I think this scene will be the one that earns Topaz (or whoever plays her) an Oscar. And if this doesn’t inspire Anna to make them Do It, nothing will. I’ve put my all into this and left her with a cliff-hanger that can only go one way: <i>all</i> the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 32 (by Oliver)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">In the muffled blackness of her cupboard prison, Topaz murmured softly through lips that were dry and bruised. She barely knew that she did so, barely heard the breathy whisper ‘Cleft! Cleft!’, repeated almost like a mantra, an affirmation that he would come to her. Yet she knew she must not believe that he would, and with this unconscious realisation the breaths turned to small sobs, so that the ‘Cleft!’ was gasped, breathed in.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Then, a sound. Not the shuffling heaviness of her captor, or the bark and clatter of the brutish dog; a firm, urgent footstep and a strong voice calling out.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Hey there!’ The deep throbbing tone seemed to strike something vital deep within Topaz, but still she sobbed gently, ‘Cleft! Cleft!’ <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Anyone here?’ came the voice again. This time there was no mistaking it. Even through the jumble of Topaz’s mind, some life-affirming force seemed to reach inside her and lift her out of darkness, back along the dingy path of memory to the sudden brightness of the present.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Cleft?’ she gasped. ‘Cleft?’ And with the glorious dawning of realisation, her voice strengthened and grew louder – ‘Cleft! Cleft!’ – so that by the time she saw the urgent shadow in the strip of light under the door, her passion was flowing and she screamed now, ‘Cleft! Cleft!’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">With a mighty heave and crack, the door broke open and Topaz raised an arm to shield her huge, damp eyes from the surging sunlight. Cleft stood there, legs still braced, the muscles taut and pushing up through the thin material of his grimy jeans. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and in the hollow revealed by his open shirt, and in the dusky sheen of his wraparound sunglasses, Topaz glimpsed herself huddled, tethered like a beast in her filthy corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Through her joy, the sobs came jagged, so that as Cleft swiftly knelt to untie her bonds she had barely enough strength to help him. His hands felt under her back, behind her knees, and he rose and turned in one lithe movement, sweeping Topaz through the caked, fly-blown hovel and out into the Spanish sun once more.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And at last their lips found each other, the first hungry clash of tongues subsiding into velvet languidness as, oblivious to the wheeze of the reviving cur behind them and the hammering on the window of the cab before them, Topaz and Cleft melded their desire and their fate gloriously into one.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">But, too soon, Cleft pulled away and placed Topaz tenderly on the ground. Loping over to the baking car and the red, streaming face that peered out of it, he made as if to open the door and the driver’s small, spiteful eyes seemed to pucker with relief. Then he paused, seeing the heavy cosh that was badly concealed behind the drenched girth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Bad move, Diego,’ spat Cleft. ‘You'll have to cook some more.’ And, turning back to Topaz, he left the car and its bulging occupant.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘He can use the cosh on the car window, not us,’ said Cleft, grinning. ‘But we won’t be driving outta here, that’s for sure.’ And with a confident jerk of his head towards the umber foothills, he said: ‘It’s the bandits’ way for us, my darling, across the hills by night.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">His arms flexed as he lifted Topaz once again and, not looking back, started to carry her up the steep hillside track. Behind them the dog whined drowsily as it scrambled back to consciousness, and the beating from within the cab grew frenzied in the simmering heat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">But Topaz and Cleft heard neither. She leaned her head, heavy with drowse, on the massive plane of his shoulder and felt the steady rhythm of his tread bear her on, on into the barren heart of the mountain where the rules of men held little sway over the unfathomable laws of Fate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">And as the first stars began pricking through the deep amethyst gauze of the heavy Spanish evening, Cleft lay her down in a hollow beneath a cordyline, the sword-like leaves of which clashed gently in the zephyrs of the night. As he held himself taut above her tender, trembling form, Topaz gazed up in wonderment at the beauty of this man who was in her arms at last.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Eyes locked, nothing needed to be said. Except, with a strangely husky throb in Topaz’s throat, ‘Do with me as you will, Cleft. I owe you everything; I will give it to you tonight.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5796337602137530135.post-61373660748486648862011-12-23T16:42:00.000+00:002011-12-23T16:42:31.105+00:00Part 31 – Action Hero<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>540</o:Words> <o:Characters>3080</o:Characters> <o:Lines>25</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>6</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>3782</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Crikey, this is quite violent stuff. Who’d have thought it of a vicar’s wife?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">I’m worried that now Cleft and Topaz are within moaning distance again, we really ought to let them Do It at last: there’s only so long a girl can bubble and simmer without needing a Rennie. And if the vicar’s wife can do violence, there is really no reason why she shouldn’t do sex as well. I’ll have to play this one carefully…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Part 31 (by Anna)</b></span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">His prey let out a torrent of hoarse Spanish and writhed like a lizard beneath Cleft’s sole. Cleft’s mind worked quickly. Who was this reptile? What was his game?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Then realisation darted at him like quicksilver. He saw the scuff marks on the baked mud, the snaking tracks of a whip and the unmistakable imprint of a kitten heel.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘You goddam no-good worm!’ he spat at the gasping creature beneath him. ‘What have you done with her?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The man tried to wrench himself upright and shook his fetid head. ‘I no knowa whatcha mean.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘You know well enough you piece of scum!’ Cleft, in his ire, was massive against the blazing sky. ‘You take me to her now, or else I promise you you'll never see daylight again.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">With a single rapid movement of his muscled wrist, Cleft flicked the whip so that it snapped around the man’s bulging torso. With the other hand he pulled it tight and knotted it so that the man’s short arms were bound to his sides. He inserted a boot beneath his rump and kicked hard so that the fellow lurched with a cry to his feet and stood swaying there, a spool of spittle swinging from one broken tooth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I’ll do the driving,’ said Cleft shoving him towards his dust-caked car. ‘We don’t want any scenic detours along the way.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Wrenching open the back door, Cleft flexed a mighty leg and sent the cab driver sprawling across the ripped back seat. Then he eased his huge frame behind the steering wheel and flicked the key in the ignition. The car belched into life with a cloud of dust and diesel.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘I hope you’ve got a good sense of direction because I don’t want any funny games,’ he growled, eyeing the slumped flesh in the rear view mirror. With an unwholesome roar, the car and its cargo began juddering down the rough track, flinging in its wake such dense plumes of filth that Paradise Heights and its unrealised promise were obliterated.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">A mile or two of silence save for the grinding of the engine and the hoarse breaths of the bound man, then the tangles of vegetation thinned, roofs sprouted here and there and track divided.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Which way?’ Cleft barked. No answer. ‘Which way, vermin?’ he repeated, aiming a steel-like fist into his captive’s soft belly. Winded, the man pointed eastwards and the car lurched down a scarred lane. At the next junction the cab driver gestured to the left. Wispy grass and stunted thorn trees gave way to decomposing shacks with metal roofs.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Eventually, a grunt from behind brought Cleft to a halt. He hauled on the hand brake and surveyed a scabrous white bungalow through the caked window. A frenzy of barking erupted and from round the side of the house leapt a half-starved hound tethered by a rope.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">Cleft unwound his long body from the driver’s seat and stepped onto the dried mud path that led to the front door. Nonchalantly, he locked the car door behind him, leaving the cab driver prostrate in its simmering heat, and, adjusting his shades, he moved in measured, powerful strides to the front door.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">The dog launched himself at Cleft’s calf but, without shifting his gaze from his goal, Cleft kicked out sideways and the animal fell insensible to the ground. Unruffled, inscrutable, Cleft ducked his head and entered the crepsucular hallway.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Hey there!’ he called, his voice vibrating through the rancid darkness. ‘Anyone here?’</span></div><!--EndFragment-->A Little Light Workhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01137471683146406394noreply@blogger.com2