To: Nchanning
In an effort to test your recent Goldfish Theory, I spent the afternoon sitting outside doing my best impersonation of a goldfish waiting for another goldfish. As a result a rather large white bird with yellow feet, whose name I believe is Henry, has come to settle at my patio door. As he will not go away, I intend to tell him all about the abundance of goldfish to be found in England. Any particular cities you can recommend?
And so it went, each word between us forged a step in the bridge from my old life to new. Women are won over at first by words, and only later by deeds. Was I falling in love with the idea of Nigel or just his ability to make me laugh?
8:00 p.m. I finished eating dinner. I rinsed off my dishes and settled in at the computer. It was time to see if the door to England was open for business, I needed to escape, soon.
Nigel had written. I had been promoted to ‘Darling.’ He wrote —
I spoke to Lucas, the salesclerk about a Harrod’s shipment to you. Something well baked and something smelly is on its way to your office, and I don’t mean Lucas at Harrods, although having heard what a wonderful person you are he wanted to deliver it personally, however to minimize the competition, I informed him of the highly infectious swamp fever you had contracted, loss of hair, bulbous veins and wooden leg, so he has reluctantly sent it by DHL. My mother has gone on the missing list again, I am trying to track her down. If she arrives in Florida please send her back.
I rose to the challenge of being funnier and wrote back.
I cannot correspond right now as I am busy polishing my wooden leg.
It was as if Nigel knew I needed to retreat into silliness. He spoon fed me his special tonic and I slurped it down. The days flew by with me dodging Leslie, ducking Sunglasses, and longing for Nigel.
~ Monday January 18
…And so she went on, taking first one side
and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether…
6:20 a.m. Nigel had exciting news for me. “If neither of us can sleep after talking to each other via phone or Internet, then we must meet in person. I have really enjoyed our story so far but now it’s time to write the last chapter and then see if we can make it really happen. I have a strong desire to give you my heart and so I am flying you to London next week, my treat. Do not argue,” he said.
9:30 a.m. I buzzed into the office glowing but unable to share my good news. A smile would give it away. I was going to England on a quest for romance… and escape.
If only Leslie and Maris would take another trip, I could tear this place apart before I left, and find those Red Queen files for Sunglasses.
One call on my voice mail, a request for the income and expenses on an apartment complex I listed the year before. That was the first inquiry I’d had on anything in eight months. Talk about a slow market. I gave the financial folder to Salli with the Fedex instructions and then slipped back into my office.
Two minutes later, I heard rustling outside my office door. I assumed it was Leslie creeping around. The door popped open, and Maris, in all her bulimic femininity slithered in.
“That guy’s on the phone, and I won’t let you pick up until you tell me who the hell he is,” she said.
“Watch your language,” I gave Maris one of my best icy looks. “Who are you talking about?”
“That English guy you keep talking to. That’s who.”
“Maris, back off. If I wanted to tell you anything, I would have by now.”
“Fine… Miss Big Secret. He’s on line 4,” she slipped back out of my office.
I waited a few minutes until I saw her phone line light up. Good, she’s annoying someone else.
“Are you still there, Nigel? Sorry I took so long.”
“It’s okay, you are worth the wait.” Once again his warm voice wrapped around me and made the Archers go away, temporarily.
“I just couldn’t wait to speak to you again. Sorry I must have called you at a bad time. Who answered the phone?”
“Just now? That was Maris Archer, my employer’s wife.”
“She seemed nice. She must be very close to you. A bit inquisitive, but nice.”
“What? What did she say?” I could feel my body shriveling up.
“Nothing. She just asked about me. She told me she and her husband feel very protective of you.”
“She what?” My head hit the roof. It was way past time to set some ground rules.
“Nigel, do me a big favor, please. Do not discuss anything, I mean the time of day, the weather, anything with Maris or Leslie Archer or for that matter with anyone who picks up the phone here,” I spoke firmly leaving not an inch of doubt as to my request.
“I thought she was a friend,” he said.
“Let me explain to you about Maris. Please listen carefully. I’m warning you to stay clear of talking with her; she is a strange duck. Under the guise of friendship that woman can do a lot of damage. She’s an unhappy person. She spreads grief.” I paused, hoping he was absorbing my words.
“Unhappy? But didn’t I understand from you that Leslie is very rich? Surely, this Maris woman must benefit from that wealth?” he asked.
Sigh. “Haven’t you ever heard the ditty about money not buying happiness?”
“Poppycock.” Nigel responded. “When I have made you wealthier than you have ever dreamed you will understand the value of being able to buy anything, including happiness.”
“Trust me on this and do not trust Maris. The woman lives on white wine and Metamucil biscuits, so she never has her wits about her. When she’s not in the bathroom, she’s on the phone gossiping. I just don’t want her to know about us. Not yet.”
Nigel gave me one of his special British pauses and I filled the void with more details.
“Maris is very unhappy with herself and jealous of anyone who is genuinely happy. She’s riddled with guilt.”
Nigel sucked in air … I could hear it over the transatlantic phone line. “What is she guilty of?”
I took a deep breath and dove in. “She set her cap on finding an unhappily married man and luring him away from this family. Maris took Leslie away from his wife and kids. And it’s not like she even liked him. Any married man with money would have worked for her. Now she’s miserable.”
“Why is that?” Nigel asked.
“He’s a lot more screwed up than she guessed he was and she can’t get away from him.” I realized as I spoke that I had just discovered Maris’ secret. She was in a bigger trap than I was.
“Isn’t she entitled to half of his assets? That’s the American way? She hires a good solicitor and gets her portion of holdings.”
“It’s not about the money. It’s about life and death. Leslie’s opponents have a way of disappearing. Maris is stuck. She did this to herself. I don’t approve of women who hunt men down and then trap them.” A bit of a self-righteous tone echoed in my ears.
“She’s not after me,” Nigel said.
Silently, I marveled. Men. It’s always about them.
“She’s not interested in you. She’s interested in gossip. Please, don’t give her anything to work with.”
He continued to prod me. “She must have some redeeming quality.”
“She did pee in her former husband’s cologne bottle.”
“What?”
I laughed. I had caught him off guard.
“When Maris’ second husband walked out on her, he left his things behind for a few days. She found a bottle of his favorite cologne and she emptied half of it. Then she peed in the bottle. He came back and got his things, including the cologne.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean by peed? Like wee-wee?”
I suppose it was the proper British accent trying to decipher peeing in a cologne bottle; I started laughing hysterically. When Leslie walked in, I was wiping the tears from my eyes. “Let’s talk later. Bye.”
10:45 a.m. “Having fun?” Leslie’s words dripped with sarcasm.
“Yes, I am. Thank you.” I was strangely relaxed. I think it had to do with the thought of Maris crouched over a cologne bottle.
The Leslie-beast sat on the edge of my desk and dangled his sock-less feet. Yuck.
“Why are you making me do this to you?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?” I wasn’t sure which evil act he was threatening. “I thought you were coming in here to tell me you were letting me leave in peace.”
“Where did you get that stupid idea? If you attempt to leave my employ I will go after you. And you have such a nice life. A daughter who loves you… ”
I jumped up and came close to shouting at him, “Are you threatening my daughter? You’d better not try it.”
“Consider yourself warned,” Leslie whispered.
I pressed my nose to within an inch of his. “I am a lot more connected than you imagine. Back off.”
6:30 p.m. I was on the phone, listening to Nigel, who sounded all stuffy and runny. He was sick, truly unwell. “I have a sty, the size of a Volkswagen, in my right eye,” he said. “I don’t want you to see me this way. Perhaps we should postpone your visit.”
“Nigel, you will get well. Right now. I insist. Make some homemade chicken soup. That will do it.”
I worried he had subconsciously willed himself to be ill. “Go see the doctor. Get some antibiotics. It sounds like pneumonia; I can hear it in your chest.”
“Yes, darling,” he agreed and made sniffly kissing sounds into the receiver.
I hung up and turned to the keyboard, jotting off a cheery greeting.
Nigel,
Just a big wish for you to GET WELL. Remember chicken soup for the cold, raspberry tea bags for the eye and fresh onions to kill the germs. Also spread olive oil all over your chest. (I made up the part about the olive oil.) Please call me in the morning, if you feel up to it.
8:00 p.m. “This is for my own good,” I told Gem as I dabbed on night cream. I stepped back from the mirror and admired the sight of me in my Daffy Duck pajamas. “Okay. Time to call the private dick.” Meeting Nigel in person was becoming a reality. I needed to lay some ground work.
The conversation was short and to the point. I agreed to send Richard Dick a check for two hundred and fifty dollars, and he agreed to do a speedy check-up on Nigel’s background and his foreground.
“It’ll take about four days. My people in England don’t like to be rushed. Fax me all you know about him — birthday, business, place of birth and any info on his former wife. Where can I reach you?”
I gave him my home number and told him not to leave a message. Just reach me late at night or early in the morning.
Okay. It was done. I hung up feeling a bit like Judas Iscariot with a touch of Nancy Drew.
Find The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland… Online
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes & Noble
*
Mel Comley
French Fancies!
In 1993 I walked out on my sad and abusive marriage, one that I had stuck with for seven years. I jointly owned a shop with my ex-husband and my Mother at the time, so we had to sell the business when the marriage broke down.
If I thought that was hard it was nothing to what I had to endure the following six years. To make ends meet, I had to work two jobs for 70-80 hours a week over 6 ½ days. Take my word when I say it wasn’t fun.
But onwards and upwards, when Mum retired we made a spur of the moment decision to leave England and move to France. We’d never set foot in the country before we came out here to house hunt. I know, we’re either brave or stupid. I like to think we’re the former, but I sometimes wonder if that’s the case!
We bought a farmhouse and barns that needed total renovation. In 6 months I decorated 22 rooms while a local builder created a gîte (a holiday home) out of a couple of the barns. After the renovations were completed I grew bored with my ‘early retirement’ and enrolled in a creative writing course. I threw myself into it and over the next 4-5 years I wrote three romances and two thrillers.
In October 2009 I discovered the writing site run by Harper Collins called Authonomy where I uploaded the first 10,000 words of my thriller Impeding Justice. It took me 8 months to reach the editor’s desk where I received a favourable review from a Harper Collins editor. The trouble was they weren’t taking on any thriller writers, at the time they were only interested in printing Celebrity Autobiographies!
Therefore, in October 2010 I decided to upload Impeding Justice as an ebook. It took a while to take off but in January 2011 sales really started gathering momentum, but it wasn’t until I released the second book in the series, Final Justice that sales really took off.
After selling over 30,000 books in April, I was in the fortunate position of having several agents knocking on my virtual door. I finally agreed terms and signed a contract with top New York agent, Richard Curtis. I sent him Cruel Justice the third book in the thriller series and he tried for 4 months to get me a traditional publishing contract, but at the moment he admits he’s finding it difficult to place any books with publishers because of the Indie revolution, which I’m extremely proud to be part of.
During the Summer I’ve been busy editing the romances I wrote at the beginning of my journey. I uploaded A Time To Heal towards the end of August and immediately received a couple of 5 star reviews (no they weren’t from my family, they don’t know I write!) some of them were from my thriller fans who were equally impressed by my romance endeavours.
At the beginning of September I uploaded A Time For Change, another romance which is actually a TRUE story of how my dear friends met and fell in love. Obviously their names have been changed, the story is classed as a mystery too.
Next week I’ll be gearing up, carrying out blog interviews etc, for the release of Cruel Justice. I’m looking forward to it and hope it is well received by my fans, I think it’s my best book yet in the thriller series at least, my beta readers seem to agree too.
I’m very fortunate to be able to write full-time (it’s addictive, don’t you know!) and have several more projects outlined that I intend tackling over the coming Winter months.
This is how my day pans out, first thing, providing it isn’t raining, I take my two dogs for a walk, actually they tend to drag me round our small village. Then I sit down to answer any emails and Facebook messages I’ve received overnight from fans (yes I do have them) I then set out to write a minimum of 2-3000 words per day, before I dip into hours of necessary promoting. That’s the hardest part being an Indie writer, the fact that we have to promote ourselves long and hard. I used to be quite a shy person, but I’ve had to overcome that quickly. I think deep down, every writer would love to be a recluse and be able to focus full-time on their creations, unfortunately that’s not realistic in an Indie world.
Do I ever think about my life back in England? No, never, and my ex features heavily in my books. When I need to think up a baddie character it’s his image that I picture in my mind. As for my murder scenes, I find them VERY easy to write. LOL ;-)
About the Chick
I’m Mel Comley, I write romances and thrillers full-time and I live in Northern France. It’s a pleasure to be part of this project by women for women.
Find Mel Online!
Blog
Romance Blog
Facebook
Facebook Book Page
Twitter
A Time for Change
Mel Comley
An Excerpt
Chapter One
The dawn broke, flooding the room with light. Danielle stretched and moaned. Her eyes widened when she touched the clammy skin of the person sharing her bed. Crap!
She shimmied out of bed, careful not to wake her sleeping companion, and jumped in the shower. She had hoped that standing underneath the water would wash away the shame she was feeling. Going over what had taken place the previous evening, made her question if she really wanted to continue to live like this.
Her handsome partner, Dean was nice enough, but recently his faults outweighed the kindness he’d once shown. Faults which grated and tried her patience daily, maybe her heavy schedule had something to do with that too. But all the same his attitude toward her over the past couple of weeks had left her wondering if their relationship was doomed. Hence her amazement to find him asleep, tucked up in her bed.
The evening had begun as usual, with her being exhausted after a mentally tiring day’s work. Interior designing didn’t always live up to its glamorous TV image. She encountered arguments and disputes between builders and clients even on the smallest project. Anyway, Dean had rung her at lunchtime, his lunchtime not hers, nowadays she only had time to grab a sandwich in the car between locations. He’d ordered her to be ready at seven. She had tried to argue with him, but he’d insisted she’d been working too hard lately and she needed a break.
His timing was out of sync with her schedule as usual, but during the afternoon she’d upped her already hectic pace, and called on her sister, Claudine to help out at the office, to ensure she’d get home early that evening.
She’d been with Dean for three years now, maybe the impromptu night out was him trying to make amends for the way they appeared to have drifted apart recently. Dean was tall, dark and good-looking, every girl’s dream—he just didn’t set her world alight. She’d been more conscious of this lately because of the amount of romcom movies doing the rounds. Once a week Danielle and her sister settled down to see the latest movie over a bottle of wine. She’d noticed how the woman always seemed to blush when the man touched her. Yes, she knew it was different in the movies, but all the same it left Danielle wondering why she’d never been fortunate enough to feel that way. In any of her relationships, past or present. Maybe she was just unlucky, is that why she was prepared to settle for her relationship with Dean, for fear of sitting at home on her own every night? No the trouble was boredom. All her relationships had ended because she’d grown bored of her partner. Was that the problem with Dean?
Arriving at her newly bought, half-renovated Chelsea Mews at four, she ran a bath in the new bathroom her team had put in a few months ago. She soaked for the next half an hour in the expensive foam bath her mother had given her at Christmas, while Curtis Stigers’ sexy voice filled the bedroom next door. If his sexy voice couldn’t put her in the right mood then no one could.
Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories Page 55
