Peter Jones's Blog, page 2

Chapter Six: The Truth About This Charming Man

Previously…..

After Michael Richmond insists on meeting Will’s alter ego – Stephan Le Blanc – Will has no option but to visit Nathia (Michael’s right-hand woman) and ask for her help. But when it becomes obvious that Nathia has no way of persuading Michael not to go ahead with the meeting, an alternative plan is required. Something a little more theatrical. And daring. Unfortunately the plan relies heavily upon Rachel…

Read the previous Chapter (five) here

Start from Chapter One here

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Act 1
Scene Six

The receptionist smiles. We’ve never met. She’s a temp. Today is her first day after the regular receptionist, Caroline, suddenly received a surprise spa break as a ‘thank you’ for all her years of loyal service. Caroline’s stand-in looks nervous. And I know how she feels. Nerves don’t quite describe the anxiety I’m attempting to conceal. Part of me wishes that Nathia had banished me from the capital, rather than agreeing to help, but that was a week ago. It’s too late to back out now – the performance has already begun.

Right on cue Nathia comes round the corner and stands directly in front of me. “Monsieur LeBlanc?” she asks. “My name is Nathia Brockenhurst – I work for Mr Richmond. Won’t you come this way?”

The receptionist doesn’t even blink. Why would she? She has no idea that Nathia and I know each other. She has no idea that my name is actually William Lewis. She has no idea that I’m an actor. To her, everything is just as it appears. I get to my feet, give the receptionist a smile, and follow Nathia out of the reception area.

As we enter the boardroom there’s a small pile of documents at one end of the table. In the centre there’s a complicated looking telephone. And at the other end there’s a plate of Danish pastries, and a coffee percolator. All this for a meeting that isn’t going to happen.

Nathia picks up the telephone handset.

“Michael,” she says, “Monsieur LeBlanc is here, though he advises me that he does have to leave in twenty minutes to catch a plane back to Paris.” She stops talking for a second whilst she listens to the voice at the other end. “I’ll tell him you said that,” she continues, and then replaces the handset.

“Well?”

“He’s on his way. You’d better move fast.” I remove my watch, pull off my tie, ruffle my hair, and take my Edwin glasses from the inside pocket of my jacket.

“Tell Rachel she’s on,” I say.

“Leave it to me,” Nathia replies as she drags a chair to the end of the room and stands on it to reach the clock hanging on the wall.

I head out of the boardroom. Go through the doors into the stairwell and take them two at a time to the next floor. The top floor. Where there’s only one office. Michael’s.

Michael is standing behind his desk as I enter, putting on his jacket. He looks surprised to see me, and I can’t say I blame him. We haven’t seen each other in over a month and even before Nathia gave me my marching orders I was never in the habit of walking into his private office unannounced.

“Edwin!?” he says, as I close the glass door behind me.

“Michael,” I say, by way of a greeting. I smile. And frown. And then smile again. “Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I continue.

“Edwin – how the fuck… who let you up here?!”

“Oh, the receptionist lady,” I say, walking further into the room. “She’s new here, isn’t she? Anyway, she looked very busy so I just came on up. I hope that was okay?” Michael’s face flushes with anger. It’s not okay. I never thought it would be.

“The thing is, Edwin, I’ve–” I don’t wait for him to finish, instead my legs buckle beneath me, and I collapse onto my knees in the middle of the room. I bury my face in my hands, and cast my mind back to the Labrador puppy I had as a boy – the one that ran out in front of the car before I could do anything about it – and from the very pit of my soul I wrench up two or three great sobs of anguish. I can’t see Michael any more but I can tell from the stillness in the room that I have his reluctant attention.

After a second or two I take a deep breath, remind myself that I never had a puppy, not even of any kind, wipe my nose on the sleeve of my jacket and slowly get to my feet.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” I say. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ll leave.” I turn to walk to the door, but pause just long enough to see if my little display was enough.

“Edwin! Wait!” Michael bites his lip as he wrestles with conflicting emotions. “What… what’s wrong?”

“Nathia!” I reply, like there could only ever be one answer to that question. “She won’t see me! She won’t return my calls! She’s completely cut me out of her life! I don’t know what to do. I love her, Michael! How do I get her back?” Michael flushes again. But gone is the anger from a moment ago, now I can almost hear him squirm with embarrassment.

“Oh, well, Edwin,” he stammers, “look, I sympathise, fuck me I do, but I’m really not…”

“But you and Rachel,” I plead. “You have such a special relationship. I thought, if anyone understands women…”

“Well, er, yes,” says Michael, “I can see how you’d think that. Sometimes though, things aren’t always what they seem. And anyway, right now–”

“I’m a mess, Michael!” I say. “I can’t get her out of my head! I haven’t been to work for a week. I haven’t eaten in days!”

“Right,” says Michael as he casts a surreptitious glance at the schedule on his desk, “well, tell you what; why don’t you wait, er, downstairs, and after I’m done we’ll go out and get a spot of lunch. How’s that sound? And you know what, maybe I can give you a few… pointers. A little of the old Richmond magic.”

I take two steps forward, and I can see from his eyes that he’s terrified I’m going to try and embrace him – instead, I take his hand and shake it vigorously.

“Thank you, Michael. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much that would mean to me.” I keep shaking his hand, aware that I’m playing for time now. If Rachel doesn’t show up soon I have no idea what I’m going to do next. “Thank you Michael. Thank you…”

“Michael.” We both turn. Rachel is in the doorway. A small suitcase next to her.

“Precious,” says Michael, the irritation returning to his voice. “What are you doing here? Nobody told me you were in the building.”

“Your new receptionist was going to warn you,” snaps Rachel. “I told her not to bother, this won’t take long.”

“I see. Well unfortunately, my love, I’m actually in a meeting–”

“I’m sure Edwin won’t mind waiting.”

“Not with Edwin, precious, I’m supposed to be downstairs in the boardroom. Right fucking now actually! So if you could just–”

“I’m leaving you,” says Rachel, and once again the room is silent.

“What? Fucking what?” asks Michael eventually.

“I’m leaving you,” says Rachel again. “I just thought you should know. In case you got home this evening and failed to notice my absence.” I sneak a look at Michael and swear that I see his face twitch slightly.

“I think maybe I should… ” I edge towards the door.

“Stay right where you fucking are, Edwin,” growls Michael.

“Yes, Edwin, there’s no need to go,” says Rachel. “I’ve said everything I came to say.” Michael is almost crimson now. I can actually see the veins on the side of his neck pulsating, but other than that he’s completely motionless, and when he does finally speak he sounds surprisingly calm.

“Look, precious,” he says. “Could you possibly not fucking leave me, for another,” he checks the large diamond encrusted watch on his wrist, “fifteen minutes or so? It’s just that there’s this fucking Frenchie in the fucking building and I’m rather anxious to meet him before he gets back on a fucking plane!!”

“No, Michael. I’ve waited long enough. That’s all I’ve done since we got married. Wait, for you to treat me like a human being, like your partner, an equal – rather than a trophy in a cabinet. Well, I’m not waiting a moment longer.” She grabs the handle of her case. “Go and have your business meeting – don’t expect me to be here when you return.”

“Edwin, I wonder if you’d be so kind as to keep my darling fucking wife company for a quarter of an hour…”

“No need, Edwin.”

“Fifteen fucking minutes!” says Michael, his voice beginning to crack slightly as he finally raises it another decibel. “Perhaps she can tell you how to win back Nathia!”

“Goodbye, Michael,” says Rachel, and turns to leave.

I’ve never seen Michael move so fast. He crosses the office before Rachel’s taken a single step towards the lift. But as he grabs her arm she spins round and slaps him so hard across the face I swear I hear his jaw crack.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” she roars, her eyes ablaze. Michael staggers back a few steps into the office, holding his cheek, and I realise that this is the moment when he’ll finally make his choice: keep Rachel, or meet Stephan LeBlanc. He stands up straight, and buttons his jacket.

“Goodbye, precious,” he says, regaining his composure. And with that he pushes past her, out of his office, towards the stairs and out of sight. Rachel and I exchange anxious glances.

We’ve failed.

Just then we hear a scream, a cry of pain, and the unmistakeable clank of a metal bucket. As we rush into the hall Michael is on his back, clutching various parts of his anatomy. And standing over him, one foot on Michael’s chest, her face red with rage, and brandishing a mop in much the same way a Kendo Martial Artist might hold a bamboo cane, is a headphone-wearing cleaning lady. She raises the mop above her head and screams: “Ovo je za mog oca ti licemjerni, lažljivi, prevarantski gade!” – but just before she brings the mop down on her victim I throw myself into her, rugby tackle her to the ground, and prise the weapon from her hands. Finally our eyes meet.

“He surprised me!” she says.

* * * * *

“Where the fuck is he?!” gasps Michael as we enter the boardroom.

“Michael!” says Nathia, getting to her feet. “What on earth… happened?”

“Nothing! Nothing!” blusters Michael, adjusting his hair with one hand, and straightening his tie with the other. The minute or two he spent in his private bathroom changing into a fresh suit (after he’d spent a good sixty seconds swearing at the cleaner) was hardly enough to restore his usual polished appearance of ruthless capitalism; he’s limping, his hair is damp, he smells vaguely of stale pond water, and the beginnings of a nasty bruise are just starting to appear on the side of his cheek. “Where’s that fucking Frenchie!?”

“Gone!” says Nathia.

“Already?!” he spits. “But I can’t have been more than…” He goes to check his watch. But the chunky Rolex is no longer there. He glances at my wrist to see if I’m wearing a time-piece, but I’m not, and then finally he spots the clock on the wall. And I can see from the look on his face that his worst fears are confirmed. Somehow he missed the meeting.

“He said he’ll try and catch up with you the next time he’s in London,” says Nathia. “But he didn’t seem very happy about being kept waiting. What happened?” Michael says nothing. He staggers back and collapses into one of the comfy chairs running along the wall. He straightens his tie again and then stares into the space directly in front of him.

“Where’s my wife?” he asks eventually. I exchange looks with Nathia.

“I’m afraid she’s, er, gone, too,” I say. “Though she did ask me to give you this.” I take an envelope from my inside jacket pocket and hand it to him. He doesn’t open it. At least not before I slip quietly from the boardroom, and out of the building.

* * * * *

By the time Nathia arrives at Jarad’s we’re on our second bottle of champagne. We cheer as she enters the restaurant; well, Jarad, Rachel and I do – Zlata remains curiously silent.

“Hi,” I say, getting up and coming over. “Sorry – I think we’re all somewhat relieved that’s over.”

“As am I,” says Nathia. She doesn’t smile, but Nathia isn’t really one for smiling.

“I don’t think you’ve ever actually met Zlata, my agent, have you?” I ask.

“Actually I have,” says Nathia. “At a Steele & Richmond function. That’s how we became acquainted.” This is all news to me. Until this very moment I’d always assumed Nathia got Zlata’s number from the internet. Slowly Zlata gets out of her seat and joins us.

“Miss Brockenhurst,” says Zlata with a weary sigh, and a noticeable absence of sincerity, “it is very nice to see you again, after all of the years.”

“You too,” says Nathia, though I have my doubts. “Are you still in the habit of crashing parties?” she asks.

“No, no,” says Zlata with the faintest hint of a polite laugh. “Now I am too old for the parties.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” says Nathia. Zlata does one of her more dramatic European shrugs. This one says that’s very kind of you to say.

“William has told me much about you,” says Zlata, changing the subject.

“Has he indeed,” says Nathia, one eyebrow climbing higher than the other.

“Not really,” I add.

“You’re all he talks about,” says Zlata.

“Hardly ever,” I chirp. “In fact never. Ever.”

“I find it all very fascinating,” continues Zlata.

“She doesn’t mean that,” I explain.

“I know what I mean,” says Zlata.

“She’s just stirring,” I chip in, unable to prevent my voice raising an octave. “It amuses her.”

“Well, you certainly created a stir today,” says Nathia. “When I left the office Michael was still raging about ‘that effing cleaning lady’ and how she set about him – he’s been on the phone much of the afternoon trying to find out who she was so he can make sure she never works again.”

“It was the part I was born to play,” says Zlata with no feeling whatsoever.

“He also sent our temporary receptionist home in a flood of tears for letting people wander around the offices unescorted, and raked me over the coals for persuading him to send Caroline away on a spa break. As dramas go, this was a fairly busy day.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” I say. “Zlata, where’s the watch?”

“What watch?” asks Zlata.

“The watch!” I say. “Michael’s Rolex?”

“I don’t know about watch.”

“Zlata!”

She digs deep into her pockets, takes out Michael’s Rolex and hands it to Nathia. I stare at her, waiting for an explanation.

“I thought perhaps I keep it,” she says with a shrug. “Remind him never to mess with cleaning lady!” Nathia smiles. She actually smiles.

“I’ll sneak it back into his private bathroom this evening.” Zlata shrugs again, then turns, walks through the door that leads to the kitchen, and lets it slam behind her.

“Was it something I said?” asks Nathia, raising an eyebrow again.

“Er, no. She’s just… a bit… Czech,” I say.

“And I am not Czech!” says Zlata from the other side of the door. I frown. And when I look back at Nathia she’s looking even more bemused than usual, like we might all be slightly deranged.

“So, you’re going back to the office now?” I ask, in an effort to change the subject.

“Of course – I have a merger to oversee.” And now Rachel and Jarad are out of their seats.

“So Michael’s agreed to the merger?” asks Rachel.

“How could he not?” says Nathia. “He can’t tell his clients that he failed to make a meeting that he insisted upon. I hope it works out for you,” she says to Rachel. “Both of you,” she adds, and gives a nod to Jarad.

“Thank you,” says Rachel, “for everything. We couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You’re very welcome,” says Nathia.

“From me too,” I add. “Hey, maybe someday you’ll need me to play Edwin again?” Nathia narrows her eyes and leans forward.

“Over my dead body,” she whispers in my ear.

* * * * *

“You cold?” I ask.

“A little,” replies Rachel.

“Here, take my jacket,” I say, removing it and putting it round her shoulders.

“Why, thank you,” she says. “But now you’re cold!”

“Oh, I’ll live!” I say with a smile.

“Maybe we can share it,” she says, and shuffles along the bench. I put my arm around her shoulders.

“Now, this is much better,” I say, as we sit in front of the National Theatre building and look across the Thames, at the buildings on the other side, at the party boats going back and forth. And though we’ve spent some time in each other’s company during the past three weeks, this feels like the first moment we’ve actually been ourselves. “Can I ask you something?” I say.

“Of course.”

“Were you acting?” I ask. “Earlier? When you told Michael you were leaving?”

Rachel says nothing for a moment, and just when I think I can’t bear the anticipation any longer, she answers.

“No,” she says. “That was the truth. Everything I want to keep is in that suitcase.”

“And the envelope? What was that all about? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“A copy of a letter I sent to my solicitor this morning, instructing them to transfer those flats back to Michael.” I remove my arm and turn to look at her.

“But Rachel,” I say. “That was your income – those are your flats!” She holds my gaze.

“I don’t want his blood money, Will. Besides, Jarad and I have thirteen new restaurants to manage! And they’re going to be very successful!”

“You seem very sure about that,” I say.

“I have a very good feeling about it.” She takes my hand. “Just as I always had a good feeling about you, Will, even when I knew you as Edwin. Even after Nathia told us the two of you had split, I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when destiny brought the two of us back together. It was somehow inevitable. Inescapable.” I smile. I can’t help myself. She does that to me. “And what about you?” she asks. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m not sure,” I say as I look back across the river. I put my arm back across her shoulders again and feel her move in closer still. “I was thinking about going to auditions again. I mean, it’s been a while. Years, in fact. But I’m a better actor now than I was back then. Or at least I think I am. And maybe in the end, that’s all that really matters.”

“We make our own truth, William,” says Rachel, as she snuggles her head into my chest, and I’d like to say something in reply, but all I can think about is how close she is, and how warm she feels. “I can hear your heart beating,” she says. And I’m not surprised in the slightest. If it was beating any louder passers by would be able to hear it.

“So, er, where are you going to stay?” I ask, as casually as possible.

“My sister says I can move in with her,” says Rachel.

“You have a sister?” I ask. It’s the first I’ve ever heard of her.

“Older by ten years,” says Rachel. “Not that I get to see her very often as she lives in Dorset. Well, that and the fact that she and Michael hate each other with a passion! She’s been banging on at me to leave him for years; you wouldn’t believe how many hours we’ve spent on the phone ‘planning my escape’. When I called her this morning with the news she was over the moon! Wouldn’t stop screaming for joy.” But I’m struggling to hear anything with the word ‘Dorset’ still ringing in my ears.

“That said, Dorset isn’t particularly practical,” continues Rachel, oblivious to the fact she’s clearly tuned into my thoughts. “So instead I’m going to use it as my official address. I can have my post forwarded there. Tell mutual acquaintances, that sort of thing – doubtless my controlling evil ex-husband is already trying to track me down, this way he’ll come to the conclusion I’ve moved in with Heather and her kids. In reality I’m going to stay with Jarad. His flat is tiny but you know what he’s like; he’s already insisting that I take his bed whilst he sleeps on the sofa.”

“He’s a man of few words, but big actions,” I say, but I’m disappointed that she hasn’t thought to ask if she can stay with me.

“I’ll probably kip there whilst I look for a flat share, or something.”

“You could always, er, flat share with me,” I stammer. “I mean, if you like. If you, if that, if…”

“If?” prompts Rachel.

“Yes, you know. If.” I swallow. She sits up and looks me square in the eye.

“You know, for a man who runs flirting courses, you’re really not very good at it.”

“But I’m not flirting!” I protest. “I’m just, you know… offering you a place to live.”

“Yes, a place, with you.”

“Well of course with me, it’s the only place I have to offer.”

“Ah. I see,” says Rachel. “So if you had another place, an empty place elsewhere, you’d be offering me that instead…”

“Maybe,” I say. “But I don’t. I only have my place. With me. It’s all I’ve got. Sorry about that. But you’re, erm, very welcome to share it.” I swallow again. “If you like.” Rachel raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not really selling it, William,” she says, poking me in my ribs with a long slender finger, and only now do I realise we are flirting, and that I should be seizing the moment.

“Did I happen to mention it was with me?” I ask.

“Meh,” she says with a sideways head nod. “I’m not sure that’s enough now.”

“Then how about this,” I say, taking her face in my hands, and kissing her. A long lingering kiss that feels like it’s been waiting in the wings since the beginning of act I – and even before I let go, from the way she’s kissing me back I already know what she’s going to say next.

“Sold,” says Rachel without opening her eyes. Then she smiles. That shy smile I’ve come to love so much. “Can we go home now?” she asks.

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Come back this time next week to read chapter seven… alternatively, The Truth About This Charming Man is available right now in paperback and for your smart phone, tablet, computer or kindle e-book reader!

How to finish a novel

 

So I just finished typing THE END on my fourth novel, and I’ll be honest with you, it feels a bit weird.

I was beginning to think I’d never get here! My amazing spreadsheet, that calculates my likely completion date (based on how many words I’ve written since the start of the project), reckoned I’d be done by September – October at the latest. But that was assuming the novel would come in at 80,000 words – average novel length, and more or less what all three of my previous works of fiction weighed in at.

However, as I reached that epic word count the story was nowhere near done. It was the writing equivalent of running a marathon only to have someone tell you after twenty six gruelling miles that the finish line has been moved. I had to keep going.

Never mind. At least the majority of the book had been written. And the last time I ‘wrote a novel’… and the time before that… there was something about having the end in sight that propelled me forwards. A sudden sprint to the finish line. But this time, the closer I got to the end of the story the slower I got.

Part of that was because I wasn’t entirely sure how the story should end. In fact, if it hadn’t of been for my chums in my writing group I might still be searching for that elusive ending.

Even when I had the ending, those last couple of chapters were extremely troublesome. This morning I spent almost 5 hours writing approximately two hundred words. That’s 40 words an hour. Less than a word a minute.

But…

It’s done.

Finally.

Except of course…

It’s not.

Starting next week I’m editing: I already have a pile of ‘go back and fix this’ notes. Then I’ll print the whole thing off, and do ‘the big read through’. When I’m done with drowning my sorrows (because traditionally at this point most authors think they’ve written a massive pile of horse poo), I’ll take my big red pen and start slashing and hacking.

I’ll be honest with you, the last two times I quite enjoyed this part – this is the moment when it actually starts to feel like I’ve written a book, something I can be proud of. But I suspect books might be a little like children; you might have had something to do with their creation, you might have created others, but it’s a mistake to let your guard down.

When I’m finally done slashing and hacking I’ll give the book to the half dozen trusted folk who have been waiting patiently to read it. My ‘first readers’.

And when I’m done working through their comments (which could easily range from ‘not sure she should be wearing a yellow dress in this scene’ to ‘this ending doesn’t make any kind of sense’) well… then I’ll send it to my agent.

And that’s when – ‘scuse the language – sh*t gets real.

In my experience, feedback from Agents tends to fall into two broad categories: Either they like your book, but have two or three suggested changes (those changes being ‘the beginning’, ‘the middle’, and ‘the end’), or… they don’t like your book, and would rather you’d written something else.

But that’s a long way off. Months away.

For now I’m just going to celebrate the end of this stage, and feel proud that I got to this point. Again. My fourth novel. My eighth book. That in itself, isn’t bad going.

So, check back again soon to see how the editing’s going. In the meantime, if you’re a writer, feel free to share your experiences of getting to the end of a first draft. And if you’re not a writer, but have always fancied writing a book, feel free to ask me a question or share your novel writing attempts in the comments.

Now then, where did I put my red pen?

Struggling for Christmas Present ideas? Then why not solve all your Christmas Present Conundrums in one hit by visiting The Novel Coffee Shop (98 London Road, Southend-on-Sea, SS1 1PG), on Saturday 1st December 2018 between 1:30pm and 4pm, where I’ll be signing copies of all my books, along with Sci-Fi author Claire Buss, and Children’s Fantasy author Daisy Bourne.

Click the flyer below to see a bigger version!

Chapter Three: The Truth About This Charming Man

Previously……

Out of work actor William Lewis made a living playing ‘Edwin,’ the fictitious boyfriend of high-powered executive Nathia. Or at least he used to, until Nathia decided to let him go. No matter, Zlata, his best friend and supposed theatrical agent has a new job for him… one that on the face of it is completely ridiculously and risky in the extreme. Although it would involve working very closely with someone Will rather likes… someone who seems to be no stranger to the concept of ‘secret identities’…

Read the previous chapter (two) here

Start from ‘Chapter One’ here

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Act 1
Scene Three

“Gentlemen – welcome to my ’umble restaurant, I am Stephan LeBlanc…” I am not Stephan LeBlanc. I am William Lewis. Will to my friends. But these are not my friends. And I barely own anything more than a watch – restaurants are definitely out of my league.

I shake the hands of the two gentlemen and waiting staff step forward and offer to take their coats. I’d half expected them to be wearing traditional Arabian dress, but instead they’re dressed in three-piece business suits. Savile Row, if I’m not mistaken. And I only know this because they’re similar to my own, though I’m guessing that they probably own their suits, whereas mine is most definitely hired.

“It is so nice to finally meet you and put faces to names,” I continue, though as I’m sure you’re beginning to realise, I’ve never had any kind of contact with either gentleman before this moment.

“Allow me to introduce my personal assistant; Miss Taylor. Miss Taylor handles many of my day-to-day activities.” Rachel steps forward and offers her hand. For a tense moment I watch the reaction of the two men. Much has been said in the previous few days about particular cultural attitudes towards women, and the reception Rachel might get as a woman working in a key role within ‘my’ organisation. But the two men bow and clasp her hand much more warmly than my own.

“Also, let me introduce Jarad Hossaini, my head of catering and senior chef. It was Jarad that started me on this wonderful journey when he introduced me to his fabulous Jordanian cuisine. Shall we sit?”

Whilst waiters distribute coffees I sneak a glance at my ‘colleagues’. Jarad looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut. Rachel, on the other hand, seems unfazed. She smiles shyly whenever anyone looks in her direction, which they do, often, and I can see that our guests are rapidly becoming beguiled by her charms. And for the first time since I agreed to take on this role, I’m starting to believe there’s every chance we might just pull this off.

Eight days ago I sat in this same restaurant, and discovered that the woman I knew as Rachel Richmond – shy and retiring wife of venture capitalist Michael Richmond – wasn’t so shy or as retiring as she’d led everyone to believe. Whilst Michael spent his days breathing life (or not) into fledgling companies throughout London, his wife was secretly running a restaurant, with Jarad – a talented Jordanian chef, and as it turns out, a distant cousin on Rachel’s mother’s side.

“But why keep it a secret?” I asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“If you knew my husband, it would make total sense.”

“But I do know your husband! Don’t I?”

“You only know what you see, Will; the man who likes to put on an expensive suit, drink an entire bottle of port, and entertain you with tales of his investment exploits. But there’s another side to Michael. A darker side. A cruel side. Did he ever tell you how we met?”

“Many times,” I replied. “You were waiting tables. He was meeting a business associate. Your eyes met across the crowded restaurant…”

“I suppose that’s one version of events,” said Rachel. “It was my first job and I loved it. That quirky old building, the people I worked with, the customers – I could have happily waited tables for the rest of my life. And then Michael started coming in with his ‘business associates’ – first once a week, then twice, then every day.

“I thought nothing of it at first. Why wouldn’t you come in every day if you could afford to? Then he started making demands: first he wanted the same table, then he refused to be served by anyone else, finally he told me he wanted to marry me.”

“Crikey,” I said. “That really is demanding!”

“Yes, well, I thought he was joking at first. An extension of his lewd comments, and attempts to pinch my bottom, but it turned out he was serious. He told me if I agreed to marry him he would buy the restaurant and give it to me as a wedding present. It would be mine. I could run it.

“Well, I was used to customers coming on to me, it came with the territory, but no man had ever offered to buy me anything more than a drink – but then, Michael wasn’t your average man. He was older, wiser, more confident, more powerful. He was very, very attractive. And I was young. A little naïve. And maybe… a little greedy. I loved that restaurant so much, Will. If Michael was willing to get it for me then I figured he must really… I thought it meant…” Rachel blinked a few times, bit her bottom lip, then turned to look out of the window whilst she bunched the table cloth in her fists. I exchanged glances with Zlata.

“Meant what?”

“That he genuinely loved me,” she said, so quietly I could barely hear her. I shuffled in my chair.

“Well I’m sure he did,” I said. “And probably still does. Doesn’t he?”

“No, Will,” she said, her voice hardening. “I didn’t realise it for a long time, but it turned out… he was just buying me. He’d figured out my price, and was adding me to his ‘portfolio’.” She stared off into the distance, her eyes full of the past.

“That sounds a little harsh,” I said eventually.

“It’s also true,” she said, coming back to the here and now. “But who am I to judge? I wanted that restaurant, just as Michael wanted me. So I agreed; I married him.”

“Wow,” I said.

“And then I watched Michael do what Michael does so well.”

“He bought you the restaurant?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking. The owner didn’t want to sell it – not even with my assurances that nothing would change. But that wasn’t going to stop Michael. Within a few months he’d acquired the building, and terminated the lease on the restaurant. The brasserie closed shortly after I became Mrs Richmond, and the owner and all my old colleagues found themselves out of work.

“I told myself it didn’t matter. That we’d re-open, under my management, and that I would re-employ as many of the original staff as I could, and together we would win back our old customers. It would be even better than it had been. Everybody would be happy.”

“I take it that’s not what happened,” I said, after a long pause. Rachel shook her head. “Michael never gave me the restaurant,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “He struck a deal with a property developer, and together they tore that lovely old building to the ground, and replaced it with a block of ‘luxury’ apartments. And one day he presented me with a piece of paper telling me that those flats were mine – that was my wedding present; a constant reminder of a place I’d once loved, the people I used to enjoy working with, and how my greed had destroyed it all.”

“Gosh,” I said. Eventually. Though more to fill the void with something other than the sound of Zlata’s rings clinking against her coffee cup. She’d obviously heard the story before, but still, I couldn’t help thinking that a moment of respectful silence was called for. Whilst I glared at Zlata, Jarad came over with another coffee and set it on front of Rachel.

“For you,” he said, placing a hand tenderly on her shoulder, and then taking the seat next to me.

“Thank you,” she said, with a smile.

“So, how did you come to run this place?” I asked.

“I met Jarad at a family function,” said Rachel, picking up her frothy milky drink. “He told me about his passion for cooking, how he’d always dreamt of owning a restaurant, and I realised that here was an opportunity to make up for what I’d done. We found this premises and together we started this business.”

“And Michael doesn’t know?” I asked.

“He knows the restaurant exists, of course – but he doesn’t know about my involvement. Or that Jarad is my cousin. And that’s the way I want it to stay.” Something didn’t make sense.

“Then how on earth did Michael end up coming here for a business meeting?”

“Ah, well – in retrospect perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea,” said Rachel, shooting Jarad a look.

“What wasn’t?”

“The restaurant, this restaurant, has been extremely successful. A few months ago we started to wonder whether we could expand. Open a second restaurant. Perhaps even a small chain. But expansion needs money, William. Investment.”

“You’re kidding me. You contacted your husband! After what happened before?”

“Perhaps it was madness, but it felt like fate had handed me an opportunity. If I could get that… miserable worm to invest his money in our restaurant, it would, in some small way, be a kind of retribution. I wrote to Nathia, as Jarad, and asked whether her firm might be interested in discussing an investment opportunity. She came, saw the potential, and took the idea to her boss – my husband. Everything seemed to be going to plan – until, that is, the evening Michael came to see the restaurant for himself.

“I sat next to him, as his wife, and watched, helpless, as he fired his stupid investment questions at my cousin: what was his gross turnover for each year we’ve been in business? How much of that was net profit? What were his projections? And even though Jarad promised to provide Michael with everything he wanted, and more, by email the next day – that wasn’t good enough for my husband. Eventually he wasn’t even asking proper questions any more, he was just saying anything he could to belittle Jarad, my cousin, my business partner, right in front of me! I was livid, but what could I do? Once again this man had taken my dreams, and crushed them!”

Rachel sat back in her chair, exhausted. I was pretty shell shocked myself, my mind reeling at how much more there was to this melancholy beautiful woman I used to sit opposite at dinner parties.

Zlata broke the silence. “Nonsense,” she said. “The dream is not over! Always there is another way to skin dog!”

“I think you mean cat,” I said.

“I know what I mean,” said Zlata. “And this time we cannot fail!”

“Well – possibly,” said Rachel. “Zlata has this… alternative… idea.” I was starting to feel uncomfortable.

“Why do I get the impression that this somehow involves me?” I asked hesitantly. Rachel looked at her watch, and glanced at Jarad who left the table to fetch her coat and scarf.

“There are one or two complications,” said Rachel, getting out of her seat, taking the items from Jarad, and putting them on. “Unfortunately I don’t have time to go into them now – Michael will be wondering where I am – but let’s just say that we’re in need of an actor who specialises in playing unusual roles in real life. You can imagine how surprised I was when Zlata said she knew someone, and even more when I discovered that I already knew you – albeit as Edwin, boyfriend of my husband’s right-hand woman.” I shot a look at Zlata, who shrugged.

“Yes, well, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about her telling you that!”

“Don’t worry William,” said Rachel, reaching across the table and placing her hand on mine, “your secret is safe with me. Let’s talk tomorrow if that’s okay? I’d like to become your newest client.”

Not twelve hours later Zlata and I were parked in her ancient Mini Cooper, on double yellow lines, in a side street near London Bridge. Ahead of us, on the other side of a busy main road, was an austere looking coffee shop. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“So, that’s the place eh?” Zlata was leaning forwards, her torso pressed against the steering wheel, her nose almost touching the inside of the windscreen. I checked my watch. It was still on my wrist, which was a good thing, but it was way too early in the morning, which was not. “Why don’t we go in?” I suggested. “I could really use a cup of coffee. I was awake half the night worrying about what will happen if Michael finds out I’m not Edwin; he’ll confront Nathia, my god he might even fire her, and then there will be… ‘ramifications’.” I shuddered.

“That will not happen,” said Zlata, without ever looking at me. “Nobody is telling anyone anything.”

“You told Rachel!”

“That was different.”

“No it wasn’t!”

“Hush now,” said Zlata, turning to face me. “Look at the cafe.” I glanced back across the road, then at Zlata, who’d resumed her original position. At any moment I expected her to produce a pair of binoculars.

“Yes, it’s still there!” I said. Then frowned. “Not exactly busy, are they?”

“Exactly!” hissed Zlata. “Here we sit – looking at the many peoples; all going and coming. All of them needing something to eat, some coffee, a place to meet other peoples. And yet, no one goes in. No one comes out. It is like it is invisibles.”

“Too expensive, eh? It looks as if it might be quite pricey.” Zlata gave one of her eastern European shrugs. “Terrible food?” She shrugged again. “Okay, so why is it empty? At… nine-forty-five on a Monday morning?”

“It is the magic,” said Zlata.

“You mean like a curse?”

“No! Not like curse – I mean it has no magic! You go in, you drink coffee, you talk, you chat, but no magic. Nothing. It is empty experience.”

“Right,” I said. My stomach rumbled to let me know that it too was empty.

“And not just this restaurant,” continued Zlata, “all of them.”

“There are others?”

“Thirteen. All over London. All dead. All empty. No magic. But we – we have the magic!” Suddenly everything fell into place.

“Are you proposing that Jarad and Rachel merge with these guys?”

“Exactly!” replied Zlata. “It is perfect solution.” I rubbed my tired eyes.

“Well, it’s an interesting idea,” I mused. “But what makes you think Café Al Muteena would be remotely interested?”

“They will,” said Zlata. I narrowed my eyes. I could tell when she was up to something. “It is owned by two gentlemens. The Tahan Brothers. Abdul and Sadaqat. They are Arabian princes.”

“Princes? You’re kidding me.”

“I am deadly and serious. We had… the friendship.”

“The friendship?”

“Yes.” I raised an eyebrow.

“The ‘special’ friendship?”

“Sometimes it was special.”

“You and Abdul?”

“Yes. And his brother.”

“Both of them!?”

“They are very close. They share everything.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Dear god…”

“And they are very proud men. Very traditional.”

“Not that traditional by the sounds of it!”

“It would be very bad thing if business fail. And so, like all business men, what they don’t have, they buy. We have the magic. They need the magic. They’ll talk to you.” She sat back in her seat and started the ignition.

“Hang on! Me?” I blurted.

“Yes. Of course you. And now we go for coffee – somewhere else.”

“But why me? Why not you?!”

“Our friendship,” said Zlata checking over her shoulder, “–not so special anymore.”

“Okay, well, then Jarad!”

“Jarad not so good with the business meeting. Remember?”

“Rachel then?”

“Like I say, they are traditional.” There was a metallic crunch whilst Zlata went through her usual unique approach to putting a car into first gear. “Arabian business gentlemens only do business with other gentlemens.”

“So because of your not-so-special-relationship, Jarad’s missing business acumen, and Rachel’s misfortune at being female, I have to negotiate with these… gentlemens!”

“Yes. That is about the shape of it.”

“You mean size!”

“I know what I mean,” said Zlata. The car launched forward, approached the junction at an alarming speed, and then joined the traffic on the main road to the usual fanfare of angry car horns.

“And who exactly am I supposed to say I am?” I yelled over the noise of the engine.

“Stephan LeBlanc?!”

Without the hubbub of diners and waiters weaving between tables, Jarad’s had a church-like tranquillity about it. I, however, was feeling anything but tranquil. I waited impatiently for Zlata to light her cigarette and explain what mysterious Czech logic had led her to choose such a ludicrous name. Rachel glanced nervously from Zlata to me and back again. Jarad shuffled in his seat.

“Zlata thought that was quite a good name,” said Rachel.

“Zlata always thinks her names are good! Look, getting the name right is perhaps the most important part of developing a character. Would Macbeth have worked quite so well if the murderous Scottish general had been called…” I hunted around in my psyche for a suitably absurd name to illustrate my point. “… Bertram?”

“Well he could be, couldn’t he?” asked Rachel. “Isn’t Macbeth a surname?”

“My point is–”

“Never mind point,” interrupted Zlata, “Abdul and his brother already know Stephan LeBlanc. We write them nice letter and we sign it; Stephan LeBlanc. It is good name! Very convincing! And we cannot change it. Not now.”

“But it’s French! And I am not French!”

“But you are very good actor. This will be walk in the street.”

“Park!”

“I know what I mean!”

“And what if I don’t agree to this… lunacy?” Zlata said nothing, just took a long drag of her cigarette.

“Well,” said Rachel, “we’d have to find someone else.” But I could see she wasn’t convinced.

“Who? Who else is going to play this part?”

“I would play it!” said Zlata defiantly.

“You!?”

“Why not me?”

“Several reasons,” I said, preparing to tick them off my fingers. “A) You’re not a man, B) you’re not French, C) they already know you as their ex-‘special’ friend Zlata! And D)… you’re not a man!”

“I will wear disguise!”

“Good god!”

“I am good with disguise!”

“Look, Will,” said Rachel, reaching across the table and touching my arm, “There is no one else! We know that. So does Zlata.”

“I could do it!”

“Yes, Zlata, er, possibly, but not as well as Will. That’s why you suggested him. And that’s why we went ahead and contacted Abdul, because we were reasonably certain we knew someone who could play the part of Stephan when and if the time came. True, we probably should have waited until you’d agreed, Will, but we had to move quickly. Abdul and his brother aren’t in the country all that often.” She held my gaze, those cappuccino eyes never leaving mine for a second, and though it really was lunacy, a part of me wanted to do it for no other reason than it was important to Rachel. And I liked her. I liked her a lot. If she’d put her faith in me then I wanted to show her it was justified.

“Fine,” I said eventually. “Fine! I’ll do it. For you. But on one condition!”

“Name it,” said Rachel.

“None of this, none of this, ever gets back to Nathia and Michael. Or anyone else.” I looked at Zlata. “Is that understood?”

“Of course,” said Rachel.

“I could have done it,” said Zlata.

Rachel is in full flow, taking the brothers through ‘our’ turnover figures for the past five years, our projections, all those things that business people obsess about. We’ve even alluded to Stephan’s ‘interesting’ personal taxation conundrum, and why his name might not be on the bottom of any contract. A first step in removing the fictitious element from this business arrangement. And the brothers seem fine with that. In their hearts I suspect they already know that Rachel is the true business brains of this operation. And it doesn’t seem to matter that she isn’t a man.

“I think I speak for both of us,” says Abdul, “when I say that you are a most impressive individual, Miss Taylor. Monsieur LeBlanc, you are indeed most fortunate to have Miss Taylor in your employ.”

“Thank you gentlemen, I am indeed very lucky. Miss Taylor tells me much the same thing on almost a daily basis.” Everybody laughs.

“Normally I’d like some time to consider such a proposal but…” Abdul looks at his brother who returns the merest of nods, “I’m not sure there is anything to consider. We would be honoured to form an alliance with you. To take what you have done here and replicate it in all thirteen of our establishments.”

“Well, gentlemen,” I say with a respectful bow of my head, “words cannot express how happy that makes me.”

“There is just one thing we must do first,” continues Abdul. “As a courtesy to our investors, we are legally obliged to run a decision of this magnitude past them.” Abdul continues to talk but all I can hear is the word ‘investors’ echoing inside my head. This is the first time anybody’s mentioned investors.

“Of course, gentlemen,” I say. “Absolutely no problem.” Rachel gives me a sideways glance. And I know what she wants me to ask. “But, just out of interest,” I continue, “may I ask who your investors are?”

“Michael Richmond, of Steele & Richmond,” says Abdul. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

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Chapter Five: The Truth About This Charming Man

Previously…..

After Will storms out of the business meeting with the two ‘Arab Princes”, Rachel turns up at his flat the following day to tell him that (amazingly!) the deal is still going through, but with one small caveat; Michael wants to meet Stephan Le Blanc.

Read the previous Chapter (four) here

Start from Chapter One here

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Act 1
Scene Five

The receptionist throws me a sympathetic smile as I look up from the pages of The Economist. It’s only a flicker, and probably better described as ‘awkward’. It’s the smile of someone who doesn’t know whether they should be smiling, or not, and is apprehensive about what might happen next.

We’ve met before, the receptionist and I, many times in fact. But always I was Edwin, calling to take Nathia out to lunch, or to the theatre, or to drop off some flowers. Today – although I’m in full Edwin costume, complete with Edwin glasses, playing the part of Edwin – I have no idea how much the audience knows. And though I think it’s unlikely that Nathia has admitted I wasn’t her boyfriend, that for four long years she was paying me to help conceal the fact that she’s actually gay, she has probably told them that I’m no longer in her life. Yet here I am, sitting on a couch, browsing financial magazines, in the reception area of Steele & Richmond, Venture Capitalists.

“Edwin!” says Nathia as she comes round the corner. “What a surprise!” So, I am still Edwin – the ex-boyfriend. “Caroline, if you could hold my calls for, say, ten minutes.” Caroline nods rapidly, and then blushes.

“What the hell are you doing here?” hisses Nathia as soon as we’re out of reception.

“What? Can’t a man pop in on his ex-girlfriend when he’s in the neighbourhood?”

“Shut up!” growls Nathia. “Save it for when we’re in my office.”

As soon as we’re in the enormous room that serves as Nathia’s office she closes the glass door behind us, and lowers the blinds. I open my mouth to speak, but she stops me with a hand gesture and then uses a remote on her desk to switch on an enormous plasma television mounted on the wall opposite. She turns the volume up, then perches on the end of her desk, arms crossed.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” she says. “And it had better be good.” I remove my glasses slowly, and wait just long enough to create a sufficiently dramatic effect. I am an actor, after all.

“I’m Stephan LeBlanc,” I say. And I get the reaction I was hoping for.

“What do you mean you’re Stephan LeBlanc!” spits Nathia, her eyes flashing with rage.

“I mean I have a client who hired me to play the part of Jarad’s business partner,” I explain.

“Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“You’ve been in a business meeting with Jarad,” I continue. “You know how well that went.” Nathia’s lips are so thin they’re in danger of disappearing.

“I mean,” she says, “why doesn’t this elusive business partner just start showing up for meetings! Instead of leaving it all to Jarad, or hiring a… stooge!”

“Because they’re married to your boss.” I watch as Nathia’s mind ticks over.

“Rachel!?” she says eventually.

“Yes.”

“Rachel is in business with Jarad?”

“Yes.”

“And Michael doesn’t know about this?”

“Of course not,” I say. “Hence Stephan LeBlanc.” Nathia shakes her head in bewilderment.

“Is she having an affair with Jarad?” she asks.

“No. She’s his cousin – distant cousin. Another thing Michael doesn’t know.”

“But why all the secrecy?”

“Well, you know; sometimes people have very personal reasons for keeping things private, and are willing to go to extraordinary lengths to make sure they stay that way.” And Nathia knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“I take it then that Rachel is aware of our… ‘arrangement’?” I take a breath. I knew this was going to come up.

“I’m afraid she does.”

“I see,” says Nathia, the temperature in the room dropping to just above freezing. “This is a breach of our contract, William,” she says, using my real name for only the second time in several years.

“I’m aware of that.” We stare at each other for what seems like decades, and I genuinely have no idea what’s going to happen next. Part of me expects a crack team of lawyers to sweep in through the window and carry me off in chains. A more realistic part expects Nathia to command me to leave London and never return. But most of me is praying that Rachel was right about Nathia.

“So why are you here?” she asks.

“I need your help,” I say. “We – Jarad, Rachel and I – need your help.”

She says nothing, instead she walks round to her side of her desk and presses a button on her phone. Caroline answers.

“Edwin and I are taking an early lunch, Caroline, can you rearrange my appointments for this afternoon?” And before Caroline has a chance to reply, Nathia hangs up. She turns to me. “Let’s go,” she says.

“Let me see if I’ve understood this correctly,” says Nathia, after she’s checked and double checked that everyone in our immediate vicinity is either busy eating, talking, or too inebriated to pay us any meaningful attention. “You’ve been hired to play the part of Stephan LeBlanc, to negotiate a restaurant merger with two of my clients, so that one of the real owners, Rachel Richmond – my boss’s wife – can continue to remain anonymous and keep her business dealings secret!?”

“Close enough,” I say. Nathia takes another cursory glance around the pub, presumably to see if there is anyone who might recognise us. It seems highly unlikely. We spent twenty minutes in a cab getting as far away from her office as possible.

“But now the challenge is how you meet Michael, as Stephan LeBlanc, when he already knows you as Edwin Clarkson, my supposed ex-boyfriend, without him discovering that in reality you’re neither of those people. Not to mention that his wife is in business with a man that he can’t stand, and that you’ve been helping me to conceal the fact that I’m one of those ‘ghastly fucking lesbian people’? Is that everything? Or did I miss something crucial?”

“You’re not ghastly,” I say. “A bit prickly sometimes, maybe…” Nathia’s face hardens.

“Michael Richmond is not a man to cross, William,” she says, becoming almost threatening. “He’s a man with fixed ideas about how the world should work, and he has the power and influence to ensure that it operates his way.” I should probably be scared. Instead I’m irritated.

“Yes, and I thought you were sick of all that? I thought you’d decided you weren’t going to go along with Michael’s prehistoric ideas any longer? That’s why you fired me, wasn’t it? So you could ‘come out’ and be yourself?”

“And I will, William,” replies Nathia. “In my own time! But the last thing I need is you interfering and outing me before I’m ready!”

“I’m not interfering,” I protest. “Or at least I didn’t mean to. It just got out of hand. And right now I want it all to go away!” I say. “And I don’t see how that can happen without your help.”

“What exactly do you expect me to do?” asks Nathia.

“Persuade Michael that he doesn’t need to meet Stephan! That would seem to be the most obvious thing.”

“You’ve got no idea, have you,” says Nathia, cocking her head as if I am some strange creature inside a cage.

“About what?”

“The only reason this merger is still on the table is because Michael got me to check the figures that were given to Abdul and his brother. And guess what: they’re impressive. Whoever put them together is clearly a shrewd business person. Which begs the question, why would someone with that level of business acumen want to stay in the shadows? Why would that same someone leave important business meetings in the hands of inept colleagues? Perhaps everything isn’t quite what it seems? In short, William – Michael smells a rat!” This is all news to me. I put my elbows on the table between us, drop my head into my hands, and let out a muffled cry of frustration.

“It seems to me your only possible course of action,” continues Nathia, “is to persuade Rachel and Jarad to forget the merger, and walk away.” I look at her through my fingers. “Though to be honest,” says Nathia, more to herself than to me, “that probably isn’t an option either. Michael is unlikely to drop the matter. He really wants to meet this Stephan LeBlanc. And once he gets a bee in his bonnet…”

I think of Rachel, how Michael ended up buying a building just to get her to marry him. Nathia is right; Michael will pursue Stephan to the end of the world and back.

Unless he can’t.

“What if,” I say, an idea forming in my mind, “we killed off Stephan? Fake his death somehow?”

“Ridiculous.”

“No, listen – that could work! We place an ad in the obituaries column of The Financial Times. If Michael thinks Stephan is dead all he’ll be left with is paperwork, and the merger will go ahead.” It was genius. “The FT does have an obituary column, doesn’t it? Nathia?”

“Quiet,” says Nathia. “I’m thinking.” I sit back in my chair and stare at the bubbles in the pint before me. I’m not in a drinking mood. “Jarad said his ‘business partner’ was busy,” said Nathia slowly. “But busy doing what?”

“Being Michael’s wife!” I say, picking up my beer as a fresh bout of hopelessness sweeps through me. Maybe I am in a drinking mood after all.

“Maybe not,” says Nathia, leaning forward and becoming more animated than I’ve seen her in a long while. “What if we turned the tables somewhat; what if a meeting between the two of them is arranged, but Michael is forced to miss it, due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’ – especially if those circumstances are of a personal nature! He might just be more sympathetic to Monsieur LeBlanc’s previous absence.” I raise an eyebrow.

“What are you suggesting we do?” I ask. “Phone Michael at the last minute and tell him his aunt’s in hospital? Does he even have an aunt? And would he run to her bedside even if he did?” Nathia sits back in her chair. Gone is her enthusiasm.

“You’re right,” she says, picking up her orange juice. “It’s a stupid idea; Michael doesn’t care about anything other than work. The only personal life he has is Rachel and he doesn’t seem to give two hoots about her.” She sips her drink and then returns it to the table. “So basically you’re screwed. And so am I. Terrific. Well done, William. Are you even listening to me?!”

“Hang on,” I say, my head suddenly awash with thoughts of Rachel – maybe, just maybe, there is a moment waiting to be seized. “I might just have an idea.”

* * * * *

“You want me to do what?” says Rachel.

It’s taken me ten minutes to outline my plan and now all eyes are on Rachel as the four of us – Jarad, Zlata, Rachel and myself – congregate at the back of Jarad’s kitchen.

“I know,” I say, chewing nervously on the side of my thumb, “it’s a lot to ask. But it’s the only thing I could think of. We need something that Michael values more than anything else, more than his obsession with Stephan LeBlanc at least, and…”

“It is brilliant!” declares Zlata.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. “In fact I think the whole thing is completely loony. Not to mention unethical. And possibly illegal.”

“It is like banking heights!” continues Zlata.

“You mean a bank heist,” I say.

“I know what I mean.”

“Look, Rachel,” I continue, “it’s just acting. You don’t have to mean it. It just has to seem like you mean it. At the time. Afterwards you can tell Michael… well, you can tell him that…”

“It’s okay, Will,” says Rachel, getting out of her seat and smoothing down her skirt. “I’ll do it.” The rest of us exchange glances.

“Really?” I ask. Rachel nods.

“Yes,” she says.

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Chapter Four: The Truth About This Charming Man

Previously…..

Rachel has big plans for a chain of restaurants, and is all set to strike up a partnership with a small chain of London restaurants / coffee shops. Unfortunately, these restaurants are run by a pair of Arab Princes (brothers, and ‘special friends’ of Zlata). Being Arabian they will, of course, only negotiate business with another man, which is why Will, our hero, finds himself playing French Entrepreneur ‘Stefan Le Blanc’ at a business meeting. Everything is going perfectly until the Princes mention their investor – Michael Richmond – Rachel’s husband!

Read the previous chapter (three) here

Start from Chapter One here

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Act 1
Scene Four

Thirty seconds after our Arabian guests have left I burst into the kitchen with only one murderous thought on my mind – Rachel and Jarad are only a few steps behind me.

Zlata, meanwhile, is completely unaware that these are her final moments. She sits at the far end of the kitchen, in a haze of cigarette smoke, her feet on an upturned bucket, whilst she watches a small black and white television.

“I thought you said they were princes!” I roar.

“Hush, William,” she replies, her eyes still glued to the screen, “we are coming to the best bit.”

I glance at the television. “Columbo!?”

“Yes, Columbo! He is about to find out who murderer is, and always he says, ‘just the one more thing’. It is my favourite part.”

“I can tell you who did it, Zlata – it’s the actor, in the kitchen, with,” I look around me, “the frying pan!”

“What are you talking about?” says Zlata, her eyes never leaving the TV screen. “There is no actor. And the body was found in the swimming pool.”

“They won’t find your body, Zlata. I’m going to put you through that blender and turn you into pies!” For the first time Zlata looks up from the television, first at the blender, then at me, then at Rachel, and then back at me.

“Oh no!” she says, spinning around in her chair to face us. “Not again! The meeting did not go well?”

“The meeting went fabulously!” I say. “They want to strike a deal. Everything went according to plan.” Zlata brightens. “– Except for the part where the Arabian princes aren’t actually princes.” She blinks.

“Of course they are princes,” she says.

“No Zlata, because if they were they wouldn’t need the backing of investors!”

“Well,” she says with a shrug, “maybe not ‘princes’, but they have the royal blood. So ‘almost princes’.” I can feel the rage inside me reaching a crescendo.

“You’re not listening to me, are you,” I say as I lean forwards and put my hands on her shoulders. “We don’t care if they’re related to the King of Sweden – we only care that they don’t need to involve anyone who works in investment, and by anyone I mean Michael Richmond! Rachel’s bloody husband!” Zlata frowns, takes a long slow drag on her cigarette, and blows smoke in my face.

“I not understand,” she says. “Why is this problem?” I stand up, part of me wondering whether she genuinely hasn’t grasped the seriousness of the situation, whilst the other part of me can’t quite believe that I haven’t killed her yet and is still chomping at the bit.

“What do you think Michael’s going to say when his client casually mentions that they’ve been in business talks with his wife?” I ask. “And that she seems to be operating under her maiden name? And is in partnership with the man he spent an entire evening ridiculing!?”

“Pfff. William. You worry too much.”

“I’m beginning to realise I don’t worry enough!” I reach up, take down the large cast iron frying pan that is hanging from a hook, and check the weight in my hands. Perfect.

“Will!” says Rachel. “Wait!”

“It’s okay, Rachel,” I assure her, “if I can convince the world that I’m the boyfriend of a woman who’s clearly gay, hordes of desperate men that I’m some sort of seduction expert, and two Arabian gentlemen that I’m the French owner of a Jordanian restaurant, I reckon I stand a pretty good chance of getting away with murder!”

“No, you don’t understand,” she says, “Zlata’s right!”

“Go ahead, William,” counters Zlata. “Bash out my brains with frying pan. Personally I’d use knife. Much quicker.”

“Too much blood,” I reply, “and I’ve had it up to here cleaning up after your mess.”

“What mess?” asks Zlata. “There is no mess! So they are not princes – so what? So they have the investors – so what? So investor is Michael Richmond! So what?”

“You haven’t been listening to a word I say, have you?! You never do! Never mind. This ends here!” I raise the frying pan over my head.

“Will!” screams Rachel. “Taylor isn’t my maiden name!” I pause, the frying pan still in the air, whilst I wait for the implications of this new information to sink in. “I picked a name at random,” continues Rachel, “in case something like this should happen.”

Zlata takes a final drag on her cigarette whilst I stand there frozen in thought. She flicks the dog end into the sink, where it fizzes for a brief second, and then crosses her arms in one final act of defiance.

“That doesn’t change anything,” I say, “As soon as Michael hears Jarad’s name we’re sunk.”

“No! He won’t remember it!” says Rachel behind me. “He’s dreadful with names. Especially foreign names. I had to remind him when he was recounting the story to you and he’d forgotten it again before he’d finished what he was saying! He ended up calling him jar head! Don’t you remember?” That was true. I lower my weapon.

“Okay, but what about Nathia?” I say, turning to Rachel. “She’s met Jarad twice! What’s to stop her reminding Michael who Jarad is?”

“And why would she do that?” asks Rachel. “She liked this restaurant. And the food. And Jarad.” Jarad gives me his best ‘that’s true’ nod. “She could see the potential – and then Michael made her look like a fool, just as he has countless times before. She’s the real brains of that operation. She should have been made a partner years ago, but instead she’s been held back by my husband, all while she pretends to be someone she isn’t. Trust me, when Nathia realises it’s the same Jarad she’ll do everything she can to push this deal through.”

I stand there for a moment longer, the frying pan still in my hand. You know, there’s really nothing quite as irritating as getting yourself worked up enough to commit the most heinous of all crimes, only to have someone talk you down. Zlata is already lighting another cigarette.

“So,” she says. “Now we will open a bottle of the finest wine – one with the sparkles – and later Jarad will bake fantastic pie, but without Zlata meat.” I put the frying pan on one side.

“Well,” I say, “seems like you’ve all got the whole thing figured out.”

“William,” calls Rachel as I turn and walk out of the kitchen, but I don’t reply. I’m not in the mood for talking, or celebrating, or eating pie; I’m exhausted. I walk through the restaurant, grab my jacket on the way, and leave them to their victory.

All I’ve ever wanted in life is to be an actor. That’s all. A proper actor. On a stage. With an audience. An audience that knows I’m an actor, and knows they’re the audience. Just to be paid by people who want to be entertained for a couple of hours. Instead, I’m a con-man.

That’s the truth of it.

And the biggest con I’ve pulled off in my dubious career is the one where I’ve convinced myself that I’m anything different. In therapy circles I believe they call this denial.

My mobile phone rings at least three times before I get home, and each time it’s Zlata. I don’t answer, and instead consider throwing the damn thing into the Thames, but that would be overly dramatic, even for me. In the end I just switch it off.

As I open my front door, the answering machine light dares to blink at me from across the hall – I stomp over, pull the power cable out of the back, and then yank the phone cable out of the wall. I’m not in the mood for talking, I’m in the mood for wallowing. And wallowing, as you might be aware, is best done with a bottle of cheap wine. The cheaper the better. It adds to that overall sense of suffering.

I walk into the kitchen, find an ancient bottle of wine that one of my old students gave me as a thank you for misleading them into believing that they could one day become a successful actor, pick up a vaguely clean glass from the draining board and fill it to the brim before taking a swig. Something rubs against my shin. And I look down into the eyes of my big ginger cat. He blinks back at me, then meows his general dismay that once again his food bowls are empty.

“At least you want me, eh Oscar. Even if it is only for my ability to open cans of tuna.” I start looking through cupboards for something to feed my cat whilst simultaneously allowing their emptiness to become a metaphor for my life and non-existent theatrical career. If I find a tin of tuna, then the act of emptying its contents into Oscar’s bowl will represent my soul being hollowed out to be devoured by an industry – represented by Oscar – that gives very little back and continually asks for more. On the other hand, should I fail to find tuna, or indeed cat food of any description, something which seems far more likely, well then, that too can take on some weighty symbolic significance which I will ponder whilst I drain the wine bottle of its contents.

Eventually I give up looking for tins, pour boiling water over some prawns I find lurking at the bottom of the freezer, and put them in Oscar’s bowl. Then I grab the bottle and move to the lounge.

When I’m done with wallowing I plan to crawl into bed and dedicate much of tomorrow to self-pity, a task that will be considerably easier with the thumping hangover I’m bound to have by then.

But my wallowing plans are disrupted by thoughts of Rachel.

And her lovely long dark hair.

And those eyes.

And her shy smile.

And the way that she makes me feel.

Whilst I want to fixate on the career I’ve never had, all I can really think about is how much I’ll miss Rachel now that my part in her ruse is over, and how I wish I’d been more to her than a stooge.

Thirty six hours later I’m woken by the sound of the door bell. I check the clock. It’s barely ten o’clock.

“Hello Will,” says Rachel as I opened the door.

“Rachel!” I say. “Well, er… this is a surprise!”

“Zlata told me where you live,” she says. “I tried to call but…”

“Oh, er, yes. My mobile; it’s… switched off.” There seems little point in lying about it.

“Right,” says Rachel. “Can I come in?”

“Yes, yes of course.” I usher her in. “Would you like a coffee?” I ask as I close the door and walk through to the kitchen.

“That would be lovely,” replies Rachel as she follows me. I open a cupboard and look at the large empty space where occasionally I keep things like jars of coffee. When I have them.

“It appears that at present I am all out of coffee,” I say. “I can offer you… um… water?”

“Water would be great,” says Rachel. I begin opening other mostly empty cupboards where I have in the past come across clean glassware. “You have a cat?” asks Rachel, looking at the empty food bowls on the floor.

“Er yes. He’s somewhere around here.”

“I never thought of you as a cat person. Oh, and er, here he is.” I turn, and there in the kitchen doorway stands a large black cat. It’s the sort of cat that looks as if it might have been hit by a car – but the car came off worse. It should have an eye patch. Perhaps even a hook instead of a paw. It’s certainly not the sort of cat you’d want as a pet.

Our eyes meet.

He knows what’s coming next.

“Out!” I yell, arms flailing. “Out now!” The cat darts under the kitchen table, onto the worktops and after knocking several items off the draining board, makes his escape through the partially open window above the sink. “Bloody animal!” I mutter. Rachel looks shocked.

“That was Spot,” I say by way of explanation. “It’s one of my neighbours’ cats.”

“Oh,” coos Rachel, looking considerably more relaxed. “Right. Odd name for a black cat though; Spot. Were your neighbours being ironic?”

“Oh, no. That’s my name for him.” Rachel frowns. “Because I’m always telling him to get out.” The frown deepens. “‘Out damn Spot?’ It’s a quote. Macbeth.” Still the frown. “Shakespeare?” Finally the frown evaporates.

“Of course,” she says. “Always the actor. Makes perfect sense. We actually studied that at school. Clearly it made no impression on me at all.” We stand there for a moment longer before I remember I’m supposed to be finding a clean glass. “Look, Will, I need to apologise for the other day…”

“No! No – you don’t,” I say, resuming my search and coming across an old vase that I hope I can pass off as an oversized, ornate pint glass. “If anyone needs to apologise it’s me. I was being an idiot. I just wanted to… I was just worried that… I…”

“You were right,” she says, “about Michael.”

“I was?”

“He remembered Jarad’s name. Not immediately of course, but last night he kept flicking through his appointment diary like he was looking for something. When I asked what he was doing he suddenly leapt out of his chair and yelled, ‘Jar head!’ Then he told me how two of his clients had been approached by ‘that effing ghastly Jordanian fellow’, and how he fully intended to tell them to ‘stay well clear’. It was all I could do to stop him phoning Abdul and his brother right there and then.” I say nothing for a moment, until I notice I’m still holding Rachel’s glass of water.

“Why don’t we go and sit down,” I suggest. We walk through to the lounge. Rachel takes the end seat on the sofa, whilst I sit in the armchair next to her.

“So, what did you do?” I prompt.

“I asked him whether they’d said anything else, whether there’d been anyone else at their meeting, whether they’d sent him any paperwork – anything to get him to concentrate on the actual business proposition rather than his dislike of Jarad!”

“Clever,” I say, as I imagine Michael all red-faced with rage as he turns the air blue.

“Maybe,” says Rachel.

“Did it work?”

Rachel sighs. “I don’t know. He just opened another bottle of port and sat there in silence for the rest of the evening.” I nod.

“So why are you here?” I ask, eventually. She turns and looks at me. Those lovely, lovely eyes, so sad.

“I needed someone to talk to,” she says. “And I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” I blink.

“What about Zlata?” I ask.

“Well, she’s lovely, but… you know what she’s like. She’d have started with one of her plans and right now I just need a friend.”

“Well, I’m delighted you think of me that way,” I say, though ‘delighted’ doesn’t quite cover it.

“Of course I do,” she says. “I always have.”

“But you only ever knew me as Edwin. I was playing a role. Wearing a mask.”

“Well,” says Rachel. “We all do that, don’t we? To an extent. And yet friendships blossom. And sometimes when the mask is removed they grow stronger still.”

“Very wise,” I say. She smiles, but the sadness is still there.

“Anyway,” continues Rachel, “it’s only a matter of time before my charming husband poisons the deal. He’s probably putting the knife in even as we speak.” She stares moodily across my apartment. And it doesn’t take a mind reader to see that she’s lost in thoughts of Michael. Intentionally or otherwise, this man has brought nothing but destruction to Rachel’s life.

“Rachel,” I say eventually, “can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course,” she says, coming out of her trance.

“Why do you stay with him? Why stay with a man who you so obviously despise?” Rachel looks down at her hands. “I assumed at first it was because you’d become accustomed to a certain kind of lifestyle, but then it occurred to me that you must have an income from the flats he gave you – so why stay in the marriage?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” asks Rachel without looking up.

“Not to me,” I say.

“To put it right! Undo all that damage he did when he closed my old restaurant, and turned it into flats.”

“But what if you can’t?” I ask. “What if you can’t ‘put it right’?” Rachel’s face hardens.

“Then I want him to pay – in terms that cold hearted monster will understand!”

“Revenge?”

“Yes! Revenge!”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I happen to know a thing or two about revenge,” I say. “It’s a popular theme in theatre. It never ends well for ‘the avenger’. Death or madness are the usual outcomes.” Rachel lets out a single humourless laugh.

“I can believe that,” she says. “Most of the time it feels like I’m losing my mind.” She goes back to examining her hands.

“You know,” I say, “it occurs to me that if you really want to exact revenge on your husband for taking your colleagues’ jobs – for closing the restaurant that you all loved – the easiest way would be to take something from him. Something that he treasures. Something he’ll never be able to get back – no matter what price he’s willing to pay.”

“Yes, well, that would be wonderful wouldn’t it,” says Rachel. “And believe me, if I could think of anything…” she continues, her voice, soft and quiet, tailing off.

“But you’re forgetting,” I say gently, “this is a man who, when he couldn’t buy a certain restaurant, bought the very ground it stood on! And why? So he could marry a waitress! He must have really wanted to marry that waitress!” Rachel looks up. “Even if he doesn’t love you, Rachel, he does love showing you off. Of all the possessions he has, you must be amongst his most prized. If you really want to hit him where it hurts, walk away – and never go back.”

She looks at me for a moment, and as the tears start to roll down her cheeks I can see that she’s never thought of herself like that. She’s so used to Michael making her feel worthless that she’s completely forgotten she’s the most valuable thing he owns.

A few seconds later I’m on the sofa next to her, my arms around her. And as she sobs into my shoulder, I start to wonder if some good might come of all this subterfuge after all.

We spend the rest of the day together, talking, about everything and anything: how her years with Michael have just rolled by in one unhappy blur. How she feels trapped inside that moment when the brasserie closed for the last time, and the enormous guilt that she still feels years later. But also how she can leave him now, how she can start again, how there really is nothing stopping her other than her own fears. She has the business with Jarad. They can build that together – without investors. It’ll take time of course, but in the end it might be enough to make up for past mistakes.

At some point I get dressed, and we leave the apartment in search of something to drink other than water. Then we walk along the river, weaving our way through tourists, dodging the pigeons, and talking about London: our favourite landmarks. London’s rich vibrant history. How all the theatres used to be on the South Bank. Where the original Globe Theatre used to stand. And how it had been burnt to the ground during a performance of Henry VIII.

“I didn’t know that,” says Rachel.

“Apparently so. During the performance a cannon was fired, but the sparks ignited the thatched roof. The whole place went up in flames!”

“How awful!” she says. “Those poor people!” And I’m about to tell her how typical it is for her to think of the people involved, and how I really like that about her – when her mobile phone rings. She scoops it out of her handbag, flips it open and claps her free hand against her other ear to block out the sound of the tourists around us. And I can tell from the expression on her face that something isn’t right, and that the magic of our day together is about to be broken.

“That was Jarad,” she says, closing her phone. “Our Arabian ‘princes’ have been in touch.”

“Ah,” I say. “So the deal is off?”

“Actually, not quite,” says Rachel, looking across the river to the buildings on the other side. “It’s a little more complicated than that. Their investors – my husband – have given the go ahead.”

“He has?” I say, genuinely shocked.

“He does have just one caveat though.” Rachel bites her lip, then turns to face me. “Will,” she says, “Michael wants to meet Stephan LeBlanc!”

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Read the next Chapter (Five), right now, without leaving this blog. Simply click here. OR, use the link below to buy the entire book for less that the price of a cup of coffee and download it onto your phone, tablet, computer. All you need is the free kindle app. Come on. You’ve read this far…

Click or tap here : The Truth About This Charming Man

The difference between male and female book covers…

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Book covers.

I hate them!

No really, I do. Because the age old advice – never judge a book by the cover – is universally ignored.

Recently my third novel, My Girlfriend’s Perfect Ex-Boyfriend, came out and I couldn’t be more delighted. Like my previous two novels it’s sort-of a romantic comedy, only this one’s about… well, you can probably work it out from the title.

I went through hell and back with the designer working on the covers for my first two novels (you can read about those experiences here and here), but when it came to this book, I was pretty sure it would be a walk in the park. And here’s why:

In the opening chapter of My Girlfriend’s Perfect Ex-Boyfriend, there’s a silly joke about our hero’s girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend being soooo perfect that there’s probably a Tibetan temple dedicated to him. It would be your standard Tibetan temple; chanting monks, a sixty foot golden statue – only obviously the statue would have an extra pair of arms so that Sebastian (the perfect ex-boyfriend) could hold various symbols and representations of all the wondrous gifts that he brings to the world.

That, I thought, would make a great cover for the book. I put all this in an email to my wonderful designer and this is what he came back with.

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I was pleased. Okay so it’s not perfect by any means. It’s quite difficult to read some of the words against the patterned background, but as a concept it’s pretty darn close to what I had in my head. However, even though I really like covers that wrap around the spine and continue on the back, it seemed a shame that we couldn’t see all of Sebastian. Plus I had a nagging feeling that despite the cartoon style grin, this cover didn’t necessarily scream romantic comedy at anyone casually looking for a new book to read.

So with that in mind I decided to familiarise myself with covers of other women’s contemporary humorous fiction, written by male novelists, and from a male viewpoint. And here’s what I found:

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I think you’ll agree, there’s definitely a style. Lots of flat colour. Slightly cartoony. Silhouettes seem popular. Oh, and all of them (with the possible exception of two) are EASY TO READ – particularly when reduced to a thumbnail. So – Mr Cover Designer Man – would it be possible to take that original design for my cover, and tweak it so that it wouldn’t look out of place when filling that gap in the bottom right hand corner?

Oh, and could I have a couple of ideas to pick from? Thank you.

Here’s what I got back.

 

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Wow!

Now remember, these are just rough-and-ready sketches, so any weird blobs or lines wouldn’t be there on a final finished version, but even so, my gob was well and truly smacked. I loved them. All of them. Not equally of course, but each one was a massive improvement on the original, and I was utterly convinced that with a bit of tweaking we had a finished cover. All I had to decide was which one.

It was an easy choice.

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Now obviously this one is a clear winner. No doubt in my mind. I was a little worried about my name getting lost at the bottom there, but really the title’s the more important thing.

However, just to be absolutely sure I’d picked the right one, I decided to ask some other authors. Specifically romantic fiction authors. Specifically female romantic fiction authors. I uploaded all six new designs (plus the original design) into one of the private facebook groups for the Romantic Novelists Association and asks my fellow novelists to vote.

I’m not going to lie to you… I was shocked at the result.

With the exception of one person (Hello Sue Lovett), every single woman chose one of the following:

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This left me scratching my head. I was so sure my choice was the better cover and yet here I was being out-voted by 10 to 1! (Incidentally, Sue chose the original, first design).

So I asked my partner what she thought. Along with all her (female) work colleagues, she too picked one of the two covers above, with the majority of her colleagues picking the version on the right.

Not only that, but almost every woman I’d asked took the time to tell me that, although they liked the design, they hated Sebastian’s orange tie! One woman (Hello Virginia) said it reminded her of Halloween!!

Still reeling from this new information I decided to ask my male friends which one they would go for. With the exception of one person (Hello Patrick – there’s always one isn’t there) they all picked the same one I’d chosen, or a near relative.

So this left me with a rather interesting conclusion and a potentially troublesome conundrum.

Conclusion: Different covers appeal to male and female readers.

Conundrum: Do I pick a female cover, or a male one?

It really wasn’t a hard choice if I’m honest.

I write Women’s Contemporary Humorous Fiction. 90% of my readers (possibly more) are women. If I’m going to continue trying to make a living out of this writing lark then I had to choose the cover that the RNA ladies and my girlfriend’s colleagues had gone for.

Thing is, I didn’t like it.

The strap line seemed sort of lost at the bottom, and my name seemed a bit lonely up there at the top. And the two new silhouettes (which are supposed to represent Adrian and his girlfriend Paige), well they just seemed to be plonked either side of the word PERFECT for no reason.

I went back to Mr Cover Design Man with these thoughts and a couple of days later I went back to my girlfriend and novelist buddies with these four variations:

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At first glance there doesn’t appear to be much of a difference between them so let me talk you through the key points.

In three of the designs Adrian and Paige have been resized to create a sense of perspective. Now we have a ‘scene’ being illustrated. In fact, in two of the designs they even have their own shadows!
Two of the designs obviously have borders whilst two don’t, but in all of them the colour of the tie has changed to match the word perfect, and my name has been tinkered with to make it look more ‘fun’.
Finally in one version the grin has made a reappearance, because I like the grin. I thought it was funny and would make people laugh. Turns out I was wrong. Most people told me the grin was off-putting and scary.

Everyone liked the pink tie though. And aside from comments about my name being hard to read, and the strap-line being too long, everyone chose either the second or third version.

And those comments were easily addressed.

I present to you, the final version:

 

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And I have to say… I love it. Of all the covers on all my books, this one is most definitely my favourite.

It’s perfect.

Or is it? Let me know what you think in the comments.

[image error]Hot news! 

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Chapter Five: The Truth About This Charming Man

Previously…..

After Will storms out of the business meeting with the two ‘Arab Princes’, Rachel turns up at his flat (the following day) to tell him that (amazingly!) the deal is still going through – but with one small caveat; Michael wants to meet Stephan Le Blanc.

Read the previous Chapter (four) here

Start from Chapter One here

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Act 1
Scene Five

The receptionist throws me a sympathetic smile as I look up from the pages of The Economist. It’s only a flicker, and probably better described as ‘awkward’. It’s the smile of someone who doesn’t know whether they should be smiling, or not, and is apprehensive about what might happen next.

We’ve met before, the receptionist and I, many times in fact. But always I was Edwin, calling to take Nathia out to lunch, or to the theatre, or to drop off some flowers. Today – although I’m in full Edwin costume, complete with Edwin glasses, playing the part of Edwin – I have no idea how much the audience knows. And though I think it’s unlikely that Nathia has admitted I wasn’t her boyfriend, that for four long years she was paying me to help conceal the fact that she’s actually gay, she has probably told them that I’m no longer in her life. Yet here I am, sitting on a couch, browsing financial magazines, in the reception area of Steele & Richmond, Venture Capitalists.

“Edwin!” says Nathia as she comes round the corner. “What a surprise!” So, I am still Edwin – the ex-boyfriend. “Caroline, if you could hold my calls for, say, ten minutes.” Caroline nods rapidly, and then blushes.

“What the hell are you doing here?” hisses Nathia as soon as we’re out of reception.

“What? Can’t a man pop in on his ex-girlfriend when he’s in the neighbourhood?”

“Shut up!” growls Nathia. “Save it for when we’re in my office.”

As soon as we’re in the enormous room that serves as Nathia’s office she closes the glass door behind us, and lowers the blinds. I open my mouth to speak, but she stops me with a hand gesture and then uses a remote on her desk to switch on an enormous plasma television mounted on the wall opposite. She turns the volume up, then perches on the end of her desk, arms crossed.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” she says. “And it had better be good.” I remove my glasses slowly, and wait just long enough to create a sufficiently dramatic effect. I am an actor, after all.

“I’m Stephan LeBlanc,” I say. And I get the reaction I was hoping for.

“What do you mean you’re Stephan LeBlanc!” spits Nathia, her eyes flashing with rage.

“I mean I have a client who hired me to play the part of Jarad’s business partner,” I explain.

“Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“You’ve been in a business meeting with Jarad,” I continue. “You know how well that went.” Nathia’s lips are so thin they’re in danger of disappearing.

“I mean,” she says, “why doesn’t this elusive business partner just start showing up for meetings! Instead of leaving it all to Jarad, or hiring a… stooge!”

“Because they’re married to your boss.” I watch as Nathia’s mind ticks over.

“Rachel!?” she says eventually.

“Yes.”

“Rachel is in business with Jarad?”

“Yes.”

“And Michael doesn’t know about this?”

“Of course not,” I say. “Hence Stephan LeBlanc.” Nathia shakes her head in bewilderment.

“Is she having an affair with Jarad?” she asks.

“No. She’s his cousin – distant cousin. Another thing Michael doesn’t know.”

“But why all the secrecy?”

“Well, you know; sometimes people have very personal reasons for keeping things private, and are willing to go to extraordinary lengths to make sure they stay that way.” And Nathia knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“I take it then that Rachel is aware of our… ‘arrangement’?” I take a breath. I knew this was going to come up.

“I’m afraid she does.”

“I see,” says Nathia, the temperature in the room dropping to just above freezing. “This is a breach of our contract, William,” she says, using my real name for only the second time in several years.

“I’m aware of that.” We stare at each other for what seems like decades, and I genuinely have no idea what’s going to happen next. Part of me expects a crack team of lawyers to sweep in through the window and carry me off in chains. A more realistic part expects Nathia to command me to leave London and never return. But most of me is praying that Rachel was right about Nathia.

“So why are you here?” she asks.

“I need your help,” I say. “We – Jarad, Rachel and I – need your help.”

She says nothing, instead she walks round to her side of her desk and presses a button on her phone. Caroline answers.

“Edwin and I are taking an early lunch, Caroline, can you rearrange my appointments for this afternoon?” And before Caroline has a chance to reply, Nathia hangs up. She turns to me. “Let’s go,” she says.

* * * * *

“Let me see if I’ve understood this correctly,” says Nathia, after she’s checked and double checked that everyone in our immediate vicinity is either busy eating, talking, or too inebriated to pay us any meaningful attention. “You’ve been hired to play the part of Stephan LeBlanc, to negotiate a restaurant merger with two of my clients, so that one of the real owners, Rachel Richmond – my boss’s wife – can continue to remain anonymous and keep her business dealings secret!?”

“Close enough,” I say. Nathia takes another cursory glance around the pub, presumably to see if there is anyone who might recognise us. It seems highly unlikely. We spent twenty minutes in a cab getting as far away from her office as possible.

“But now the challenge is how you meet Michael, as Stephan LeBlanc, when he already knows you as Edwin Clarkson, my supposed ex-boyfriend, without him discovering that in reality you’re neither of those people. Not to mention that his wife is in business with a man that he can’t stand, and that you’ve been helping me to conceal the fact that I’m one of those ‘ghastly fucking lesbian people’? Is that everything? Or did I miss something crucial?”

“You’re not ghastly,” I say. “A bit prickly sometimes, maybe…” Nathia’s face hardens.

“Michael Richmond is not a man to cross, William,” she says, becoming almost threatening. “He’s a man with fixed ideas about how the world should work, and he has the power and influence to ensure that it operates his way.” I should probably be scared. Instead I’m irritated.

“Yes, and I thought you were sick of all that? I thought you’d decided you weren’t going to go along with Michael’s prehistoric ideas any longer? That’s why you fired me, wasn’t it? So you could ‘come out’ and be yourself?”

“And I will, William,” replies Nathia. “In my own time! But the last thing I need is you interfering and outing me before I’m ready!”

“I’m not interfering,” I protest. “Or at least I didn’t mean to. It just got out of hand. And right now I want it all to go away!” I say. “And I don’t see how that can happen without your help.”

“What exactly do you expect me to do?” asks Nathia.

“Persuade Michael that he doesn’t need to meet Stephan! That would seem to be the most obvious thing.”

“You’ve got no idea, have you,” says Nathia, cocking her head as if I am some strange creature inside a cage.

“About what?”

“The only reason this merger is still on the table is because Michael got me to check the figures that were given to Abdul and his brother. And guess what: they’re impressive. Whoever put them together is clearly a shrewd business person. Which begs the question, why would someone with that level of business acumen want to stay in the shadows? Why would that same someone leave important business meetings in the hands of inept colleagues? Perhaps everything isn’t quite what it seems? In short, William – Michael smells a rat!” This is all news to me. I put my elbows on the table between us, drop my head into my hands, and let out a muffled cry of frustration.

“It seems to me your only possible course of action,” continues Nathia, “is to persuade Rachel and Jarad to forget the merger, and walk away.” I look at her through my fingers. “Though to be honest,” says Nathia, more to herself than to me, “that probably isn’t an option either. Michael is unlikely to drop the matter. He really wants to meet this Stephan LeBlanc. And once he gets a bee in his bonnet…”

I think of Rachel, how Michael ended up buying a building just to get her to marry him. Nathia is right; Michael will pursue Stephan to the end of the world and back.

Unless he can’t.

“What if,” I say, an idea forming in my mind, “we killed off Stephan? Fake his death somehow?”

“Ridiculous.”

“No, listen – that could work! We place an ad in the obituaries column of The Financial Times. If Michael thinks Stephan is dead all he’ll be left with is paperwork, and the merger will go ahead.” It was genius. “The FT does have an obituary column, doesn’t it? Nathia?”

“Quiet,” says Nathia. “I’m thinking.” I sit back in my chair and stare at the bubbles in the pint before me. I’m not in a drinking mood. “Jarad said his ‘business partner’ was busy,” said Nathia slowly. “But busy doing what?”

“Being Michael’s wife!” I say, picking up my beer as a fresh bout of hopelessness sweeps through me. Maybe I am in a drinking mood after all.

“Maybe not,” says Nathia, leaning forward and becoming more animated than I’ve seen her in a long while. “What if we turned the tables somewhat; what if a meeting between the two of them is arranged, but Michael is forced to miss it, due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’ – especially if those circumstances are of a personal nature! He might just be more sympathetic to Monsieur LeBlanc’s previous absence.” I raise an eyebrow.

“What are you suggesting we do?” I ask. “Phone Michael at the last minute and tell him his aunt’s in hospital? Does he even have an aunt? And would he run to her bedside even if he did?” Nathia sits back in her chair. Gone is her enthusiasm.

“You’re right,” she says, picking up her orange juice. “It’s a stupid idea; Michael doesn’t care about anything other than work. The only personal life he has is Rachel and he doesn’t seem to give two hoots about her.” She sips her drink and then returns it to the table. “So basically you’re screwed. And so am I. Terrific. Well done, William. Are you even listening to me?!”

“Hang on,” I say, my head suddenly awash with thoughts of Rachel – maybe, just maybe, there is a moment waiting to be seized. “I might just have an idea.”

* * * * *

“You want me to do what?” says Rachel.

It’s taken me ten minutes to outline my plan and now all eyes are on Rachel as the four of us – Jarad, Zlata, Rachel and myself – congregate at the back of Jarad’s kitchen.

“I know,” I say, chewing nervously on the side of my thumb, “it’s a lot to ask. But it’s the only thing I could think of. We need something that Michael values more than anything else, more than his obsession with Stephan LeBlanc at least, and…”

“It is brilliant!” declares Zlata.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. “In fact I think the whole thing is completely loony. Not to mention unethical. And possibly illegal.”

“It is like banking heights!” continues Zlata.

“You mean a bank heist,” I say.

“I know what I mean.”

“Look, Rachel,” I continue, “it’s just acting. You don’t have to mean it. It just has to seem like you mean it. At the time. Afterwards you can tell Michael… well, you can tell him that…”

“It’s okay, Will,” says Rachel, getting out of her seat and smoothing down her skirt. “I’ll do it.” The rest of us exchange glances.

“Really?” I ask. Rachel nods.

“Yes,” she says.

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Chapter Four: The Truth About This Charming Man

Previously…..

Rachel has big plans for a chain of restaurants, and is all set to strike up a partnership with a small chain of London restaurants / coffee shops. Unfortunately, these restaurants are run by a pair of Arab Princes (brothers, and ‘special friends’ of Zlata). Being Arabian they will, of course, only negotiate business with another man, which is why Will, our hero, finds himself playing French Entrepreneur ‘Stefan Le Blanc’ at a business meeting. That said, everything is going perfectly until the Princes insist on ‘Stefan’ meeting their investor – Michael Richmond – Rachel’s husband!

Read the previous chapter (three) here

Start from Chapter One here

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Act 1
Scene Four

Thirty seconds after our Arabian guests have left I burst into the kitchen with only one murderous thought on my mind – Rachel and Jarad are only a few steps behind me.

Zlata, meanwhile, is completely unaware that these are her final moments. She sits at the far end of the kitchen, in a haze of cigarette smoke, her feet on an upturned bucket, whilst she watches a small black and white television.

“I thought you said they were princes!” I roar.

“Hush, William,” she replies, her eyes still glued to the screen, “we are coming to the best bit.”

I glance at the television. “Columbo!?”

“Yes, Columbo! He is about to find out who murderer is, and always he says, ‘just the one more thing’. It is my favourite part.”

“I can tell you who did it, Zlata – it’s the actor, in the kitchen, with,” I look around me, “the frying pan!”

“What are you talking about?” says Zlata, her eyes never leaving the TV screen. “There is no actor. And the body was found in the swimming pool.”

“They won’t find your body, Zlata. I’m going to put you through that blender and turn you into pies!” For the first time Zlata looks up from the television, first at the blender, then at me, then at Rachel, and then back at me.

“Oh no!” she says, spinning around in her chair to face us. “Not again! The meeting did not go well?”

“The meeting went fabulously!” I say. “They want to strike a deal. Everything went according to plan.” Zlata brightens. “– Except for the part where the Arabian princes aren’t actually princes.” She blinks.

“Of course they are princes,” she says.

“No Zlata, because if they were they wouldn’t need the backing of investors!”

“Well,” she says with a shrug, “maybe not ‘princes’, but they have the royal blood. So ‘almost princes’.” I can feel the rage inside me reaching a crescendo.

“You’re not listening to me, are you,” I say as I lean forwards and put my hands on her shoulders. “We don’t care if they’re related to the King of Sweden – we only care that they don’t need to involve anyone who works in investment, and by anyone I mean Michael Richmond! Rachel’s bloody husband!” Zlata frowns, takes a long slow drag on her cigarette, and blows smoke in my face.

“I not understand,” she says. “Why is this problem?” I stand up, part of me wondering whether she genuinely hasn’t grasped the seriousness of the situation, whilst the other part of me can’t quite believe that I haven’t killed her yet and is still chomping at the bit.

“What do you think Michael’s going to say when his client casually mentions that they’ve been in business talks with his wife?” I ask. “And that she seems to be operating under her maiden name? And is in partnership with the man he spent an entire evening ridiculing!?”

“Pfff. William. You worry too much.”

“I’m beginning to realise I don’t worry enough!” I reach up, take down the large cast iron frying pan that is hanging from a hook, and check the weight in my hands. Perfect.

“Will!” says Rachel. “Wait!”

“It’s okay, Rachel,” I assure her, “if I can convince the world that I’m the boyfriend of a woman who’s clearly gay, hordes of desperate men that I’m some sort of seduction expert, and two Arabian gentlemen that I’m the French owner of a Jordanian restaurant, I reckon I stand a pretty good chance of getting away with murder!”

“No, you don’t understand,” she says, “Zlata’s right!”

“Go ahead, William,” counters Zlata. “Bash out my brains with frying pan. Personally I’d use knife. Much quicker.”

“Too much blood,” I reply, “and I’ve had it up to here cleaning up after your mess.”

“What mess?” asks Zlata. “There is no mess! So they are not princes – so what? So they have the investors – so what? So investor is Michael Richmond! So what?”

“You haven’t been listening to a word I say, have you?! You never do! Never mind. This ends here!” I raise the frying pan over my head.

“Will!” screams Rachel. “Taylor isn’t my maiden name!” I pause, the frying pan still in the air, whilst I wait for the implications of this new information to sink in. “I picked a name at random,” continues Rachel, “in case something like this should happen.”

Zlata takes a final drag on her cigarette whilst I stand there frozen in thought. She flicks the dog end into the sink, where it fizzes for a brief second, and then crosses her arms in one final act of defiance.

“That doesn’t change anything,” I say, “As soon as Michael hears Jarad’s name we’re sunk.”

“No! He won’t remember it!” says Rachel behind me. “He’s dreadful with names. Especially foreign names. I had to remind him when he was recounting the story to you and he’d forgotten it again before he’d finished what he was saying! He ended up calling him jar head! Don’t you remember?” That was true. I lower my weapon.

“Okay, but what about Nathia?” I say, turning to Rachel. “She’s met Jarad twice! What’s to stop her reminding Michael who Jarad is?”

“And why would she do that?” asks Rachel. “She liked this restaurant. And the food. And Jarad.” Jarad gives me his best ‘that’s true’ nod. “She could see the potential – and then Michael made her look like a fool, just as he has countless times before. She’s the real brains of that operation. She should have been made a partner years ago, but instead she’s been held back by my husband, all while she pretends to be someone she isn’t. Trust me, when Nathia realises it’s the same Jarad she’ll do everything she can to push this deal through.”

I stand there for a moment longer, the frying pan still in my hand. You know, there’s really nothing quite as irritating as getting yourself worked up enough to commit the most heinous of all crimes, only to have someone talk you down. Zlata is already lighting another cigarette.

“So,” she says. “Now we will open a bottle of the finest wine – one with the sparkles – and later Jarad will bake fantastic pie, but without Zlata meat.” I put the frying pan on one side.

“Well,” I say, “seems like you’ve all got the whole thing figured out.”

“William,” calls Rachel as I turn and walk out of the kitchen, but I don’t reply. I’m not in the mood for talking, or celebrating, or eating pie; I’m exhausted. I walk through the restaurant, grab my jacket on the way, and leave them to their victory.

All I’ve ever wanted in life is to be an actor. That’s all. A proper actor. On a stage. With an audience. An audience that knows I’m an actor, and knows they’re the audience. Just to be paid by people who want to be entertained for a couple of hours. Instead, I’m a con-man.

That’s the truth of it.

And the biggest con I’ve pulled off in my dubious career is the one where I’ve convinced myself that I’m anything different. In therapy circles I believe they call this denial.

My mobile phone rings at least three times before I get home, and each time it’s Zlata. I don’t answer, and instead consider throwing the damn thing into the Thames, but that would be overly dramatic, even for me. In the end I just switch it off.

As I open my front door, the answering machine light dares to blink at me from across the hall – I stomp over, pull the power cable out of the back, and then yank the phone cable out of the wall. I’m not in the mood for talking, I’m in the mood for wallowing. And wallowing, as you might be aware, is best done with a bottle of cheap wine. The cheaper the better. It adds to that overall sense of suffering.

I walk into the kitchen, find an ancient bottle of wine that one of my old students gave me as a thank you for misleading them into believing that they could one day become a successful actor, pick up a vaguely clean glass from the draining board and fill it to the brim before taking a swig. Something rubs against my shin. And I look down into the eyes of my big ginger cat. He blinks back at me, then meows his general dismay that once again his food bowls are empty.

“At least you want me, eh Oscar. Even if it is only for my ability to open cans of tuna.” I start looking through cupboards for something to feed my cat whilst simultaneously allowing their emptiness to become a metaphor for my life and non-existent theatrical career. If I find a tin of tuna, then the act of emptying its contents into Oscar’s bowl will represent my soul being hollowed out to be devoured by an industry – represented by Oscar – that gives very little back and continually asks for more. On the other hand, should I fail to find tuna, or indeed cat food of any description, something which seems far more likely, well then, that too can take on some weighty symbolic significance which I will ponder whilst I drain the wine bottle of its contents.

Eventually I give up looking for tins, pour boiling water over some prawns I find lurking at the bottom of the freezer, and put them in Oscar’s bowl. Then I grab the bottle and move to the lounge.

When I’m done with wallowing I plan to crawl into bed and dedicate much of tomorrow to self-pity, a task that will be considerably easier with the thumping hangover I’m bound to have by then.

But my wallowing plans are disrupted by thoughts of Rachel.

And her lovely long dark hair.

And those eyes.

And her shy smile.

And the way that she makes me feel.

Whilst I want to fixate on the career I’ve never had, all I can really think about is how much I’ll miss Rachel now that my part in her ruse is over, and how I wish I’d been more to her than a stooge.

Thirty six hours later I’m woken by the sound of the door bell. I check the clock. It’s barely ten o’clock.

“Hello Will,” says Rachel as I opened the door.

“Rachel!” I say. “Well, er… this is a surprise!”

“Zlata told me where you live,” she says. “I tried to call but…”

“Oh, er, yes. My mobile; it’s… switched off.” There seems little point in lying about it.

“Right,” says Rachel. “Can I come in?”

“Yes, yes of course.” I usher her in. “Would you like a coffee?” I ask as I close the door and walk through to the kitchen.

“That would be lovely,” replies Rachel as she follows me. I open a cupboard and look at the large empty space where occasionally I keep things like jars of coffee. When I have them.

“It appears that at present I am all out of coffee,” I say. “I can offer you… um… water?”

“Water would be great,” says Rachel. I begin opening other mostly empty cupboards where I have in the past come across clean glassware. “You have a cat?” asks Rachel, looking at the empty food bowls on the floor.

“Er yes. He’s somewhere around here.”

“I never thought of you as a cat person. Oh, and er, here he is.” I turn, and there in the kitchen doorway stands a large black cat. It’s the sort of cat that looks as if it might have been hit by a car – but the car came off worse. It should have an eye patch. Perhaps even a hook instead of a paw. It’s certainly not the sort of cat you’d want as a pet.

Our eyes meet.

He knows what’s coming next.

“Out!” I yell, arms flailing. “Out now!” The cat darts under the kitchen table, onto the worktops and after knocking several items off the draining board, makes his escape through the partially open window above the sink. “Bloody animal!” I mutter. Rachel looks shocked.

“That was Spot,” I say by way of explanation. “It’s one of my neighbours’ cats.”

“Oh,” coos Rachel, looking considerably more relaxed. “Right. Odd name for a black cat though; Spot. Were your neighbours being ironic?”

“Oh, no. That’s my name for him.” Rachel frowns. “Because I’m always telling him to get out.” The frown deepens. “‘Out damn Spot?’ It’s a quote. Macbeth.” Still the frown. “Shakespeare?” Finally the frown evaporates.

“Of course,” she says. “Always the actor. Makes perfect sense. We actually studied that at school. Clearly it made no impression on me at all.” We stand there for a moment longer before I remember I’m supposed to be finding a clean glass. “Look, Will, I need to apologise for the other day…”

“No! No – you don’t,” I say, resuming my search and coming across an old vase that I hope I can pass off as an oversized, ornate pint glass. “If anyone needs to apologise it’s me. I was being an idiot. I just wanted to… I was just worried that… I…”

“You were right,” she says, “about Michael.”

“I was?”

“He remembered Jarad’s name. Not immediately of course, but last night he kept flicking through his appointment diary like he was looking for something. When I asked what he was doing he suddenly leapt out of his chair and yelled, ‘Jar head!’ Then he told me how two of his clients had been approached by ‘that effing ghastly Jordanian fellow’, and how he fully intended to tell them to ‘stay well clear’. It was all I could do to stop him phoning Abdul and his brother right there and then.” I say nothing for a moment, until I notice I’m still holding Rachel’s glass of water.

“Why don’t we go and sit down,” I suggest. We walk through to the lounge. Rachel takes the end seat on the sofa, whilst I sit in the armchair next to her.

“So, what did you do?” I prompt.

“I asked him whether they’d said anything else, whether there’d been anyone else at their meeting, whether they’d sent him any paperwork – anything to get him to concentrate on the actual business proposition rather than his dislike of Jarad!”

“Clever,” I say, as I imagine Michael all red-faced with rage as he turns the air blue.

“Maybe,” says Rachel.

“Did it work?”

Rachel sighs. “I don’t know. He just opened another bottle of port and sat there in silence for the rest of the evening.” I nod.

“So why are you here?” I ask, eventually. She turns and looks at me. Those lovely, lovely eyes, so sad.

“I needed someone to talk to,” she says. “And I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” I blink.

“What about Zlata?” I ask.

“Well, she’s lovely, but… you know what she’s like. She’d have started with one of her plans and right now I just need a friend.”

“Well, I’m delighted you think of me that way,” I say, though ‘delighted’ doesn’t quite cover it.

“Of course I do,” she says. “I always have.”

“But you only ever knew me as Edwin. I was playing a role. Wearing a mask.”

“Well,” says Rachel. “We all do that, don’t we? To an extent. And yet friendships blossom. And sometimes when the mask is removed they grow stronger still.”

“Very wise,” I say. She smiles, but the sadness is still there.

“Anyway,” continues Rachel, “it’s only a matter of time before my charming husband poisons the deal. He’s probably putting the knife in even as we speak.” She stares moodily across my apartment. And it doesn’t take a mind reader to see that she’s lost in thoughts of Michael. Intentionally or otherwise, this man has brought nothing but destruction to Rachel’s life.

“Rachel,” I say eventually, “can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course,” she says, coming out of her trance.

“Why do you stay with him? Why stay with a man who you so obviously despise?” Rachel looks down at her hands. “I assumed at first it was because you’d become accustomed to a certain kind of lifestyle, but then it occurred to me that you must have an income from the flats he gave you – so why stay in the marriage?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” asks Rachel without looking up.

“Not to me,” I say.

“To put it right! Undo all that damage he did when he closed my old restaurant, and turned it into flats.”

“But what if you can’t?” I ask. “What if you can’t ‘put it right’?” Rachel’s face hardens.

“Then I want him to pay – in terms that cold hearted monster will understand!”

“Revenge?”

“Yes! Revenge!”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I happen to know a thing or two about revenge,” I say. “It’s a popular theme in theatre. It never ends well for ‘the avenger’. Death or madness are the usual outcomes.” Rachel lets out a single humourless laugh.

“I can believe that,” she says. “Most of the time it feels like I’m losing my mind.” She goes back to examining her hands.

“You know,” I say, “it occurs to me that if you really want to exact revenge on your husband for taking your colleagues’ jobs – for closing the restaurant that you all loved – the easiest way would be to take something from him. Something that he treasures. Something he’ll never be able to get back – no matter what price he’s willing to pay.”

“Yes, well, that would be wonderful wouldn’t it,” says Rachel. “And believe me, if I could think of anything…” she continues, her voice, soft and quiet, tailing off.

“But you’re forgetting,” I say gently, “this is a man who, when he couldn’t buy a certain restaurant, bought the very ground it stood on! And why? So he could marry a waitress! He must have really wanted to marry that waitress!” Rachel looks up. “Even if he doesn’t love you, Rachel, he does love showing you off. Of all the possessions he has, you must be amongst his most prized. If you really want to hit him where it hurts, walk away – and never go back.”

She looks at me for a moment, and as the tears start to roll down her cheeks I can see that she’s never thought of herself like that. She’s so used to Michael making her feel worthless that she’s completely forgotten she’s the most valuable thing he owns.

A few seconds later I’m on the sofa next to her, my arms around her. And as she sobs into my shoulder, I start to wonder if some good might come of all this subterfuge after all.

We spend the rest of the day together, talking, about everything and anything: how her years with Michael have just rolled by in one unhappy blur. How she feels trapped inside that moment when the brasserie closed for the last time, and the enormous guilt that she still feels years later. But also how she can leave him now, how she can start again, how there really is nothing stopping her other than her own fears. She has the business with Jarad. They can build that together – without investors. It’ll take time of course, but in the end it might be enough to make up for past mistakes.

At some point I get dressed, and we leave the apartment in search of something to drink other than water. Then we walk along the river, weaving our way through tourists, dodging the pigeons, and talking about London: our favourite landmarks. London’s rich vibrant history. How all the theatres used to be on the South Bank. Where the original Globe Theatre used to stand. And how it had been burnt to the ground during a performance of Henry VIII.

“I didn’t know that,” says Rachel.

“Apparently so. During the performance a cannon was fired, but the sparks ignited the thatched roof. The whole place went up in flames!”

“How awful!” she says. “Those poor people!” And I’m about to tell her how typical it is for her to think of the people involved, and how I really like that about her – when her mobile phone rings. She scoops it out of her handbag, flips it open and claps her free hand against her other ear to block out the sound of the tourists around us. And I can tell from the expression on her face that something isn’t right, and that the magic of our day together is about to be broken.

“That was Jarad,” she says, closing her phone. “Our Arabian ‘princes’ have been in touch.”

“Ah,” I say. “So the deal is off?”

“Actually, not quite,” says Rachel, looking across the river to the buildings on the other side. “It’s a little more complicated than that. Their investors – my husband – have given the go ahead.”

“He has?” I say, genuinely shocked.

“He does have just one caveat though.” Rachel bites her lip, then turns to face me. “Will,” she says, “Michael wants to meet Stephan LeBlanc!”

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Chapter Six: The Truth About This Charming Man

Previously…..

After Michael Richmond insists on meeting Will’s alter ego – Stephan Le Blanc – Will has no option but to visit Nathia (Michael’s right-hand woman) and ask for her help. But when it becomes obvious that Nathia has no way of persuading Michael not to go ahead with the meeting, an alternative plan is required. Something a little more theatrical. And daring. Unfortunately the plan relies heavily upon Rachel…

Read the previous Chapter (five) here

Start from Chapter One here

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Act 1
Scene Six

The receptionist smiles. We’ve never met. She’s a temp. Today is her first day after the regular receptionist, Caroline, suddenly received a surprise spa break as a ‘thank you’ for all her years of loyal service. Caroline’s stand-in looks nervous. And I know how she feels. Nerves don’t quite describe the anxiety I’m attempting to conceal. Part of me wishes that Nathia had banished me from the capital, rather than agreeing to help, but that was a week ago. It’s too late to back out now – the performance has already begun.

Right on cue Nathia comes round the corner and stands directly in front of me. “Monsieur LeBlanc?” she asks. “My name is Nathia Brockenhurst – I work for Mr Richmond. Won’t you come this way?”

The receptionist doesn’t even blink. Why would she? She has no idea that Nathia and I know each other. She has no idea that my name is actually William Lewis. She has no idea that I’m an actor. To her, everything is just as it appears. I get to my feet, give the receptionist a smile, and follow Nathia out of the reception area.

As we enter the boardroom there’s a small pile of documents at one end of the table. In the centre there’s a complicated looking telephone. And at the other end there’s a plate of Danish pastries, and a coffee percolator. All this for a meeting that isn’t going to happen.

Nathia picks up the telephone handset.

“Michael,” she says, “Monsieur LeBlanc is here, though he advises me that he does have to leave in twenty minutes to catch a plane back to Paris.” She stops talking for a second whilst she listens to the voice at the other end. “I’ll tell him you said that,” she continues, and then replaces the handset.

“Well?”

“He’s on his way. You’d better move fast.” I remove my watch, pull off my tie, ruffle my hair, and take my Edwin glasses from the inside pocket of my jacket.

“Tell Rachel she’s on,” I say.

“Leave it to me,” Nathia replies as she drags a chair to the end of the room and stands on it to reach the clock hanging on the wall.

I head out of the boardroom. Go through the doors into the stairwell and take them two at a time to the next floor. The top floor. Where there’s only one office. Michael’s.

Michael is standing behind his desk as I enter, putting on his jacket. He looks surprised to see me, and I can’t say I blame him. We haven’t seen each other in over a month and even before Nathia gave me my marching orders I was never in the habit of walking into his private office unannounced.

“Edwin!?” he says, as I close the glass door behind me.

“Michael,” I say, by way of a greeting. I smile. And frown. And then smile again. “Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I continue.

“Edwin – how the fuck… who let you up here?!”

“Oh, the receptionist lady,” I say, walking further into the room. “She’s new here, isn’t she? Anyway, she looked very busy so I just came on up. I hope that was okay?” Michael’s face flushes with anger. It’s not okay. I never thought it would be.

“The thing is, Edwin, I’ve–” I don’t wait for him to finish, instead my legs buckle beneath me, and I collapse onto my knees in the middle of the room. I bury my face in my hands, and cast my mind back to the Labrador puppy I had as a boy – the one that ran out in front of the car before I could do anything about it – and from the very pit of my soul I wrench up two or three great sobs of anguish. I can’t see Michael any more but I can tell from the stillness in the room that I have his reluctant attention.

After a second or two I take a deep breath, remind myself that I never had a puppy, not even of any kind, wipe my nose on the sleeve of my jacket and slowly get to my feet.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” I say. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ll leave.” I turn to walk to the door, but pause just long enough to see if my little display was enough.

“Edwin! Wait!” Michael bites his lip as he wrestles with conflicting emotions. “What… what’s wrong?”

“Nathia!” I reply, like there could only ever be one answer to that question. “She won’t see me! She won’t return my calls! She’s completely cut me out of her life! I don’t know what to do. I love her, Michael! How do I get her back?” Michael flushes again. But gone is the anger from a moment ago, now I can almost hear him squirm with embarrassment.

“Oh, well, Edwin,” he stammers, “look, I sympathise, fuck me I do, but I’m really not…”

“But you and Rachel,” I plead. “You have such a special relationship. I thought, if anyone understands women…”

“Well, er, yes,” says Michael, “I can see how you’d think that. Sometimes though, things aren’t always what they seem. And anyway, right now–”

“I’m a mess, Michael!” I say. “I can’t get her out of my head! I haven’t been to work for a week. I haven’t eaten in days!”

“Right,” says Michael as he casts a surreptitious glance at the schedule on his desk, “well, tell you what; why don’t you wait, er, downstairs, and after I’m done we’ll go out and get a spot of lunch. How’s that sound? And you know what, maybe I can give you a few… pointers. A little of the old Richmond magic.”

I take two steps forward, and I can see from his eyes that he’s terrified I’m going to try and embrace him – instead, I take his hand and shake it vigorously.

“Thank you, Michael. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much that would mean to me.” I keep shaking his hand, aware that I’m playing for time now. If Rachel doesn’t show up soon I have no idea what I’m going to do next. “Thank you Michael. Thank you…”

“Michael.” We both turn. Rachel is in the doorway. A small suitcase next to her.

“Precious,” says Michael, the irritation returning to his voice. “What are you doing here? Nobody told me you were in the building.”

“Your new receptionist was going to warn you,” snaps Rachel. “I told her not to bother, this won’t take long.”

“I see. Well unfortunately, my love, I’m actually in a meeting–”

“I’m sure Edwin won’t mind waiting.”

“Not with Edwin, precious, I’m supposed to be downstairs in the boardroom. Right fucking now actually! So if you could just–”

“I’m leaving you,” says Rachel, and once again the room is silent.

“What? Fucking what?” asks Michael eventually.

“I’m leaving you,” says Rachel again. “I just thought you should know. In case you got home this evening and failed to notice my absence.” I sneak a look at Michael and swear that I see his face twitch slightly.

“I think maybe I should… ” I edge towards the door.

“Stay right where you fucking are, Edwin,” growls Michael.

“Yes, Edwin, there’s no need to go,” says Rachel. “I’ve said everything I came to say.” Michael is almost crimson now. I can actually see the veins on the side of his neck pulsating, but other than that he’s completely motionless, and when he does finally speak he sounds surprisingly calm.

“Look, precious,” he says. “Could you possibly not fucking leave me, for another,” he checks the large diamond encrusted watch on his wrist, “fifteen minutes or so? It’s just that there’s this fucking Frenchie in the fucking building and I’m rather anxious to meet him before he gets back on a fucking plane!!”

“No, Michael. I’ve waited long enough. That’s all I’ve done since we got married. Wait, for you to treat me like a human being, like your partner, an equal – rather than a trophy in a cabinet. Well, I’m not waiting a moment longer.” She grabs the handle of her case. “Go and have your business meeting – don’t expect me to be here when you return.”

“Edwin, I wonder if you’d be so kind as to keep my darling fucking wife company for a quarter of an hour…”

“No need, Edwin.”

“Fifteen fucking minutes!” says Michael, his voice beginning to crack slightly as he finally raises it another decibel. “Perhaps she can tell you how to win back Nathia!”

“Goodbye, Michael,” says Rachel, and turns to leave.

I’ve never seen Michael move so fast. He crosses the office before Rachel’s taken a single step towards the lift. But as he grabs her arm she spins round and slaps him so hard across the face I swear I hear his jaw crack.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” she roars, her eyes ablaze. Michael staggers back a few steps into the office, holding his cheek, and I realise that this is the moment when he’ll finally make his choice: keep Rachel, or meet Stephan LeBlanc. He stands up straight, and buttons his jacket.

“Goodbye, precious,” he says, regaining his composure. And with that he pushes past her, out of his office, towards the stairs and out of sight. Rachel and I exchange anxious glances.

We’ve failed.

Just then we hear a scream, a cry of pain, and the unmistakeable clank of a metal bucket. As we rush into the hall Michael is on his back, clutching various parts of his anatomy. And standing over him, one foot on Michael’s chest, her face red with rage, and brandishing a mop in much the same way a Kendo Martial Artist might hold a bamboo cane, is a headphone-wearing cleaning lady. She raises the mop above her head and screams: “Ovo je za mog oca ti licemjerni, lažljivi, prevarantski gade!” – but just before she brings the mop down on her victim I throw myself into her, rugby tackle her to the ground, and prise the weapon from her hands. Finally our eyes meet.

“He surprised me!” she says.

* * * * *

“Where the fuck is he?!” gasps Michael as we enter the boardroom.

“Michael!” says Nathia, getting to her feet. “What on earth… happened?”

“Nothing! Nothing!” blusters Michael, adjusting his hair with one hand, and straightening his tie with the other. The minute or two he spent in his private bathroom changing into a fresh suit (after he’d spent a good sixty seconds swearing at the cleaner) was hardly enough to restore his usual polished appearance of ruthless capitalism; he’s limping, his hair is damp, he smells vaguely of stale pond water, and the beginnings of a nasty bruise are just starting to appear on the side of his cheek. “Where’s that fucking Frenchie!?”

“Gone!” says Nathia.

“Already?!” he spits. “But I can’t have been more than…” He goes to check his watch. But the chunky Rolex is no longer there. He glances at my wrist to see if I’m wearing a time-piece, but I’m not, and then finally he spots the clock on the wall. And I can see from the look on his face that his worst fears are confirmed. Somehow he missed the meeting.

“He said he’ll try and catch up with you the next time he’s in London,” says Nathia. “But he didn’t seem very happy about being kept waiting. What happened?” Michael says nothing. He staggers back and collapses into one of the comfy chairs running along the wall. He straightens his tie again and then stares into the space directly in front of him.

“Where’s my wife?” he asks eventually. I exchange looks with Nathia.

“I’m afraid she’s, er, gone, too,” I say. “Though she did ask me to give you this.” I take an envelope from my inside jacket pocket and hand it to him. He doesn’t open it. At least not before I slip quietly from the boardroom, and out of the building.

* * * * *

By the time Nathia arrives at Jarad’s we’re on our second bottle of champagne. We cheer as she enters the restaurant; well, Jarad, Rachel and I do – Zlata remains curiously silent.

“Hi,” I say, getting up and coming over. “Sorry – I think we’re all somewhat relieved that’s over.”

“As am I,” says Nathia. She doesn’t smile, but Nathia isn’t really one for smiling.

“I don’t think you’ve ever actually met Zlata, my agent, have you?” I ask.

“Actually I have,” says Nathia. “At a Steele & Richmond function. That’s how we became acquainted.” This is all news to me. Until this very moment I’d always assumed Nathia got Zlata’s number from the internet. Slowly Zlata gets out of her seat and joins us.

“Miss Brockenhurst,” says Zlata with a weary sigh, and a noticeable absence of sincerity, “it is very nice to see you again, after all of the years.”

“You too,” says Nathia, though I have my doubts. “Are you still in the habit of crashing parties?” she asks.

“No, no,” says Zlata with the faintest hint of a polite laugh. “Now I am too old for the parties.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” says Nathia. Zlata does one of her more dramatic European shrugs. This one says that’s very kind of you to say.

“William has told me much about you,” says Zlata, changing the subject.

“Has he indeed,” says Nathia, one eyebrow climbing higher than the other.

“Not really,” I add.

“You’re all he talks about,” says Zlata.

“Hardly ever,” I chirp. “In fact never. Ever.”

“I find it all very fascinating,” continues Zlata.

“She doesn’t mean that,” I explain.

“I know what I mean,” says Zlata.

“She’s just stirring,” I chip in, unable to prevent my voice raising an octave. “It amuses her.”

“Well, you certainly created a stir today,” says Nathia. “When I left the office Michael was still raging about ‘that effing cleaning lady’ and how she set about him – he’s been on the phone much of the afternoon trying to find out who she was so he can make sure she never works again.”

“It was the part I was born to play,” says Zlata with no feeling whatsoever.

“He also sent our temporary receptionist home in a flood of tears for letting people wander around the offices unescorted, and raked me over the coals for persuading him to send Caroline away on a spa break. As dramas go, this was a fairly busy day.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” I say. “Zlata, where’s the watch?”

“What watch?” asks Zlata.

“The watch!” I say. “Michael’s Rolex?”

“I don’t know about watch.”

“Zlata!”

She digs deep into her pockets, takes out Michael’s Rolex and hands it to Nathia. I stare at her, waiting for an explanation.

“I thought perhaps I keep it,” she says with a shrug. “Remind him never to mess with cleaning lady!” Nathia smiles. She actually smiles.

“I’ll sneak it back into his private bathroom this evening.” Zlata shrugs again, then turns, walks through the door that leads to the kitchen, and lets it slam behind her.

“Was it something I said?” asks Nathia, raising an eyebrow again.

“Er, no. She’s just… a bit… Czech,” I say.

“And I am not Czech!” says Zlata from the other side of the door. I frown. And when I look back at Nathia she’s looking even more bemused than usual, like we might all be slightly deranged.

“So, you’re going back to the office now?” I ask, in an effort to change the subject.

“Of course – I have a merger to oversee.” And now Rachel and Jarad are out of their seats.

“So Michael’s agreed to the merger?” asks Rachel.

“How could he not?” says Nathia. “He can’t tell his clients that he failed to make a meeting that he insisted upon. I hope it works out for you,” she says to Rachel. “Both of you,” she adds, and gives a nod to Jarad.

“Thank you,” says Rachel, “for everything. We couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You’re very welcome,” says Nathia.

“From me too,” I add. “Hey, maybe someday you’ll need me to play Edwin again?” Nathia narrows her eyes and leans forward.

“Over my dead body,” she whispers in my ear.

* * * * *

“You cold?” I ask.

“A little,” replies Rachel.

“Here, take my jacket,” I say, removing it and putting it round her shoulders.

“Why, thank you,” she says. “But now you’re cold!”

“Oh, I’ll live!” I say with a smile.

“Maybe we can share it,” she says, and shuffles along the bench. I put my arm around her shoulders.

“Now, this is much better,” I say, as we sit in front of the National Theatre building and look across the Thames, at the buildings on the other side, at the party boats going back and forth. And though we’ve spent some time in each other’s company during the past three weeks, this feels like the first moment we’ve actually been ourselves. “Can I ask you something?” I say.

“Of course.”

“Were you acting?” I ask. “Earlier? When you told Michael you were leaving?”

Rachel says nothing for a moment, and just when I think I can’t bear the anticipation any longer, she answers.

“No,” she says. “That was the truth. Everything I want to keep is in that suitcase.”

“And the envelope? What was that all about? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“A copy of a letter I sent to my solicitor this morning, instructing them to transfer those flats back to Michael.” I remove my arm and turn to look at her.

“But Rachel,” I say. “That was your income – those are your flats!” She holds my gaze.

“I don’t want his blood money, Will. Besides, Jarad and I have thirteen new restaurants to manage! And they’re going to be very successful!”

“You seem very sure about that,” I say.

“I have a very good feeling about it.” She takes my hand. “Just as I always had a good feeling about you, Will, even when I knew you as Edwin. Even after Nathia told us the two of you had split, I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when destiny brought the two of us back together. It was somehow inevitable. Inescapable.” I smile. I can’t help myself. She does that to me. “And what about you?” she asks. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m not sure,” I say as I look back across the river. I put my arm back across her shoulders again and feel her move in closer still. “I was thinking about going to auditions again. I mean, it’s been a while. Years, in fact. But I’m a better actor now than I was back then. Or at least I think I am. And maybe in the end, that’s all that really matters.”

“We make our own truth, William,” says Rachel, as she snuggles her head into my chest, and I’d like to say something in reply, but all I can think about is how close she is, and how warm she feels. “I can hear your heart beating,” she says. And I’m not surprised in the slightest. If it was beating any louder passers by would be able to hear it.

“So, er, where are you going to stay?” I ask, as casually as possible.

“My sister says I can move in with her,” says Rachel.

“You have a sister?” I ask. It’s the first I’ve ever heard of her.

“Older by ten years,” says Rachel. “Not that I get to see her very often as she lives in Dorset. Well, that and the fact that she and Michael hate each other with a passion! She’s been banging on at me to leave him for years; you wouldn’t believe how many hours we’ve spent on the phone ‘planning my escape’. When I called her this morning with the news she was over the moon! Wouldn’t stop screaming for joy.” But I’m struggling to hear anything with the word ‘Dorset’ still ringing in my ears.

“That said, Dorset isn’t particularly practical,” continues Rachel, oblivious to the fact she’s clearly tuned into my thoughts. “So instead I’m going to use it as my official address. I can have my post forwarded there. Tell mutual acquaintances, that sort of thing – doubtless my controlling evil ex-husband is already trying to track me down, this way he’ll come to the conclusion I’ve moved in with Heather and her kids. In reality I’m going to stay with Jarad. His flat is tiny but you know what he’s like; he’s already insisting that I take his bed whilst he sleeps on the sofa.”

“He’s a man of few words, but big actions,” I say, but I’m disappointed that she hasn’t thought to ask if she can stay with me.

“I’ll probably kip there whilst I look for a flat share, or something.”

“You could always, er, flat share with me,” I stammer. “I mean, if you like. If you, if that, if…”

“If?” prompts Rachel.

“Yes, you know. If.” I swallow. She sits up and looks me square in the eye.

“You know, for a man who runs flirting courses, you’re really not very good at it.”

“But I’m not flirting!” I protest. “I’m just, you know… offering you a place to live.”

“Yes, a place, with you.”

“Well of course with me, it’s the only place I have to offer.”

“Ah. I see,” says Rachel. “So if you had another place, an empty place elsewhere, you’d be offering me that instead…”

“Maybe,” I say. “But I don’t. I only have my place. With me. It’s all I’ve got. Sorry about that. But you’re, erm, very welcome to share it.” I swallow again. “If you like.” Rachel raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not really selling it, William,” she says, poking me in my ribs with a long slender finger, and only now do I realise we are flirting, and that I should be seizing the moment.

“Did I happen to mention it was with me?” I ask.

“Meh,” she says with a sideways head nod. “I’m not sure that’s enough now.”

“Then how about this,” I say, taking her face in my hands, and kissing her. A long lingering kiss that feels like it’s been waiting in the wings since the beginning of act I – and even before I let go, from the way she’s kissing me back I already know what she’s going to say next.

“Sold,” says Rachel without opening her eyes. Then she smiles. That shy smile I’ve come to love so much. “Can we go home now?” she asks.

 

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Chapter Three: The Truth About This Charming Man

Previously……

Out of work actor William Lewis made a living playing ‘Edwin,’ the fictitious boyfriend of high-powered executive Nathia. Or at least he used to, until Nathia decided to let him go. No matter, Zlata, his best friend and supposed theatrical agent has a new job for him… one that on the face of it is completely ridiculously and risky in the extreme. Although it would involve working very closely with someone Will rather likes… someone who seems to be no stranger to the concept of ‘secret identities’…

Read the previous chapter (two) here

Start from ‘Chapter One’ here

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Act 1
Scene Three

“Gentlemen – welcome to my ’umble restaurant, I am Stephan LeBlanc…” I am not Stephan LeBlanc. I am William Lewis. Will to my friends. But these are not my friends. And I barely own anything more than a watch – restaurants are definitely out of my league.

I shake the hands of the two gentlemen and waiting staff step forward and offer to take their coats. I’d half expected them to be wearing traditional Arabian dress, but instead they’re dressed in three-piece business suits. Savile Row, if I’m not mistaken. And I only know this because they’re similar to my own, though I’m guessing that they probably own their suits, whereas mine is most definitely hired.

“It is so nice to finally meet you and put faces to names,” I continue, though as I’m sure you’re beginning to realise, I’ve never had any kind of contact with either gentleman before this moment.

“Allow me to introduce my personal assistant; Miss Taylor. Miss Taylor handles many of my day-to-day activities.” Rachel steps forward and offers her hand. For a tense moment I watch the reaction of the two men. Much has been said in the previous few days about particular cultural attitudes towards women, and the reception Rachel might get as a woman working in a key role within ‘my’ organisation. But the two men bow and clasp her hand much more warmly than my own.

“Also, let me introduce Jarad Hossaini, my head of catering and senior chef. It was Jarad that started me on this wonderful journey when he introduced me to his fabulous Jordanian cuisine. Shall we sit?”

Whilst waiters distribute coffees I sneak a glance at my ‘colleagues’. Jarad looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut. Rachel, on the other hand, seems unfazed. She smiles shyly whenever anyone looks in her direction, which they do, often, and I can see that our guests are rapidly becoming beguiled by her charms. And for the first time since I agreed to take on this role, I’m starting to believe there’s every chance we might just pull this off.

Eight days ago I sat in this same restaurant, and discovered that the woman I knew as Rachel Richmond – shy and retiring wife of venture capitalist Michael Richmond – wasn’t so shy or as retiring as she’d led everyone to believe. Whilst Michael spent his days breathing life (or not) into fledgling companies throughout London, his wife was secretly running a restaurant, with Jarad – a talented Jordanian chef, and as it turns out, a distant cousin on Rachel’s mother’s side.

“But why keep it a secret?” I asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“If you knew my husband, it would make total sense.”

“But I do know your husband! Don’t I?”

“You only know what you see, Will; the man who likes to put on an expensive suit, drink an entire bottle of port, and entertain you with tales of his investment exploits. But there’s another side to Michael. A darker side. A cruel side. Did he ever tell you how we met?”

“Many times,” I replied. “You were waiting tables. He was meeting a business associate. Your eyes met across the crowded restaurant…”

“I suppose that’s one version of events,” said Rachel. “It was my first job and I loved it. That quirky old building, the people I worked with, the customers – I could have happily waited tables for the rest of my life. And then Michael started coming in with his ‘business associates’ – first once a week, then twice, then every day.

“I thought nothing of it at first. Why wouldn’t you come in every day if you could afford to? Then he started making demands: first he wanted the same table, then he refused to be served by anyone else, finally he told me he wanted to marry me.”

“Crikey,” I said. “That really is demanding!”

“Yes, well, I thought he was joking at first. An extension of his lewd comments, and attempts to pinch my bottom, but it turned out he was serious. He told me if I agreed to marry him he would buy the restaurant and give it to me as a wedding present. It would be mine. I could run it.

“Well, I was used to customers coming on to me, it came with the territory, but no man had ever offered to buy me anything more than a drink – but then, Michael wasn’t your average man. He was older, wiser, more confident, more powerful. He was very, very attractive. And I was young. A little naïve. And maybe… a little greedy. I loved that restaurant so much, Will. If Michael was willing to get it for me then I figured he must really… I thought it meant…” Rachel blinked a few times, bit her bottom lip, then turned to look out of the window whilst she bunched the table cloth in her fists. I exchanged glances with Zlata.

“Meant what?”

“That he genuinely loved me,” she said, so quietly I could barely hear her. I shuffled in my chair.

“Well I’m sure he did,” I said. “And probably still does. Doesn’t he?”

“No, Will,” she said, her voice hardening. “I didn’t realise it for a long time, but it turned out… he was just buying me. He’d figured out my price, and was adding me to his ‘portfolio’.” She stared off into the distance, her eyes full of the past.

“That sounds a little harsh,” I said eventually.

“It’s also true,” she said, coming back to the here and now. “But who am I to judge? I wanted that restaurant, just as Michael wanted me. So I agreed; I married him.”

“Wow,” I said.

“And then I watched Michael do what Michael does so well.”

“He bought you the restaurant?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking. The owner didn’t want to sell it – not even with my assurances that nothing would change. But that wasn’t going to stop Michael. Within a few months he’d acquired the building, and terminated the lease on the restaurant. The brasserie closed shortly after I became Mrs Richmond, and the owner and all my old colleagues found themselves out of work.

“I told myself it didn’t matter. That we’d re-open, under my management, and that I would re-employ as many of the original staff as I could, and together we would win back our old customers. It would be even better than it had been. Everybody would be happy.”

“I take it that’s not what happened,” I said, after a long pause. Rachel shook her head. “Michael never gave me the restaurant,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “He struck a deal with a property developer, and together they tore that lovely old building to the ground, and replaced it with a block of ‘luxury’ apartments. And one day he presented me with a piece of paper telling me that those flats were mine – that was my wedding present; a constant reminder of a place I’d once loved, the people I used to enjoy working with, and how my greed had destroyed it all.”

“Gosh,” I said. Eventually. Though more to fill the void with something other than the sound of Zlata’s rings clinking against her coffee cup. She’d obviously heard the story before, but still, I couldn’t help thinking that a moment of respectful silence was called for. Whilst I glared at Zlata, Jarad came over with another coffee and set it on front of Rachel.

“For you,” he said, placing a hand tenderly on her shoulder, and then taking the seat next to me.

“Thank you,” she said, with a smile.

“So, how did you come to run this place?” I asked.

“I met Jarad at a family function,” said Rachel, picking up her frothy milky drink. “He told me about his passion for cooking, how he’d always dreamt of owning a restaurant, and I realised that here was an opportunity to make up for what I’d done. We found this premises and together we started this business.”

“And Michael doesn’t know?” I asked.

“He knows the restaurant exists, of course – but he doesn’t know about my involvement. Or that Jarad is my cousin. And that’s the way I want it to stay.” Something didn’t make sense.

“Then how on earth did Michael end up coming here for a business meeting?”

“Ah, well – in retrospect perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea,” said Rachel, shooting Jarad a look.

“What wasn’t?”

“The restaurant, this restaurant, has been extremely successful. A few months ago we started to wonder whether we could expand. Open a second restaurant. Perhaps even a small chain. But expansion needs money, William. Investment.”

“You’re kidding me. You contacted your husband! After what happened before?”

“Perhaps it was madness, but it felt like fate had handed me an opportunity. If I could get that… miserable worm to invest his money in our restaurant, it would, in some small way, be a kind of retribution. I wrote to Nathia, as Jarad, and asked whether her firm might be interested in discussing an investment opportunity. She came, saw the potential, and took the idea to her boss – my husband. Everything seemed to be going to plan – until, that is, the evening Michael came to see the restaurant for himself.

“I sat next to him, as his wife, and watched, helpless, as he fired his stupid investment questions at my cousin: what was his gross turnover for each year we’ve been in business? How much of that was net profit? What were his projections? And even though Jarad promised to provide Michael with everything he wanted, and more, by email the next day – that wasn’t good enough for my husband. Eventually he wasn’t even asking proper questions any more, he was just saying anything he could to belittle Jarad, my cousin, my business partner, right in front of me! I was livid, but what could I do? Once again this man had taken my dreams, and crushed them!”

Rachel sat back in her chair, exhausted. I was pretty shell shocked myself, my mind reeling at how much more there was to this melancholy beautiful woman I used to sit opposite at dinner parties.

Zlata broke the silence. “Nonsense,” she said. “The dream is not over! Always there is another way to skin dog!”

“I think you mean cat,” I said.

“I know what I mean,” said Zlata. “And this time we cannot fail!”

“Well – possibly,” said Rachel. “Zlata has this… alternative… idea.” I was starting to feel uncomfortable.

“Why do I get the impression that this somehow involves me?” I asked hesitantly. Rachel looked at her watch, and glanced at Jarad who left the table to fetch her coat and scarf.

“There are one or two complications,” said Rachel, getting out of her seat, taking the items from Jarad, and putting them on. “Unfortunately I don’t have time to go into them now – Michael will be wondering where I am – but let’s just say that we’re in need of an actor who specialises in playing unusual roles in real life. You can imagine how surprised I was when Zlata said she knew someone, and even more when I discovered that I already knew you – albeit as Edwin, boyfriend of my husband’s right-hand woman.” I shot a look at Zlata, who shrugged.

“Yes, well, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about her telling you that!”

“Don’t worry William,” said Rachel, reaching across the table and placing her hand on mine, “your secret is safe with me. Let’s talk tomorrow if that’s okay? I’d like to become your newest client.”

Not twelve hours later Zlata and I were parked in her ancient Mini Cooper, on double yellow lines, in a side street near London Bridge. Ahead of us, on the other side of a busy main road, was an austere looking coffee shop. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“So, that’s the place eh?” Zlata was leaning forwards, her torso pressed against the steering wheel, her nose almost touching the inside of the windscreen. I checked my watch. It was still on my wrist, which was a good thing, but it was way too early in the morning, which was not. “Why don’t we go in?” I suggested. “I could really use a cup of coffee. I was awake half the night worrying about what will happen if Michael finds out I’m not Edwin; he’ll confront Nathia, my god he might even fire her, and then there will be… ‘ramifications’.” I shuddered.

“That will not happen,” said Zlata, without ever looking at me. “Nobody is telling anyone anything.”

“You told Rachel!”

“That was different.”

“No it wasn’t!”

“Hush now,” said Zlata, turning to face me. “Look at the cafe.” I glanced back across the road, then at Zlata, who’d resumed her original position. At any moment I expected her to produce a pair of binoculars.

“Yes, it’s still there!” I said. Then frowned. “Not exactly busy, are they?”

“Exactly!” hissed Zlata. “Here we sit – looking at the many peoples; all going and coming. All of them needing something to eat, some coffee, a place to meet other peoples. And yet, no one goes in. No one comes out. It is like it is invisibles.”

“Too expensive, eh? It looks as if it might be quite pricey.” Zlata gave one of her eastern European shrugs. “Terrible food?” She shrugged again. “Okay, so why is it empty? At… nine-forty-five on a Monday morning?”

“It is the magic,” said Zlata.

“You mean like a curse?”

“No! Not like curse – I mean it has no magic! You go in, you drink coffee, you talk, you chat, but no magic. Nothing. It is empty experience.”

“Right,” I said. My stomach rumbled to let me know that it too was empty.

“And not just this restaurant,” continued Zlata, “all of them.”

“There are others?”

“Thirteen. All over London. All dead. All empty. No magic. But we – we have the magic!” Suddenly everything fell into place.

“Are you proposing that Jarad and Rachel merge with these guys?”

“Exactly!” replied Zlata. “It is perfect solution.” I rubbed my tired eyes.

“Well, it’s an interesting idea,” I mused. “But what makes you think Café Al Muteena would be remotely interested?”

“They will,” said Zlata. I narrowed my eyes. I could tell when she was up to something. “It is owned by two gentlemens. The Tahan Brothers. Abdul and Sadaqat. They are Arabian princes.”

“Princes? You’re kidding me.”

“I am deadly and serious. We had… the friendship.”

“The friendship?”

“Yes.” I raised an eyebrow.

“The ‘special’ friendship?”

“Sometimes it was special.”

“You and Abdul?”

“Yes. And his brother.”

“Both of them!?”

“They are very close. They share everything.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Dear god…”

“And they are very proud men. Very traditional.”

“Not that traditional by the sounds of it!”

“It would be very bad thing if business fail. And so, like all business men, what they don’t have, they buy. We have the magic. They need the magic. They’ll talk to you.” She sat back in her seat and started the ignition.

“Hang on! Me?” I blurted.

“Yes. Of course you. And now we go for coffee – somewhere else.”

“But why me? Why not you?!”

“Our friendship,” said Zlata checking over her shoulder, “–not so special anymore.”

“Okay, well, then Jarad!”

“Jarad not so good with the business meeting. Remember?”

“Rachel then?”

“Like I say, they are traditional.” There was a metallic crunch whilst Zlata went through her usual unique approach to putting a car into first gear. “Arabian business gentlemens only do business with other gentlemens.”

“So because of your not-so-special-relationship, Jarad’s missing business acumen, and Rachel’s misfortune at being female, I have to negotiate with these… gentlemens!”

“Yes. That is about the shape of it.”

“You mean size!”

“I know what I mean,” said Zlata. The car launched forward, approached the junction at an alarming speed, and then joined the traffic on the main road to the usual fanfare of angry car horns.

“And who exactly am I supposed to say I am?” I yelled over the noise of the engine.

“Stephan LeBlanc?!”

Without the hubbub of diners and waiters weaving between tables, Jarad’s had a church-like tranquillity about it. I, however, was feeling anything but tranquil. I waited impatiently for Zlata to light her cigarette and explain what mysterious Czech logic had led her to choose such a ludicrous name. Rachel glanced nervously from Zlata to me and back again. Jarad shuffled in his seat.

“Zlata thought that was quite a good name,” said Rachel.

“Zlata always thinks her names are good! Look, getting the name right is perhaps the most important part of developing a character. Would Macbeth have worked quite so well if the murderous Scottish general had been called…” I hunted around in my psyche for a suitably absurd name to illustrate my point. “… Bertram?”

“Well he could be, couldn’t he?” asked Rachel. “Isn’t Macbeth a surname?”

“My point is–”

“Never mind point,” interrupted Zlata, “Abdul and his brother already know Stephan LeBlanc. We write them nice letter and we sign it; Stephan LeBlanc. It is good name! Very convincing! And we cannot change it. Not now.”

“But it’s French! And I am not French!”

“But you are very good actor. This will be walk in the street.”

“Park!”

“I know what I mean!”

“And what if I don’t agree to this… lunacy?” Zlata said nothing, just took a long drag of her cigarette.

“Well,” said Rachel, “we’d have to find someone else.” But I could see she wasn’t convinced.

“Who? Who else is going to play this part?”

“I would play it!” said Zlata defiantly.

“You!?”

“Why not me?”

“Several reasons,” I said, preparing to tick them off my fingers. “A) You’re not a man, B) you’re not French, C) they already know you as their ex-‘special’ friend Zlata! And D)… you’re not a man!”

“I will wear disguise!”

“Good god!”

“I am good with disguise!”

“Look, Will,” said Rachel, reaching across the table and touching my arm, “There is no one else! We know that. So does Zlata.”

“I could do it!”

“Yes, Zlata, er, possibly, but not as well as Will. That’s why you suggested him. And that’s why we went ahead and contacted Abdul, because we were reasonably certain we knew someone who could play the part of Stephan when and if the time came. True, we probably should have waited until you’d agreed, Will, but we had to move quickly. Abdul and his brother aren’t in the country all that often.” She held my gaze, those cappuccino eyes never leaving mine for a second, and though it really was lunacy, a part of me wanted to do it for no other reason than it was important to Rachel. And I liked her. I liked her a lot. If she’d put her faith in me then I wanted to show her it was justified.

“Fine,” I said eventually. “Fine! I’ll do it. For you. But on one condition!”

“Name it,” said Rachel.

“None of this, none of this, ever gets back to Nathia and Michael. Or anyone else.” I looked at Zlata. “Is that understood?”

“Of course,” said Rachel.

“I could have done it,” said Zlata.

Rachel is in full flow, taking the brothers through ‘our’ turnover figures for the past five years, our projections, all those things that business people obsess about. We’ve even alluded to Stephan’s ‘interesting’ personal taxation conundrum, and why his name might not be on the bottom of any contract. A first step in removing the fictitious element from this business arrangement. And the brothers seem fine with that. In their hearts I suspect they already know that Rachel is the true business brains of this operation. And it doesn’t seem to matter that she isn’t a man.

“I think I speak for both of us,” says Abdul, “when I say that you are a most impressive individual, Miss Taylor. Monsieur LeBlanc, you are indeed most fortunate to have Miss Taylor in your employ.”

“Thank you gentlemen, I am indeed very lucky. Miss Taylor tells me much the same thing on almost a daily basis.” Everybody laughs.

“Normally I’d like some time to consider such a proposal but…” Abdul looks at his brother who returns the merest of nods, “I’m not sure there is anything to consider. We would be honoured to form an alliance with you. To take what you have done here and replicate it in all thirteen of our establishments.”

“Well, gentlemen,” I say with a respectful bow of my head, “words cannot express how happy that makes me.”

“There is just one thing we must do first,” continues Abdul. “As a courtesy to our investors, we are legally obliged to run a decision of this magnitude past them.” Abdul continues to talk but all I can hear is the word ‘investors’ echoing inside my head. This is the first time anybody’s mentioned investors.

“Of course, gentlemen,” I say. “Absolutely no problem.” Rachel gives me a sideways glance. And I know what she wants me to ask. “But, just out of interest,” I continue, “may I ask who your investors are?”

“Michael Richmond, of Steele & Richmond,” says Abdul. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

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