ESCAPING CUPID
International Affairs
OLIVETTE DEVAUX
Mugen Press
Pittsburgh, PA
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright ©Olivette Devaux 2019
Published by Mugen Press, January 2019
www.mugenpress.com
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imaginations and any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, known or unknown, or shared for free. Please don’t be a pirate.
It is permitted (and encouraged) to quote a brief paragraph for editorial or review purposes.
Cover Art
© 2019 Pavelle Art
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11 – Epilogue
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CHAPTER 1
Nobody wanted to leave Atlanta, Georgia in February. Not anyone in this conference room, anyway. The temperatures were finally inching into the sixties, which was close to short-sleeve weather, and Ariel was still shell-shocked by the frozen hands, icy roads, and glacial moods from only few weeks ago. The South wasn’t supposed to get freakish weather like that at all, but with climate change, just about anything seemed possible.
He looked around the conference room, waiting to see who’ll volunteer to go to England and report to their big pharma bosses at Corporate.
Nobody did.
“I can’t,” Josh said. “I’d be gone over Valentine’s day and it’s our tenth anniversary!” He tilted his head, trying to look apologetic and failing miserably. “We already have tickets and everything. My wife would kill me.”
“Blame it on the wife, that always works well,” Noreen said with a merciless grin as she tapped her tablet with her long, red nail. “Why don’t you grow a pair and say you have a vacation planned? Happy anniversary, by the way.”
Josh blushed all the way to his thinning hairline. “Thanks, boss.”
The rest of the team started chiming in with their congratulations, and what used to be a productive meeting on the newest research in hypertension drugs turned into a free-for-all where three people bragged about their big plans for V-day, and the other six sat sullenly, trying not to rain on their parade.
Ariel belonged to the latter group. The V-day had always been an awkward dance of doing the right thing and hoping not to have his offering spurned with an upturned nose. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with all that Valentine’s Day bullshit this year. Not after Jake dumped him for a younger, more agreeable model.
A less busy model, too. Because research chemists weren’t the most socially astute relationship material - or so he had been told. If he could avoid this trip to their British headquarters, he just might take the weekend and go diving with one of those tours in Florida - unless they were swamped with sickeningly sweet couples. Maybe hunkering down here in Atlanta would work just fine, just him and the Lord of the Rings and some beer and pizza.
“... and we’re organizing a Valentine’s Day party,” Noreen said.
Ariel realized he had lost track of their nattering quite a while ago. “What?” He said with a jerk of his head. “Here?”
“Yes, right here and during the working hours! All of you quiet scientific types need to socialize some more, and I’ll make that happen for you, honey.”
“Bless your heart,” somebody said in that special, Southern way that was an equivalent of flipping the bird in Ariel’s native New York.
Bless your heart, indeed.
“I’ll do it,” Ariel said, not quite realizing why and how did such words leave his mouth. England would still be freezing in February. Or at the very least, rainy and dreary the way it had been on his last two trips. But he’d take a quiet evening in a local pub over a department-sponsored Valentine’s Day party any day.
LESS THAN A WEEK LATER, Ariel landed at Heathrow. He made his way through the gate waiting area and down to passport control and luggage claim. The duty-free didn’t tempt him the way it used to, and the throng of passengers was, with all his practice, navigable.
The British English he heard around him was familiar and soothing with its melodic, slower pace and all those little social niceties that differed ever so slightly from the American South, and which were entirely absent in New York.
A tunnel spat him out into the Arrivals hall, where Chris stood with his big “Ariel Sutton” sign. Their eyes met, and they grinned at each other.
“Hello hello, and welcome back!” Chris shook his hand with vigor. “Did you have a pleasant flight? Or was it awful?”
Ariel was only too glad that his main contact from headquarters chose to meet him in person instead of sending a driver. “Passable,” he said, which in British meant “great.”
“It appears you brought us spring weather. It’s bucketing outside.” Chris led on. Down the hall and toward a bank of elevators, queueing up and keeping the conversation for later. Even going through the airport was peaceful somehow, and Ariel got the disconcerting feeling that he had arrived back home.
Which was, of course, impossible.
Once Chris took them past the snarl of Heathrow traffic and onto the M25, he nodded at Ariel from his right-side driver’s seat. “I hear you’re staying longer than usual.”
Ariel rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I don’t know what got into me, but I thought I’d see a bit of the countryside. Maybe rent - I mean, hire a car and drive out a bit. I hear Bath is nice. And so is Stonehenge. This is my third time here, and all I’ve ever seen is a bit of London and the corporate headquarters.”
“Brilliant!” Chris slapped the steering wheel. “When?”
Ariel told him.
“Oh drat it, I wish I could’ve gotten you a proper tour of all the old places, only I’m otherwise engaged.”
“Oh?” It seemed that Chris was quite happy to be otherwise engaged.
“I’m seeing a new girl!” he positively crowed. “And it’ll be Valentine’s Day, don’t you know? So I got us tickets to the ballet. She loves the ballet! She’s just such a lovely girl.”
Oh, God. Just the thing Ariel had been trying to escape, and it followed him across the pond and into Blighty itself. “Is that so?” he said while mentally groaning. “Which ballet?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something Russian. It’s got dancers in it.”
“You’re an idiot,” Ariel said, and Chris only grinned. Then again, with Chris in such a good mood, work would likely be entertaining.
WADE SURVEYED THE MODERN, wood-and-glass auditorium. “And that’s your assignment until next week,” he said to his twenty-one students, who sat scattered in the first few rows. “Focus on the morning fog. That means getting up whilst it’s still dark outside so you can be fully ready to click the shutter at the butt-crack of dawn.”
Somebody said something in the back, and a few people giggled in the manner of their tribe.
He shook his head, making his bouncy curls fly in their usual disarray. “Move on, you lot! I have places to be.”
An hour later, Wade was well outside the confines of the art school
area and on his way to Fairford. He swung around the roundabouts and zipped down those stretches of maze-like, hedge-enclosed roads he knew to be safe. His little Triump Stag was a horribly impractical vehicle, a two-seater convertible, but he didn’t need much. His photo gear fit into its boot along with a stuffed weekender bag. The rest of his things were securely stowed in the cottage - in his cottage, now that aunt Rose was dead and buried.
CHAPTER 2
“You can’t possibly go to Stonehenge,” Dr. Willoughby told Ariel with a sad headshake. “There’s nothing to see! It used to be such a lovely site, and now it has a chain around it and you’re not even allowed to get close.” He arranged the handouts summarizing Ariel’s team’s last research effort and leaned back in a standard-issue conference room chair, the black padded kind which the conference room fairies sprinkled into every corporate headquarters the world over.
“But it’s Stonehenge,” Ariel persisted. “I’ve read all the articles on it.” Secretly he hoped that the iffy February weather, together with V-day, would keep people away for the weekend. He didn’t say he was thinking of maybe sneaking in so he could meditate in the middle of the whole thing.
Because why not?
“You apparently don’t realize how popular it has become to get handfasted on Valentine’s Day,” Chris said.
“Or at an old site people associate with the Druids, even though it’s much older than that,” Dr. Willoughby said, nodding along with Chris. “All the crazy people will be selling crystals and incense. If you want to see a stone circle, I’d recommend Avebury. It’s halfway across the country, of course, but not really far from here by American standards.”
Through the rest of his workday, Ariel had a hard time keeping his mind where it belonged. A trip to the stone circle at Avebury, the oldest and largest henge in England, would sort him out and banish his break-up V-day blues. He was as certain of it as he was of the fact that Valentine’s Day was a cursed, commercially contrived holiday, and that he’d be as likely to find love on the dreaded V-day as he’d sprout wings and fly.
After work, however, when his own report got properly hashed over and examined from all directions, Dr. Willoughby said, “Too bad you don’t work here all the time. Then you could visit all the ancient sites.” He tilted his graying head. “With your project management skills, you should consider putting in for one of the openings here at the corporate office.”
The idea wasn’t new, but Ariel had always resisted it. His ex would’ve never gotten a work visa in Britain.
But his ex was now, well, an ex.
“Think about it,” Dr. Willoughby said. Then he pulled out his phone and peered at it through his horn-rimmed glasses as he messed with it for a while. “I just sent you some links with nice places to see. If you’re spending a few days, make sure you make them worthwhile.”
WHEN WADE PULLED INTO the parking slots by the church - which was, incidentally, one of the only decent places to park within walking distance of the White Rose Cottage, he sent a quiet thank-you to the weather deities.
Last weekend had been a bust when it came to getting decent images of fog. The heavy rain caused localized flooding around Cotswolds. What had been a bust for photography, however, had been a boon for spending time to go through aunt Rose’s old things. He had sorted the charity and the recycle piles. After a weekend of working hard enough to be barely able to move afterward, the cottage began to acquire that airy, streamlined feel it used to have when his aunt had been younger and able to run it as a proper bed-and-breakfast.
Wade hoisted his weekender bag and his backpack full of his photography equipment, and crossed the cobblestone street. He’d visit the small butcher shop and the bakery later for lunch fixings, as well as the grocery for a few basics to make his weekend pleasant. As he turned the corner and looked down what was now “his” street, the spectacle drove the air out of his lungs.
The cottage across the cobblestone street from his, also an AirBnB, was festooned with red, pink, and white heart garlands under the windows and over the arched doorway.
“Crap, V-day,” Wade mumbled to himself as he fought his gorge from rising. He’d never make his peace with Valentine’s day. Hell, he didn’t believe in love anymore anyhow. Not at his age, when many men dyed their hair to keep the encroaching tide of silver at bay.
And certainly not after that jerk Peter had left him standing at the altar.
V-Day was a cursed holiday. An artificial one, too. A stupid American import created by a greeting card company who had to find a way to dump an excess of red holiday card stock once Christmas was over.
He strode down the narrow street with his head held high. Then he turned his back on the garish display, unlocked his door, and entered a space he had to somehow claim as his dominion.
ARIEL PACKED HIS SUITCASE and his carry-on, loaded his little rental car, and set out.
Flexibility was good. Being able to improvise on the fly was not only possible, but also welcome now that he was single again. Hotels and hostels were at his fingertips as long as his cell phone was charged, and the countryside was rife with good beer and proper English food.
He had never thought he’d like the food here, not with its old reputation for boiled beef and such, but as a casual Food Network fan he knew that the UK had taken a leading role in a food revolution some time ago, and that boring dishes were a thing of the past.
He set out southwest, toward Bath. Driving on the left side of the road scared him even though he had done it before. He had a tendency to stay in the right lane because that’s where slow drivers belonged back home - except what had held true in Atlanta threatened to earn the ire of the drivers here and turned him into a speed-bump. Ariel had to periodically remind himself that yes, being in the far left lane was more than just okay.
Even Manhattan driving had been easier than this.
He took his first off-ramp just to escape the busy road. In not too long he found an opportunity to pull into a food co-op parking lot with a petrol station, and took his phone out.
It was time to get off the too-fast, too-busy highway, and re-route. He reminded himself that he didn’t chicken out as much as he was taking the opportunity to see the English countryside using the scenic route. It was, after all, a pleasant afternoon. Even the drizzle had stopped, and while he had been stressing behind the wheel, the wind had contrived to arrange the low clouds into rows of dark-gray, fluffy sheep.
The blue line on his phone showed a projected route that zigged and zagged like a flustered rabbit, but it would him move in the direction of Bath.
He would find a place to sleep before setting out to see the old Roman ruins. The photos on the web looked dramatic and exciting. He could hardly wait.
Half an hour later he passed through a village of old, flag-festooned stone houses with shops on the street level. It was so small he had passed right through it before he could even decide whether or not to stop and explore.
The wide road narrowed. Ariel’s little rental car was surrounded by greenery, and that greenery began to rise, tall and flat, and soon he realized he was driving through a hedge maze.
He had to squeeze close to the wall of the tight-shorn branches to let the cars in the other direction pass - all of that while driving on what he still saw as the wrong side of the road.
His heart pounded in his throat.
The green canyon walls were closing in on him.
There was no pulling over, no turning around, no taking a different turn. He didn’t dare peek at his phone to see for how much longer this claustrophobic torture would continue.
By the time his fists were cramped and white from clutching the wheel and his shoulders congealed into grumpy piles of rock, Ariel was able to take a random left turn.
It didn’t have a name on it, but many roads around here lacked signs. At least the hedge was gone and he could see a green pasture with horses to the left and a scenic copse of woods on a hillock to the right.
“Rerouting,” his phone told him.
Two turns later he lost signal.
CHAPTER 3
The bathroom was easily Wade’s favorite room in the whole three-floor cottage. Its floor was so large he could’ve fit a double bed in it plus furniture. That would’ve been a horrid waste, though, he thought as he sat up in the Victorian clawfoot tub, and turned the brass faucet to add more hot water.
A new combi-boiler would be one of his must-do investments.
Then he leaned back, and as his gaze skated over the familiar dark wood beams and white plaster of the ceiling, he strategized what to do with this lovely little room.
The pink would have to go. Beige, maybe. Beige and wood and white. And glass - a nice, antique chandelier to add that sophisticated touch.
And candles. The windowsill was an affair so deep, he could’ve been growing tomatoes on it.
Except he wasn’t here often enough to properly tend to potted plants.
Weren’t there old candelabra in the dining room downstairs? And he’d update the plumbing on the circular shower behind him. That, and some kind of a storage unit. Something with character, both old and practical. Something from a rummage sale or an antique store, just to hold extra toilet tissue and soaps and various pretty things.
Wade realized he was not planning the remodel only for the guests who would rent this lovely cottage for a weekend getaway, but for himself as well.
Just because he was single didn’t mean he didn’t deserve finer things, even though nobody would ever waltz into his life with a bouquet of roses.
This unpleasant train of thought reminded Wade to finish his soak. Soon he’d snuggle under the down-filled comforter on the bed with rose sheets in the attic room. That was going to be his room and never mind the steep and narrow staircase which curved so precipitously. Aunt Rose’s second story room was bigger, true, but it still smelled like Aunt Rose, and its two windows were facing that tasteless monstrosity of a Valentine’s Day display.
Escaping Cupid: International Affairs Page 1
