Unraveled Together

by Wendy Leigh

  But despite that, I still can’t help admiring all the beautiful clothes, each piece chosen by Robert, each one selected with a combination of love and lust; first in Geneva, then replaced with duplicates after they were burned to ashes in the Mausoleum.

  Nothing is sadder than recalling happy memories in times of sadness; whatever the exact words Dante said, they were never truer than they are now.

  I force myself to hang up my clothes, trying to distract myself from my heartache at the way in which Robert has flung them back at me. At the same time, I marvel at the glamour and glitter of my wonderful new wardrobe.

  But then my mood turns dark again. He could have waited. He could have given me a chance, given me some warning. But like this? It’s a declaration of war, an execution.

  I have a cup of coffee and a Kit Kat, calm down a little, and rethink what just happened. In the process, I hit on the truth; I shouldn’t have been surprised at the dramatic way in which Robert sent my things back to me without any warning, without a note, nothing, all so final, all so extreme.

  After all, this is the man who tosses an $8 million coin through the air without a second thought; this is the man who eats caviar by the tin. This man is drama personified, and so it is natural that he has shut the door on our relationship with such an extreme gesture.

  And if I had any illusion that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, the finality of what he has done killed all of that. My relationship with Robert Hartwell is now well and truly over. I am single once more, and alone.

  I toss and turn through one of the worst nights of my life. I’ll never kneel at Robert’s feet again, I’ll never feel his tongue down my throat, never look into his eyes and see them burn with ardor and adoration for me. Never again, never.

  In the end, I manage to grab a couple hours of fitful sleep. When I wake up in the morning, I feel as if I’ve been on a fifty-­mile hike. Everything aches, not the least my heart. I’m more than tempted to spend the rest of the day in bed, nursing my psychological wounds and feeling sorry for myself.

  No time to wallow, Miranda. Time to turn the page, look to the future, and take on the start of the rest of your life.

  I can’t let myself go completely and just spend the day brooding, or fantasize about turning back the clock. None of that is me, none of that is Miranda Stone, none of that is the woman Robert Hartwell once loved.

  Now I know that his love for me has died, and that he is probably with Georgiana again, by her side, loving her and taking care of her, I won’t sit around waiting for him to gallop in on his white horse and save me. Now, more than ever, just as I told myself during the darkest hours in the mausoleum, I have to save myself.

  At the same time, I’m surprised I haven’t heard from Lindy yet, so I’ve got no idea what kind of nefarious plan our grandfather has hatched to help me get Robert back. Nor do I really want his help.

  Then it dawns on me that the only kind of help I need is the kind that is right here, in front of me. The help of the one ally who has always been there for me, who has never let me down, who has always excited me, loved me, consoled me, made my heart sing and my blood flow faster; my escape from the world, from genuine pain, even from myself: my writing.

  So I’ll do what I’ve done many times before: I’ll drown my sorrows in my work and start writing the sequel to Unraveled.

  I am about to start writing the first chapter when I remember that my editor, Linda, never got Unraveled, and that she hasn’t even read it, never mind edited it. And I need to know what she thinks of the first book before I throw myself into writing the sequel.

  So I take a deep breath and e-mail her the manuscript.

  As I hear the whoosh of the e-mail whisking to its destination, to Linda and to my future, it’s as if I’ve got a sliver of hope after all; as if perhaps one day, in the distant future, I might even begin to live once more.

  Chapter Ten

  Miranda, the Present

  From my past experience with editors, I know better than to moon around the house all day, desperate for an instant response from Linda.

  Instead, I spend the day hanging out at the mall, all on my own, buy a sensible work outfit—a million miles away from the designer clothes Robert has gifted me; I select a conventional black-and-white suit from Ann Taylor, prim, proper, and screaming “modest, hardworking ghostwriter” from every inch of fabric, every fold—plus a pair of Mary Janes; get my hair cut into a fashionable but not flashy bob, and have the red toned down with some dark brown streaks.

  Then I kill time at the movies; I’m not in the mood for an action thriller or a rom-com that is bound to tug at my already-tender heartstrings, and instead buy a ticket for the vintage artsy movie theater and sit through the original Italian version of Swept Away, a BDSM classic that tells the story of an aristocrat who is marooned on an island with a macho man who was once her servant but who, now that they are alone together, becomes her Master and she loves every moment of it. Until they are rescued and get back on dry land, that is.

  Dry land, that’s what I’m on now. Before, with Robert, I floated on waves of blissful happiness, but now I’m on dry land. Don’t wallow, Miranda.

  I try not to, but once I’m back home, I spend the rest of the evening veering between tears and nostalgia. Not for the good times anymore, because that would hurt far too much, but for the bad times, the times when I should have told Robert the truth that Georgiana was still alive, but didn’t.

  I fall asleep as dawn is breaking and sleep right through till two in the afternoon, then stumble out of bed feeling massively guilty and switch on my computer to check my e-mail.

  No more hope that anything will come through from Robert.

  Mary Ellen? No matter how much she may want to contact me, I know that she can’t, because although we really like each other, her loyalty to Robert transcends any friendly feelings she might have had for me.

  As to any other e-mails, I couldn’t care less but still check them listlessly.

  Until one jumps out at me.

  From linda.lerman@blockbusterbooks.com

  To Miranda@celebghostwriter.com

  Subject: I Just Love Unraveled.

  I read Linda’s e-mail, and for the first time since Robert rejected me at Le Château, my black mood lifts and I start to feel almost happy.

  Linda not only loves the book, she stayed up the entire night reading it and spent the morning editing it, adding her questions and comments to the manuscript.

  Thrilled with her feedback, I settle back and do what I’ve always done, what I do best. I work like a demon to make all of Linda’s changes, answer all her questions, reply to all her comments, and before I know it, it’s midnight.

  My sleeping habits must be shot to hell because I forgot to turn on my alarm again and wake up at midday, to find another e-mail from Linda titled “Revision Letter.”

  A six-page letter from her giving her point of view on the structure of the book, the tone, and the characters, all in a measured and intelligent way that I find both stimulating and challenging. Then I get to the last paragraph of the letter, and I’m shocked to the core.

  Miranda, you’ve done a remarkable job but I’m afraid there’s still a great deal of hard work ahead of you. Much as I love the book, it is undermined by a massive flaw: Miranda’s relationship with Darren Court, the first man in her life, and the man who rejected her so cruelly.

  You take her through the relationship in a descriptive, colorful, and undeniably sexy way, but where the story falters is when you depict Darren’s sudden rejection of Miranda, the scene at the airport.

  Throughout the book, Miranda is self-analytical, self-aware—which is one of the facets of her character that I really like, and which makes the book work so well for me—but when it comes to Darren and the aftermath, she tells us nothing.

  I really think that it is
crucial that you go back to that episode. Darren was not only her first dom, but was also her first lover, the man to whom she lost her virginity. But then he rejects her and we never know why.

  Why? And how did she handle it? How did she feel afterward?

  All this needs to be covered, needs to be explored. I know you’ll do a terrific job. Good luck, Miranda, I’m rooting for you,

  Linda.

  I print out the letter and read it again, my pride hurt in every conceivable way.

  I thought Linda loved the book, and I know that in it I did my best writing ever, but now . . .

  I take a Mars bar, sit back on the couch, and reread the letter. Then the part of the manuscript covering my relationship with Warren—I mean, Darren.

  Much as I hate to admit defeat, I realize that Linda is right. The major weakness of the book is that the reader is never told the reason for Darren rejecting Miranda.

  They won’t have that problem one of these days, when they read the story of Robert rejecting me, because the reason will be crystal clear, I think bitterly, but then brush the thought aside. I will never betray Robert by writing about him, not even in a fictionalized way.

  I have to admit that Linda is right about Darren. Miranda never reveals why he rejected her. And the reason for that omission is quite simple: I have no idea why Warren rejected me. And the truth is that—even though I will never admit it to another living soul—every last scene in Unraveled is autobiographical, and I’ve lived through every single thing I wrote about. Which is why I didn’t include the reason that Warren rejected me in the book—simply because I don’t have a clue why he did.

  I spend the next few hours trying to come up with a story line that solves the problem; I attempt to conjure up a number of possible reasons for the rejection but fail to create one that rings true.

  Then the answer dawns on me: go right to the horse’s mouth and find out from Warren himself why he rejected me ten years ago, and I never heard from him again.

  But how to do that without losing face, without relinquishing my pride?

  Easy. Go back to being a journalist. Call Warren and ask him straight out.

  I get information and discover that his number is still the same, but even dialing it, familiar as it once was to me, rattles me.

  He answers on the third ring—“Courtney here”—and the sound of his rich and commanding voice catapults me back into the past. Suddenly I am seventeen again and he is the man of my dreams. And there is no way in the world I can plunge in and ask him straight out exactly why he rejected me all those years ago.

  So I take a deep breath and begin slowly: “Mr. Courtney, I am so sorry to bother you, but I’m a journalist and should appreciate a few moments of your time.”

  “Delighted, my dear,” Warren says, and I can sense him puffing up his chest at the other end of the line.

  “I’ve been asked to write a feature in which all names will be changed,” I start in again, not thrilled that I have to lie, but then again, after what Warren did to me, he hardly deserves to be told the truth . . .

  “And?” he says, in a colder voice, a voice I know even better than the one he employed originally.

  Kneel, Miranda! Open your mouth and take it all, every bit of it, that kind of voice.

  “And, well, Mr. Courtney, my brief is to write about my first love, only using different names.”

  Long silence.

  “And what’s that to do with me?” he says in a yet colder voice.

  “It’s been a long time, Warren. This is Miranda, Miranda Stone,” I say.

  “I can’t talk to you, Miranda, not after what you got him to do to me,” he says, and hangs up, leaving me in shock.

  What I got a mysterious “him” to do to Warren?

  I got someone to do something to him?

  Warren—the man who took my virginity, my innocence, introduced me to BDSM, made me fall in love with it and him, and then dropped me without any explanation—is accusing me of making someone do something to him?

  The nerve!

  I’m still shaking with anger ten minutes later when I punch *67 into the phone, then dial Warren’s number again.

  The man who answers the phone is different from the man I talked to only a short while ago.

  He stutters and stumbles as he says his name, and for a dreadful moment I wonder whether he suddenly suffered a stroke, but then decide that his dramatic change of voice is because he was so thrown by my unexpected phone call.

  “Please, Warren, please listen to me, I don’t have any agenda, I don’t have any designs on you. It’s just that you were my first love, you were once my life and then you ended our relationship without any explanation. And through all the years since then I’ve been tormented by the question, why, so I’d love to come over and talk to you about it,” I say.

  “Are you alone?” he says.

  Totally, now that Robert has thrown me out and banished me from his life forever. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I can’t go through the trauma again.”

  “But I’m the one who you rejected with no explanation, just twenty-four hours after you told me that we were going away together and that you were taking me on as your sub. You did that to me, you fucking bastard!” I say, with so much vehemence that I’m surprised at myself.

  A long silence.

  “Are you sure you’re alone? And how do I know you aren’t going to get him to do it all over again?”

  “Warren, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I say, exasperated.

  “So you mean that you didn’t get him to do what he did?”

  “Get who to do what?”

  “Get that evil monster to threaten me,” he says.

  “What evil monster, Warren?”

  “The one you sent to threaten me,” he says, going round and round in circles.

  “Why the fuck would I have done that when I was so in love with you and wanted to spend the rest of my life with you? If I’d done that, I would have been well and truly crazy!” I say.

  “Half the subs I’ve ever known have been crazy. I just thought you’d flipped and sent him to warn me off,” he said.

  “Him?”

  “The man who threatened me, and worse.”

  “But that was ten years ago, Warren!”

  “To you it might be, but not to me,” he says bitterly.

  “Yes, but won’t you feel better if you tell me all about it, Warren?”

  “Maybe. But how do I know that he isn’t still out there watching and will see you come into the building and then . . . ?”

  “But how the hell will he recognize me when he’s never even seen me?”

  “He might have, and I can’t take that risk,” Warren says.

  “But I’m ten years older, ten years different, and I’ll even wear a white-blonde wig,” I say, casting around for a way to get him to see me.

  “Maybe . . .” he says, then adds, “And I guess it would be good to talk after all this time.”

  Nothing will be good for me right now, not after Robert has abandoned me. But I guess it could be interesting to see Warren again, if only as a way of distracting me from the pain of losing Robert.

  So I tell Warren that I’m coming right over, then have a quick shower, put on my L’Wren Scott mistress dress, jam on the blonde wig I sometimes wear for fun, apply my makeup, put on my favorite fox and mink coat, and then take a car service to Manhattan.

  As we get farther away from Hoboken, I fight the urge to tell the driver to head straight for Long Island and Hartwell Castle. But I can’t do that.

  Besides, I vowed to myself that I would never set foot in Hartwell Castle again unless Robert invited me to.

  Fat chance!

  Don’t think about Robert, don’t!

 
Concentrate on today, concentrate on Warren. Then you can use the material for Unraveled; Linda will be thrilled and you could be on your way to having your first best-seller as an erotic novelist. Apart from anything else, seeing Warren again after all these years might just be a temporary escape from all the pain, hurt, and confusion I’m feeling right now about Robert, and the hell of knowing that he is back with Georgiana, and that I have to spend the rest of my life living without him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Miranda, the Past

  40 Central Park South, Manhattan, November 2005

  Warren was polishing his bullwhip when I arrived at his penthouse. I hovered on the threshold of the living room, silent while he attached it to the hook on the wall, then spent a few minutes making sure it was hanging straight.

  “Glad you could make it at such short notice, honey, and you look peachy in that pink Betsey Johnson I bought you the other day. Anyway, come over here, I’ve got something real important to tell you,” he said, and indicated that I should sit on the black leather couch next to him, a dramatic departure, as he’d trained me to always kneel or lie at his feet when we were alone in the apartment together.

  “A submissive should never be seated at a higher level than her Master,” was one of the first rules he taught me when we first met, a few weeks ago.

  “So she can always look up at him?”

  “No, so that he can always look down on her. And that will humble her, the way she needs to be humbled,” was his firm reply.

  But today he wanted me to sit down on a level equal to him and I was surprised.

  He patted my hand a few times, then pushed a lock of hair out of my eyes and announced, “I’ve only had you for a month, honey, and you are still very green, but I’ve decided that you’ve got great potential. So I’ve a surprise for you. First thing tomorrow morning, go home, pack a bag. Make sure you take all your teeniest bikinis and best clothes. I’m taking you away to Paradise Island. We’re flying out on the last flight tomorrow night, first class all the way.”

  For a moment, I didn’t register the meaning of his words. Paradise, Warren was taking me to Paradise?