Month: July 2020

I’m still looking for a tile for this WIP, so all suggestions welcome – and of course you will get a mention in the Acknowledgements when I am a published author!!! The segmentation of these posts doesn’t necessarily represent chapter breaks, btw – that’s all part of the IP bit of WIP…

Fran awoke in a tangle of sheets. Duncan was fast asleep next to her, just as beautiful as she remembered him from last night. She nudged him gently. He opened one eye and his luscious mouth curled up at the corners.

“Mmm”

“Mmm, yourself,” Fran replied. “I gotta get going, places to go, people to see, you know how it is.”

“Yep, me too. Come back here.” He reached out for her, but the thought of arriving for her day’s meetings disheveled, in yesterday’s clothes, prevented her from giving in to their desire for more.

“No, really. I told you I’ve got appointments all day, and I need to get back to my hotel, shower and change.”

“When are you leaving town, did you say?”

“I didn’t, but since you ask, tomorrow afternoon. What are your plans for tonight?”

“The same as last night. That is to say, the first part. Dinner with my client, but as we know anything can happen after that… Where will you be?”

“If I can sign up my new account, I’ll have to spend some of the evening with them, cementing our new relationship.”

I know which new relationship I’d rather be cementing, thought Fran, her world swerving off track at the thought of another night with Duncan. She averted her gaze from his naked torso and busied herself gathering up her various items of clothing, shed so wantonly the night before.

“I’d love to see you again. Last night was really special”. Duncan was still in bed propped on one elbow watching her. 

“Call me. Here’s my card.” He pulled a thick, grainy business card with gold embossed lettering from his wallet on the bedside table.

“Let me know if we can hook up later. Otherwise…”

Duncan’s alternative proposal was interrupted by a knock on the door. Fran froze, naked, clutching her rumpled suit. Her shoes dangled from a finger.

“Dunc, are you awake?” A man’s voice.

“Er, yeah, sort of,” Duncan called back.

“Open up, let me in.”

“Hold on, man, just give me a minute.” Duncan, stalling for time, leaped out of bed and signaled frantically to Fran to get into the bathroom. Fran responded to the cloak and dagger turn which events had just taken as she quietly closed the bathroom door. Duncan was right behind her wrapped in the hotel robe. She heard him open the door to his visitor, whose identity he had mouthed to her. His business partner, Bernie.

In the bathroom, Fran began to dress. Her underwear was a complete muddle of last night’s haste, and it took some time to disentangle straps and lace. She pulled on her skirt, smoothing it down as best she could. Fully clothed, she fluffed up her hair and slipped on her shoes. She could hear a discussion between the two men going on outside but decided to make her exit anyway. They were two grown adults and she would not be kept hidden in the bathroom until it suited Duncan to let her out.

“Good morning,” she said, emerging in a state of relative respectability.

She took in the two horrified faces simultaneously. Duncan’s was full of guilty shame and Bernie’s was registering sheer incredulity.

“Duncan! What on earth…”

“Mind your own business,” warned Duncan

“That’s rich, bru. Or have you forgotten, I AM your business.”

“Business is business. This was pure pleasure.” Duncan flashed a look of something that looked like triumph at Fran. Fran was fascinated by the exchange so far, but nothing prepared her for Bernie’s response.

“Pleasure to which, my friend, you are not entitled. Forbidden fruits and all that.” There was not a shred of humour in Bernie’s tone as he faced off against Duncan.

Fran thought that he sounded more like a petulant, jealous lover than a business partner. Whatever the case, it was all beginning to sound too contentious. She began to steel herself for her imminent loss.

“Who is she, anyway?” Bernie demanded to know.

“She is the cat’s mother and she’s leaving, so keep your restraining order to yourself and let your partner have a life. Duncan?” Fran looked at Duncan, the unasked question in her voice. She was willing him to demonstrate some of the enthusiasm to see her again that he had shown a few moments ago. Nothing.

“Fine. See you around, then.” She started to push between the two men but was forced to double back into the room to scoop up her bag and coat. Damn. She lost some of the impact of her parting comment. Bernie took the gap.

“He already has a life.”

“Bernie, leave it alone,” Duncan’s tone was cautionary.

“Duncan, do you still want me to call you later, or not?” Fran asked, back at the door, looking defiantly at Bernie.

She saw Duncan almost check for permission with a look at his partner, and apparently his keeper. Briefly Fran considered her options. Dignity at all times, she figured. She dipped into her bag, pulled out one of her own cards and handed it to Duncan. She left him with a dazzling smile, a toss of her long hair and made her exit.

Another one bites the dust, she thought, with a heavy heart and fading smile as she made her way down the hotel corridor. And this one was a real shame. She had felt a special connection but she would simply let it go and put it down to experience, of which by now she had had plenty in her life. As she stepped into the lift, she heard the raised voices of the two men becoming muffled as the bedroom door closed. Fran was intrigued by what had just happened and not a little unsettled. She left the hotel wondering if she would ever see Duncan again, but vowing to herself that she would not allow him to humiliate her like that again.

“Let’s start again, shall we?” Duncan took a sip from his glass of wine watching her intently over the rim of the glass.

“OK, so who are you, where do you come from and what are you doing here?” Fran asked him.

“My name is Duncan Meyer, I’m a South African architect visiting Berlin with my business partner who was indisposed tonight, so our client brought me here for supper. He has now apparently left me to my own devices and has gone in pursuit of the fairer sex. Under those circumstances, I thought, why not do the same?” He smiled alluringly at Fran. “What about you?” 

“Fran Copeland, English, Marketing Director for the Bijou Hotels & Resorts group, in Berlin for the international travel show.”

Chrissie, Gio and Claudia continued politely talking amongst themselves, leaving Fran and Duncan engrossed in each other. Fran gave the potted version of her hope, without elaborating on her methods of inducement, that she would in all probability finalise a big contract the following day.

Some time later, Gio announced that he and Chrissie were going back to the hotel, and looking around, Fran realised that Claudia had simply dissolved into the crowded bar. Duncan showed no signs of being ready to leave anytime soon, and so Fran decided she might as well savour his company a little longer. They talked about their favourite buildings – Fran felt a little out of her depth given Duncan’s technical knowledge and prolific repertoire of commercial and historical monuments the world over.

“The Taj Mahal,” she offered

“Yeah, OK, though a little obvious. I was looking for something a little… more… from you,” The ambiguity of the comment was not lost on Fran.

“Stonehenge, then”

“Archeological, not architectural. Another one”

“Well, some people hate it, but I love The Tate Modern – inside and out.”

“Good choice. Iconic. Modern. My turn. The Vernissage Hotel, Berlin”

“And, it’s special because?”

“Because, it’s utterly modern, observes all the rules though not the style of classical architecture, its interior is clean and uncluttered, it’s a gallery for original artwork, and I have a suite there. I can show you if you like…”

Fran thought back a few short hours to her response to a similar invitation from Laszlo. Now this was a nightcap she was interested in.

Around about midnight they eventually stepped out of the bar swaying against each other in the cold night air. Duncan hailed a cab and they clambered in. The driver nodded as Duncan gave the name of the hotel, then slid the glass panel to and pulled the vehicle into the stream of late night traffic.

The featureless exterior of the hotel, located in the former East Berlin, belied its contemporary interior. Waiting whilst Duncan stopped by the concierge’s desk, Fran took in the art deco style of the furniture done in rich, vibrant colours. There was an entire wall of modern art, and another of less abstract works, creating a gallery passage running through to a bar and dining room at the far end of the lobby.

Fran registered the ping of the lift as the doors opened. Duncan guided her in and they swooshed up to his suite. The room was large and pristine. When Duncan had said ‘clean and uncluttered’ she had assumed he was referring to the style of the hotel’s interior design, but she saw that also referred to how he kept his space. There were no clothes left out, his suitcase must have been stowed away in one of the cupboards – there was barely any evidence of his occupying the room. The plain, bold colours of the few pieces of modern furniture contrasted with the crisp white cotton of the duvet, which was turned down invitingly.

 Neither spoke as Duncan took a bottle of champagne from the well stocked mini bar and popped the cork. He poured expertly and handed Fran a glass. They stood for a moment sipping the dry French vintage until Duncan gently pushed her back into the bed’s feathery softness. He had proved an unexpectedly delightful companion for the evening and he was now proving to be an accomplished seducer.

As she succumbed to the pressure of Duncan’s lips, Fran began to think that she wasn’t doing very well for someone who had recently foresworn any romantic or sexual encounters to rather concentrate on her wider career opportunities. But Duncan’s kiss was firm, his lips soft and warm, and he made delicious noises of appreciation as he gently encouraged her to shed her clothes.

As many of my friends know, I have had a novel in the offing for years now. The unfinished manuscript has been re worked, reviewed, abandoned, submitted for professional appraisal, shoved back into the drawer and pulled out again. But as in love as I am with parts of it, I simply cannot seem to apply myself to getting to the end, which I think is a pity, because at least then I could say I have written a book. Of course, saying you have written AND had a book published are two different things. Maybe putting Chapter One out here will galvanise me to finish what I started long ago, and then…who knows…

The Hungarian Tourism Board’s stand at the travel show revealed a beautiful backdrop of the capital city which is how Francesca Copeland found herself sitting in Berlin with a perfect view over the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, which links the twin cities of Buda and Pest over the River Danube. In the final stages of negotiations with the portly but not unattractive hotel owner, Fran was ignoring the alarm bells ringing in her head when he finally made his move on her.  She had sensed his attention veering off the subject of the terms and conditions of the contract somewhere around the third glass of Bull’s Blood.

A familiar voice told her to steer the negotiations back onto a professional track, and to refuse to enter into the suggestive banter which her client was clumsily attempting in a language not his own. But Fran was skilled in the art of flirtation and could rarely resist the thrust and parry of the game even though such occasions generally spelled disaster. The fumbling hands and sensuous lips of Laszlo Varga signaled yet another in the series of Fran’s spectacular fiascos.

‘Of course, you need to make full inspection of the property, mostly important the bedrooms,’ Laszlo leered.

‘Naturally, Laszlo. We’ll start with the public areas, perhaps in the bar for an aperitif, then we will sit in your splendid dining room and I will assess the lighting and décor, and after a wonderful dinner, then we can go up and check out the bedrooms…’ Her suggestion was clear, even to the linguistically challenged hotelier.

He reached out to grab her hand, covering it with kisses, deliberately brushing her breast as he moved in. Fran wondered about her best route out of the situation. She had demonstrated a serious lapse of judgement and dereliction of professionalism – and the contract wasn’t even signed.

“Laszlo,” she began “it’s not that I don’t find you attractive, but…”

“Francesca,” Laszlo groaned as she pushed him away.

“Look, Laszlo, we can get to know each other better once the contract is signed.”

Laszlo immediately sobered up on being reminded of the business at hand. Or possibly because Fran’s tone of voice held a promise. Fran knew that there would be no signature and therefore no promise to keep tonight, and stood up, straightening her skirt.

“Laszlo, I have another appointment this evening, so let’s meet tomorrow morning at 8.30, when I hope we will be able to reach an agreement to proceed with plans for a spectacular refurbishment of the King Béla IV by the Bijou International Hotel Group.”

Laszlo looked at her, the wolfish glint in his eye still apparent. At that moment he would doubtless have sold his family’s share in the magnificent Danube river front property for a single night with Fran but he conceded defeat with good grace.

“Goodnight, Francesca. Tomorrow we sign and afterwards I take you to celebrate, yes?”

“Big celebration, yes, of course,” Fran replied, deferring Laszlo’s ardour until she was more sober and better able to manage him. She gathered up her briefcase and coat, kissed him on the cheek and made a dignified exit from the near deserted conference centre.

The subterranean Berlin bar was crowded by the time Fran arrived to meet her colleagues. Her earlier alcohol-induced buzz was wearing off and she began to feel flat and deflated. All she really wanted to do was go back to her hotel room and sleep. She knew the evening would be the usual huddle of party die-hards, sad singles and career climbers. As she mentally pigeon-holed her colleagues, Fran acknowledged to herself that she could fit into all three categories. Tonight, though, she had no real desire to confront her own shortcomings and sighed at the thought of another empty, drunken evening.

She descended the stairs into the trendy nightspot. Half way down, she scanned the smoky pall and saw Chrissie. In addition to being Fran’s friend, Chrissie was the company’s IT director and creator of a sophisticated CAD system for their interior décor and floor plans. For a techno nerd she was the definitive party animal. Claudia from the Paris office stood at Chrissie’s side as if taking shelter. For all her Gallic charm, she was the perennial sad single in the company. Taking centre stage, not surprisingly, was the MD of Bijou Hotels. Gio Maldini was Italian. His tousled hair, dark brown eyes and broken English ensured that every woman he met fell in love with him. But he was ruthless, a hard core career climber whose quest for money and power had recently brought him to London to head the hotel group’s global office. Soon after his arrival, despite a wife and two children, he took a similarly determined route into Chrissie’s bed.

Chrissie saw Fran and waved. Fran noted that even her hand gesture was slurred. They had obviously been here a while. Fran made her way across the room, shrugging off her heavy winter coat as she threaded her way through the tables.

“Hi, you guys,” she greeted each of them with a kiss on both cheeks.

“Where’ve you been?” Chrissie asked.

“You don’t want to know,” said Fran, but of course they did and Fran as usual put the funniest spin on her day which had culminated in the scene with Laszlo. She was careful to play down her part in the abortive seduction as Gio was expecting a positive outcome from her meeting. She had no desire to disabuse his recent first good impression of her, since she stood in line for a promotion over the next few months. She had promised herself no more romantic entanglements of whatever intensity or duration; they would only detract from or interfere with her master plan of rapid progression in the company structures.

Time to clean up my act, turn over a new leaf and become a new me, she thought as she ordered a drink.

They were all, including Claudia, enjoying being regaled by Fran’s story when a tall, imposing figure strode up to their table.

“Is anyone sitting here?” he asked pointing to an empty chair next to Fran. He had a slight accent that was hard to place.

“No, be my guest,” Fran replied, craning her neck to look up at him. She was drawn immediately by his blue eyes and his gaze which held hers like a firm handshake. She expected him to lift the chair and take it away, but in a surprise move, he sat down and smiled.

“Duncan,” he said, in what Fran took to be an introduction.

“Fran, Claudia, Chrissie and Gio,” Fran said, indicating each member of the group. “Your round, then?” Duncan looked a little taken aback. What had he expected, thought Fran, gate crashing their party?

“And some peanuts, or pretzels or something, if they have any,” she added, grinning at the other three.

Fran turned back to her friends, continuing her story, expecting to have seen the last of Duncan whoever he was. Ten minutes later he returned with two bottles of wine, five glasses and a bowl of pretzels balanced up the length of his forearm. A nice strong forearm clad in an expensive blue Oxford button down shirt, Fran noted, ignoring the alarm bells that had saved her from the Hungarian earlier in the evening.