Copyright © 2014 Sarah Tranter
Published 2014 by Choc Lit Limited
Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK
www.choc-lit.com
The right of Sarah Tranter to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78189-077-6
For Jamie. My Real Deal.
Contents
Title page
Copyright information
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
About the Author
More Choc Lit
Introducing Choc Lit
More from Choc Lit
Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks go to:
My family and friends for their love and support. Without you the words in this book would never have been written.
The wonderful team at Choc Lit, and the tasting panel, without whom those written words would never have made it into a book.
Lisa, Kym, Mandy, Hywela Lyn who braved the early manuscript. Your feedback was invaluable. And to my little sis, Karen, for going above and beyond.
Pia Fenton (Christina Courtenay) for her support, and expert input on the historical letters.
Mark Webb for talking horses and of course for all our writerly chats.
The GCs. You know who you are. You stop me from drowning.
And to Jamie, Arun and Max. One lifetime isn’t enough. I love you. XXX
Chapter One
Cassie Silbury fled down the plush-carpeted stairs, chanting over and over in her head the mantra, ‘Stop freaking out. It wasn’t real. It. Was. Not. Real.’
The sound of her heels hitting hard tiles heralded her arrival at the imposing reception hall. The relief that flooded through her at the sight of the exit was very real and there was nothing she could do about that; she was out of there.
Dashing through the doorway that she’d so confidently strolled through earlier, she hurtled down the stone steps fronting the Harley Street property. The normality of London’s evening rush hour, with its cacophonous sights and sounds, enveloped and immediately soothed her. She cursed violently though as the biting wind sliced deep and she realised that she’d left her coat behind. Hugging herself tightly, she embraced her anger. Anger was good. For a moment there …
‘Taxi!’ she screeched, on seeing a yellow light. She vigorously waved her hand in the air to attract the necessary attention.
Cassie was in the back of the black cab before it reached a full stop. ‘Sixty-three Kensington Avenue!’ she said, as she threw her bag and notebook onto the seat next to her. The cab manoeuvred into the right-hand lane, heading towards the sanctuary of home. And Cassie finally stilled.
But she was cold and angry and … would absolutely not think about the rest! She focused on her anger: How dare he put those things into my head! How dare he make me think I was …? How dare he make me flee! And my coat! The evil little man!
Cassie’s restless eyes honed in on the open notebook next to her bag. She snatched it up triumphantly. ‘Nevil L. Mann,’ she’d written and underlined at the top of the page, alongside today’s date, January 25th. Unsnapping the pen clipped to her notebook, she proceeded to scrub out the ‘N’ with a self-satisfied flourish that quickly became a furious obliterating scribble: ‘evil L. Mann’ it now read. She continued to eradicate his preposterous job title, which she’d jotted underneath: ‘Past Life Regressionist to the Stars’. She stopped only when the nib of her pen wore through the paper, tearing up several of the pages underneath.
‘Stupid evil little man,’ she muttered. He knew full well who she was. He’d even told her that he was a fan of her work, before he’d proceeded to ‘past life regress’ her. She snorted at the ridiculous description of what had just occurred … before glaring at the taxi driver, who was observing her nervously in his rear-view mirror.
Beyond stupid, she further clarified to herself. Who, in their right frame of mind, gave an investigative reporter a past life from hell? She desperately suppressed where that thought was going and forced a healthier focus. He was clearly deranged, along with the rest of his so-called profession. This piece was always going to be an exposé, just like so many she had written before, to prove his profession a sham. But things had just got personal.
And he’d been good, she ruefully conceded. She’d expected to imagine and ‘manufacture’ a past life. All her research indicated they were creations of the mind, with Cleopatra in the number one slot. She’d spent last night studying Elizabeth Taylor in the role so she could look damned good in her imaginings.
But she’d found that she had no control whatsoever over proceedings. Each time that evil man had voiced another one of his malicious, manipulative prompts, she’d sunk deeper and deeper into the horror playing out in her head.
And then he’d wanted her to talk it through with him, to apply context, to use the newfound knowledge to heal … Heal? I had nothing to bloody well heal until I walked into that godforsaken building!
No. Cassie needed a plan. A plan that would expose the profession for what it was. A sham. That and that alone would apply the necessary context. They had no right playing around with people’s heads, making them think …
She grinned with self-satisfaction as it came to her. She might have been unsettled there for a moment, but Cassie Silbury was back on form. She knew what she had to do … just after she found oblivion through the bottle of vodka she was sure sat in the cupboard at home.
Three days later
‘No way! Noooo way!’ Cassie wailed the words over and over, mantra-style, while blindly fleeing the Tunbridge Wells town house. On automatic pilot, her feet followed the path and turned left after passi
ng through the garden gate.
It was several minutes before she became aware of her surroundings. A park. A bench. She let herself collapse onto the bench and sat. Stunned.
Several more minutes passed before she allowed herself to think. And then it was to reflect: things hadn’t gone quite to plan. It had been so simple; another ‘past life regressionist,’ planting a different past in her mind. The second couldn’t possibly come up with the same as the first. She was supposed to have them by the short and curlies.
She let out a hysterical laugh at the question that flashed into her head: ‘So Cassie Silbury – what did you do in a past life to deserve this?’ Oh, she so couldn’t go there. She urged her mind to cooperate, while her lungs released a shaky breath.
Cassie knew there was a perfectly rational, non-crackpot explanation for the two past life stories matching … exactly. She just had to find it. She groaned, hardly sparing a glance at the jogger who found an extra burst of speed to lurch past her in a widened berth.
Concentrate Cassie. She shuffled awkwardly in her seat for several long moments before … enlightenment! Oh, it was a blessed, fanfare playing moment. Of course! She laughed delightedly, before shaking her head quickly. She’d never believed it, not for a minute!
It was so simple: The Conspiracy Theory. She’d come across enough of them in her work to know one when she saw one. And the NAPLR (National Association of Past Life Regressionists) – she couldn’t help the snort – knew she was doing the piece. And they also knew her style. They would have known she’d go to another practitioner. The stories tallying had to be their attempt at credibility.
It wouldn’t have been difficult, she realised, her mind warming nicely to the theme. There had to be methodology to their madness. The evil little people had, after all, studied past life regression and had qualifications on their walls to prove it. So, logically, there had to be an established method for planting a scenario into their victim’s subconscious. All they would have had to do was ensure each of them knew the scenario to be placed and when to provide the necessary prompts. Voila! An idiot’s guide to painting Cassie Silbury as ‘bitch reincarnate.’
But I used a different name this time. How could this one have known what to plant? Cassie thrust the highly unhelpful thought away. Conspiracy, she reminded herself. Aaaand …
Yes! They could have her picture circulating electronically on wanted-style posters. Although many would probably recognise her anyway as she was regularly in the press, not just through her critically acclaimed, high-profile written word, but because being the sister of Hollywood actor George Silbury hardly ensured anonymity.
Cassie quickly quashed the sinking sensation she experienced on thinking of George. ‘Do you recognise anyone, Cassie?’ She wasn’t going there. It was nonsensical.
Cassie realised another plan was required. A foolproof plan this time that took account of the conspiracy. She’d work on it on the way home. Standing up, on traitorously shaky legs, she looked around to gauge the most likely route to the train station. She had no idea where she was … other than a park in Tunbridge Wells. Cassie decided, once she was back in sight of home, she’d pop into Waitrose for another bottle of vodka. Just so it was in the cupboard.
Six days later
Cassie put the phone down and jotted the time and details of the next appointment in her diary. Casting an eye over the local newspaper advertisement before her, she grinned. Her plan was finally coming together. And Rachael Jones was a godsend.
Although qualified, Rachael Jones wasn’t a member of the NAPLR, and therefore wouldn’t be in receipt of the conspiratorial communications no doubt doing their rounds among members. Yet she did hold their approved qualifications. Indeed, she’d passed them all with distinction and, on qualifying last year, had received their most outstanding graduate of the year award. In an incredible stroke of luck that award had been presented to her by the NAPLR’s Chairman. He’d provided, for the record, several glowing words on her abilities that couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than an endorsement. How was he to know she’d not join the association? And how was he to know Cassie Silbury had her in her sights?
Cassie was delighted with herself. The fact Rachael Jones’s ‘flamboyant’ newspaper advertisement indicated that she may well be a candidate for a padded cell and complimentary lobotomy, was simply the very sweet mallow icing on her meticulously planned cake.
Next Wednesday, Cassie mused, tapping the diary page with her pen. George would be back in the country …
She shook her head rapidly, urging herself not to even contemplate where that thought was leading. She reached for her glass and took a swift gulp of neat vodka.
But it was no good. George would be filming not far from where this Rachael nut practiced and … what if he could come to the appointment with her?
Cassie was more battle-scarred than she was prepared to admit while sober and in control of her faculties. And ditto to the bricking herself about subjecting herself to the administrations of another head case. But George, despite his Hollywood heart-throb status, was sensible, grounded and her favourite and most protective older brother.
Cassie raised her glass to her lips. What was wrong with someone being there to hold her hand?
Two large gulps from her glass.
She wanted George there! He’d always been able to slay her dragons. Of course … If she could get him to past life regress, he could slay the most monstrous of all dragons to ever haunt her. With no crossover in their past, all those fears that kept creeping up on her would—
Stop! She dropped her head into her hands. There was No. Such. Thing. As. Past. Lives. Cassie wished with all her heart that she’d never started this story. Why couldn’t they have had her as Cleopatra?
No! She raised her head in horror. She promptly downed what was left of her latest glass of vodka and desperately shook the empty bottle.
Hadn’t Cleopatra killed her brother too?
Chapter Two
‘Ummm …’ Susie wasn’t sure what to say. She slowly shook her head and replaced the newspaper on the kitchen table.
‘It’s brilliant, don’t you think?’ Rachael asked, bringing two mugs of coffee over, and curling her tall frame into the seat next to Susie’s. ‘I wanted eye-catching.’
Susie was truly lost for words. Rachael, her housemate and best friend in the world, had always been … she wasn’t quite sure what adjective to put there, but this?
Rachael laughed at the look on her face. ‘It’s called marketing, Suse. Valentine’s Day is coming up and I refuse to miss an opportunity.’
Picking the paper up again, Susie braved another look at the advertisement in question and silently groaned. It was eye-catching, but neither that or brilliant were the descriptions immediately springing to mind.
Firmly schooling her features, she attempted to form an opinion on the Casper-like ghosts shooting cupid’s arrows around gravestones, surrounded by floating bulbous red love hearts. Subtly clearing her throat, she then tackled the words that were so clearly Rachael’s …
No love or humping in this life?
Find out who you loved and humped in a past life! What did it for you then may do it for you now. Let the clues from the past show you the way to finding true love. Your Soul Mate is out there! Let a past life lead the way.
Contact Rachael, Past life Regressionist (bona fide) and This Life Guide for Love-Seeking Souls
While attempting to dispel the notion of Casper humping, Susie asked, ‘Aren’t there laws about this kind of thing?’
‘Like what? The words are all mine.’
Not humping Caspers. ‘No, I can see the words are yours love … About advertising and what you’re implying.’
‘I haven’t promised to find their Soul Mate.’
‘Look,’ Susie was going to take the easy
way out, ‘I’m really not the person to ask. It’s all very … enterprising of you.’ She congratulated herself on both her diplomacy and for finding the perfect word for the situation, but paused as she realised that she had a responsibility here.
Groaning audibly now, she continued, ‘But you know I’d rather see it come with a health warning.’
Rachael shifted awkwardly in her seat. ‘That’s not fair. I’m qualified now.’
‘Qualified? I’ve never understood how someone as intelligent as you can have gone into something as … as—’
‘You can hardly see me teaching snotty-nosed brats like you do!’
‘I never set out to teach snotty-nosed bra— They aren’t snotty-nosed brats!’ Susie gritted her teeth. ‘And I love teaching and I’m good at what I do. But you’ve a degree in economics, Rach, and have thrown away a successful career in banking to peddle—’
‘My father’s bank and I did my time. This is what I was always destined to do, Suse. I love it, too, and I am flaming good at it to boot!’
Susie couldn’t help the ‘humph!’, but immediately regretted it as Rachael’s visage shifted. Her cheeks, normally so pale against her dark hair, flushed and her amber eyes flashed. Susie’s stomach lurched. She wouldn’t … surely she wouldn’t.
‘You’re going by something that happened before I was trained and I could make it all right if you’d simply let me regress you again!’
Susie desperately reinforced the locked box that stood in that darkened corner of her mind with heavy chains and padlocks. ‘You are never getting into my head again. Ever! In fact, nobody is ever getting into my head again.’
How could Rachael have crossed the line? They never talked of that night.
‘I accept things didn’t—’
‘Stop, Rachael,’ Susie growled.
‘No! This is the perfect opportunity to talk about it! It’s time we stopped pussyfooting around your experiences that night.’
Romancing the Soul Page 1
