My WIP (Work In Progress) Chapter 1

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.