Alysse Aallyn

Tag: Writing Community

  • Embattled Love – the diaries of Alysse Aallyn

    18 Sun Jan 81


    Up early to take Granma to Quaker Meeting. Very boring. Elder from my first wedding came up and spoke to me – I didn’t recognize her! It was Grandmother Day – spent the afternoon with Mother Louise who forgets who everyone is after 20 mins. In the evening long ecstatic phone gossip with Avril.

    Mon 19 Jan 81
    Jam packed day – filed grades at Guilders, Financial Aid lecture at Fordham then drinks at World Trade Center with T & Old roommate. Tues depressing orientation at Fordham – can’t get “life experience” credits till you have 20 Fordham credits! Decided to apply for guaranteed student loan – T will be happy. Considering Study Abroad in Eng! After I get pregnant that will be no longer possible. Letter from Book Forum asking me to come in – they might have something for me to do! That would be the first thing I haven’t had to claw for – its welcome. Set up apt for next Wed.
    Bad thriller by Stanton Forbes & good one by Anne Morice.

    22 Jan Thurs 81
    Wonderful women’s service at Trinity – new minister Joan Platt – like her very much. Completely relaxed about me sobbing my way through the Nicene Creed – “it gets some people that way!”


    Went to the Fordham party with Donna – Dr Dohrn seems to think I could be pulled out of the Excel program fairly soon. Introduced Donna to T’s old roommate – she was nervous and he was supercilious. I give up matchmaking. T (due in ½ hr driving the ’65 Chrysler Imperial from Phila) said people create their own hells of loneliness.

    Sat 24 Jan 81
    Off to Trenton library with T – he studies and I enjoy Caroline Gordon’s How to Read A Novel. We look at washers and driers – you really can’t get anything for under $700 so we buy a heated bed-pad instead. I read The Denatured Novel – then we have chicken soup in bed watching Desk Set.

    Thurs 29 Jan 81
    I like the women’s service even better than the discussion afterwards.


    Stress interview with Book Forum – wanted me to “throw out 1,000 ideas really fast.” Became completely tongue tied – hadn’t expected that – thought we’d talk about what THEY need. As a result I looked like an idiot. Could barely smile. Awful. I came up with my “Impure Women” concept – Mansfield, Plath, Woolf – that was it. Sounded tired even to me. Obviously never hear from them again. Imagine me being taken for an academic! Hilarious.


    Fast registrations at both Fordham & Guilders – only had to pay ½ when I said I was getting a loan.
    Dinner with Charlene but I rushed home missing T – it was 12:10 and he waited up for me. Delirious marital sex all over the place.

    Fri 30 Jan 81
    Terrible arguments with T about Episcopalianism vs Quakerism. He’s not looking forward to The Episcopalian dance.

    Sat 31 Jan 81
    T in his wedding tuxedo – me in a blue bridesmaid’s dress at the Episc. Dance. I especially enjoyed meeting Joan Platt’s husband Peter. Also the new curate – slight pretty girl. (The poor Catholics! We have a deep bench.) Connected with my parents’ old friends the Macdonalds. Bob McD hilariously funny. T had a great time; no fighting, no biting. We left at 11.

    Sun 1 Feb 81
    Met T’s brother Dom on train – T in “correction mode.” He never does this at home. I called him Mr. Persnickety.


    Wait a solid hr at Lois’ house till we can leave for Chadd’s Ford. I eat too many cookies while marveling at Lois’ ability to estrange people. She goes on and on about how the Garden of Eden is a birth myth – this has never been noticed in the history of time by anyone but her. We don’t argue because that would trigger an endless “scene” – she would make us sit there for an eternity unable to move while she beats us into submission.


    That’s the kind of audience she prefers – cowed. Ricardo wiggles his eyebrows at his behind her back, gesturing “Please don’t say anything so we can just get out of here and have a nice day.” She goes on and on in her baby-girl voice while batting her eyelashes until you want to smack her. The worst thing that could ever happen to her in life would be to meet herself – neither would ever give ground until they both died, like a Greek myth. If she read any actual books she would not be so impressed with her own ideas – she hasn’t gotten through a whole one the entire time I’ve known her. She’s still reeling from the Deep Truths of The Road Less Travelled – gave everyone copies so they can see how terrible others are – it’s never her.


    Finally we get out of there and take both grandmothers out to dinner in Chadd’s Ford to celebrate their birthdays and have a very nice meal. I’m bored solid so eat too much.


    Reading the last vol of Kathleen Raine’s autobio – she’s having a rough time with Christianity and there’s no comfort I can give her.

    Tues. 4 Feb 81
    First day of class both teaching & taking. Met with Fordham advisor who wants me to switch out of Excel and pursue a double major – maybe philosophy! Whoa there!


    My teaching class is all babies with glazed eyes – my fiction seminar wrangles about the Death of the Novel. Very dispiriting. They are excited by horrible shit sans character or plot. Plot is contrived and character is MUTABLE. I need to stop reading thrillers – must learn to like Robbe-Grillet.

    Wed 5 Feb 81
    Miss T – haven’t seen him since 9. Gave my class a really easy test they could pass they all failed. Blue, blue blue.


    Women’s group wonderful on the other hand – I adore Joan. Want to ask her to christen our children.

    Sat 7 Feb 81
    Spent $359 on bathroom floor tiles. It had to be done.


    Dinner at the neighbors who wanted to show off their friend Jon Purvis a famous journalist. I got too drunk – T has forgiven me but I can’t forgive myself. Bad day all day. The sorrow of teaching English to the deprived – taking their money and flunking them – is always with me. Don’t like this system. Tried moving novel into first person voice – something my class can respect. Wonderfully cheering call with Avril – she is so good.

    Mon 9 Feb 81
    Off to library in Chrysler – got a flat tire – had to wait an hour for AAA – missed appt with man to hook up tiny washer dryer we are installing in dining room closet. Feel squeezed & helpless.

    Discouraged by mess in house. Frustration the most difficult emotion to deal with. Not impressed by Ross Macdonald: “There’s nothing worse than an ugly woman with a gun.” Really? Bid of $1000 for wiring & plumbing. We’re not paying Lois for rent, she’s not compensating us for improving her property. I try not to care or keep track. Bills bills bills and soon it will be tax time while every job prospect for T melts mysteriously away.

    18 Feb 81
    Coming out of depression. IRS is auditing me – Toss being completely calm and supportive. I have an attorney! He will represent me! Costume dinner at Snowbury was waste space but we had fun wearing the costumes & we met some interesting people. (Mayor & his girlfriend, a lawyer.)

    Weekend at StormFall where I officially give up on fiction and surrender to poetry. Offer to help Gretchen Fuchs find a publisher for her book. I can’t believe we won’t be successful, she’s so good. Toss pantingly bathroom.

    20 Feb 81
    My depression climaxes and I call in sick – feel like an ugly hopeless worthless slob. Housework all day until I become depressed over how ancient and broken everything is. So desperate I try prayer. The cure lies in orderliness I’m sure.

    Sun 22 Feb 81
    One cure for depression is reading my diaries – the horrors of Ryder, Devon, Jervaze. Toss so wonderful by comparison. More relief offered by Anne Sexton’s poems.

    Mon 23 Feb 81
    Feel so unequal to everything. Trying to please too many people with my writing – obvious cure: please only myself.


    T asked if I would mind him working for the govt – prosecutor or IRS. I said no – if he wasn’t bored. He said he’s never been as close to another person as he is to me – relief. I was considering myself a hopeless case. Dancing the only job where I didn’t have the fear of being “found out” because I knew I was good at it.

  • Embattled Love – the diaries of Alysse Aallyn

    StormFall – 4 Aug 80


    Familiar feeling of depression. More wedding invitations – Granma’s list and Sutton’s list. Poor Sutton – I feel so sorry for him even though he jokes about missing Val: “I got rid of the last gardener I had.”


    The only bad night was engagement party – Mom and Dad chose a reel of slides and I sat there stunned at the genesis of all my stories. Ocean, lake, dolls’ cottages – happy healthy smiling people – whence comes all this pain? Dad looks at pictures of the Gryphon tooling through Europe and says, “I’d do it all again.” Would he? I wouldn’t! That pain comes from somewhere deep, deep inside me. Makes me feel like they’ve been right all along – there’s something wrong with ME. Luckily Toss backs me up – he says he “feels 13 years old” around them. Fortunately, I had one “flying high” day on Shadowe Island – with Gretchen Fuchs, the poet. Oh, her library! We soared together in a conversational ecstasy. I saw us deep in the future, two old ladies in an English garden. Talking forever. Lovely woman.


    Champagne & steamers with Sutton – then home.

    Grover’s Mill – 10 Aug 80
    Unpleasant shock in the mail today – Guilders demanding transcripts. Naïve me – I thought only the writing sample mattered for the writing program! Wait till they cock a snook at my record! Will I be exposed as an unqualified adventuress? Would it be so bad if they withdrew their offer? Then I could go someplace else – Marymount maybe. How I loooooong to be pregnant!

    StormFall – Tues 19 Aug 80
    My last entry? I absent myself from family discussions saying I’ll go to bed to read – really want to write here. Just taken my last Birth Control pill maybe EVER – only 13 pills into the packet. Feeling amorphous. Borderless. The aspirations of adolescence fading.
    What were the aspirations of adolescence? I can barely remember. To be admired, chiefly. By “others”. And now I’ve ditched the “others” and I’m alone on a vast plain – trying to steady a tipping world. Listening.


    Are inner imperatives enough for a whole self? What about love? But love is a term like “weather” – describes infinite mutability.


    Need to finish the goddam wedding maps & directions & walk them to the Post Office.

    2:15 PM – Thurs 21 Aug 80
    Period started! Shouldn’t be surprised – been having a brief period in the middle of my cycle since I started these damned pills – probably they’ve been making me sick.
    Thinking about the relationships between parents & children – how avoid the miseries? Poor Mom! She felt like a “loser”. Dangerous not believing in an “eternal force” because then all there is is YOU. To BLAME.


    Poor Mom! Preferred to housekeep alone – but wanted us to “help” when she wasn’t there – but do it “her way.” Fated to eternal disappointment!


    Wedding programs – copy the service in a book for T’s friend Bracket – the gay Baptist preacher – to use.


    Weirdly dark cold day. Shakespeare play at Edith Wharton’s tonight is open air – I just hope it doesn’t rain!


    Toss’s out driving around with Cousin Wolf in the ancient Chevy they resurrected.
    Studying the Marymount catalogue and reading Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet – hadn’t realized he was so young when he wrote them! Should be called Letters FROM a Young Poet! May have to switch to Agatha Christie – she’s the sugar taken for “shock”.

    Grover’s Mill – 7 Sept 80

    A week since our wedding so this must be our honeymoon. I feel perfectly balance on a tightrope – drinking vodka & lime while studying Woolf’sBooks & Portraits, Sayers’ Mind of the Maker. Toss struggling with his additions to our thank you notes. Tomorrow off to Guilders College for a “teachers organizational meeting” so they must be sufficiently desperate if they don’t mind my lack of a degree. Should be interesting.


    Chaotic summer swallowed up by the wedding – ended up costing $7000 total. Facing winter with confidence – pregnant in 2 months! If Guilders doesn’t work out enroll in Marymount get my degree one class at a time.


    Last night we had bridesmaid Trish Lambert to dinner – husband Noah coming to lunch today – their marriage breaking up so we try to counsel. Looks hopeless – Noah chooses his pride over Trish every time – she says she’s not going back to a situation where she was made so physically ill. What was she allergic to all the doctors wanted to know? Turned out to be him.
    Try to write here more regularly. These pages are a bank account. Save, save save.

    Mon Sept 8 – 80 – Train from NYC – 4 pm
    What I thought would be a “teachers meeting” turns into a disgusting “registration” process – running from one building to another, paying fees, filling out forms – I am seriously allergic to bureaucracy and the tears are starting to leak. Feel like a person wearing an ill-fitting disguise. However, I believe I carried it off. Just act like you’re entitled and no one questions you. I just don’t want to live in this world. I doubt poor Toss caught in the maw of Beginning Law can provide much sympathy. He is dotting I’s and crossing t’s with a vengeance.


    Financial pressures create time pressures. Try to look for the meaning in all this.

    2:30 AM Sept 9 – Worry and 2 double whiskies wake me at one and I can’t get back to sleep. Tried bath & reading, nada. Toss has been magnificent. I was able to present my worries without sounding like an idiot and he was able to identify with them without being dismissive. He says his uncle Avery gives Masters to people without BAs in Environmental Studies all the time. I say I really don’t need the degree it’s the experience I want and anyway I blame Plumly. And Chevenix. They ruined me for “degrees”. He always says Plumly was “not so bad” – and of course he loved Reed but they wouldn’t even let him SEE his grades! (They show everyone else!) and he needed an extra year – but he seems to accept my Kafkaesque emotions.

    Sat 20 Sept 80 – Fortunately our weekend guest (Toss’s Reed roommate) not here yet. Cleaned & garnished house for 4 solid hours. Went shopping bought 14 meals for $60 – Toss went to Trenton then discovered he didn’t need to go. (Getting out of housework? Hmmm.)


    He put a bookcase together and filled it with books (which helped) now he’s making peach butter.
    What’s preventing me from pointing out to him that him doing all the work he LIKES and me doing all the work BOTH OF US DISLIKE is not a fair division of labor? Cowardice.


    Then there’s the problem that this is his grandparents place filled with his grandparents furniture and he doesn’t want anything “changed.” My only satisfaction if making my study a feminine as possible (painting my file cabinets yellow.)


    Reading Krumm’s Why I am an Episcopalian (he’s pro women’s ministry) and Hans Kung’s Signposts for the Future and struggling with what God I believe in. Not a subject for dinner party conversation. He will watch Presidential debate and I can opt out of that.


    22 Sept 80
    Lie in bed satisfied our entertaining’s over. It’s a “test” of our relationship to be around third parties. T always more critical of me in his anxiety that things go well – I am dreamy & slapdash by nature. Ended up watching the debate after all – much more fiery and vituperative than I expected – John Andersen an old-time preacher and Reagan sweetly vague and never finishing his sentences.

    24 Sept 80 –Waiting to counsel Rose Love (!) but looks like she isn’t going to show. Lots of them don’t. I’m not the only one having trouble with this system. Horrors! I was “observed” in class – a teacher sneaking in while I was trying to teach probationary “backward” students (I.e. unprepared) how to write an essay and feel I made an idiot of myself. I sweat & tremble – am I only “a pack of cards” or are THEY only “a pack of cards!” Basic feeling of inadequacy – these kids deserve better than me! How did I ever think I could DO this!


    Well if Rose isn’t showing up I can read Sackville-West’s magnificent Eagle & Dove.


    Very depressing meeting with advisor Ezra Brent about my novel – asked how long I’d been working on it – I said 7 years and he was HORRIFIED. WAY too long for a project so short! But I am evolving as it’s evolving I splutter. Better write about your childhood instead, he counsels.
    Of course, I can’t do that! Blah! Resolve to write a novel specially for his class – chapter a week. What interests me? Murder & nuns at present. Do I know anything about those? I admit I don’t but need to follow this trail. His obvious expression of disbelief is all the goad I need. Call it “Pinch of Death” from Shakespeare – a quote long in search of a tale to headline.

    Train to NY 1 Oct 80
    Class observer gave me a rave review! Made 4,000 copies because frankly, no one would believe it. I don’t believe it myself. Good meetings with students. Asked Brent what to do about lack of a BA – he said Do nothing yet. You are a “promising” student. I still feel uncomfortable – don’t even feel like a STUDENT. Feel bolstered up. Unfortunately, no one in fiction class likes my novel – they all think I’m “anti-modern”. I don’t like theirs either. I fire back by advising they read Krafft-Ebing – no “modernity” without him. I should have taken Carberry’s modern poetry – enjoying romantic poetry VERY much.


    Fellow student Charlene Clark is teacher at a Catholic college (working on her SECOND masters) and can give me lots of advice about nuns.


    I got a letter saying I am a member of the faculty so I get a 10% discount at the bookstore!!! They also have a very respectable library. Reading CS Lewis’s Letters to an American Lady. I CHERISHED his Letters to Malcolm. But 4 Loves very rough going. His anti-feminism somewhat mitigated by his late marriage. He was dragged into that the same way he was dragged into Christianity – kicking and screaming – “the sorriest convert you ever saw.” Interested in his “shameful” relationship with Mrs. Moore. Krafft-Ebing anyone?


    Experimenting with prayer but it feels very unnatural. I like the mystic’s stillness – make yourself empty and “fill up.” Any kind of “intellectual direction” feels wrong.

  • Film Review: The Crown VS Saltburn

    Film Review – Scammers Get Scammed – Saltburn VS The Crown

    Well, it’s finally happened – The Crown has fallen in love with its subjects and a syrupy lot of over-privileged spoiled babies they are. When the nausea rises to projectile-vomiting level, try Saltburn, Emerald Fennell’s revenge on all twits everywhere.

    There’s an obvious reason Fennell can’t call this new enterprise Promising Young Man to remind us of her magnificent first outing, Promising Young Woman ,because its subject, Oliver Quick, is pure evil. And that, of course, is the problem with this movie. If there’s anything more sickening than the self-confident blathering of nitwits, it’s the triumph of evil. No thanks! Sadly, it ruins the film because it “jumps the shark” into unbelievability. The twits certainly can become silly enough to be overtaken by the more intelligent but the sad truth of reality is, there’s always someone smarter and meaner coming along.

    One of my great pleasures, as a Plot Maven, is re-writing bad endings and Saltburn’s is easy. Aristocrats of the Saltburn type are surrounded by servants whom they vigorously try not to see. But the servants see them. Try Joseph Losey’s magnificent The Servant as a helpful restorative.

  • Film Review – “Stoker” by Alysse Aallyn

    Stoker – Arche-tripe

    Stoker’s screenplay started out as fan-fiction to Alfred Hitchcock’s much more enjoyable Shadow of a Doubt, which has a moral center, plus victims we care about and characters we can root for.

    Stoker has a good, even beautiful movie buried in it but park Chan-Wook kept messing it up, very deliberately, probably under the pressure (and pleasure) of his personal fetishes. It starts WONDERFULLY – psychologically interesting, visually compelling, achieving an apotheosis of eidetic perfection hen a shot of hair dissolves into quivering grasses but jumps the shark on story sanity. Anyone who want to write about crime (and criminal psychology) need to STUDY it carefully or they risk sounding like nine year old girls guessing about sex – majorly clueless and missing all the real points – ultimately creating an uninteresting world too obviously made up.

    Subjects like mental illness, spies, the foreign service, rituals of different countries, etc., can’t be persuasively invented, and threadbare simulacrums relentlessly reveal unpleasant truths about immature people who just don’t want their fantasies interrupted.

    I used to write fantasies, too, until I began an in-depth study of crime. It changed what I wrote, how I think about the world, even how I live my life. Devlyn is a fantasy – but Find Courtney can actually happen. (Versions of it already have.) This is the reason I usually don’t like sci fi. It is possible to completely make up a world – for example Alice in Wonderland – but if it doesn’t satirize the rules of the real one it collapses like a bad soufflé. Michelangelo felt he couldn’t create a credible physicality of angels without studying dead bodies in morgues.

    I understand that in Stoker our “Oldboy” doesn’t want to be “bothered” by all that stuff – he’s an “artist” who wants to create visual poetry so hypnotic it gets away with breaking the rules and it almost works! But by the end of the film real life insistently intrudes with its message that the “impossible” is ultimately boring.

    The acting in Stoker is very good – especially Matthew Goode who seemed creepily young and was almost perfect – he would have BEEN perfect if the director had allowed him to be a little less vampiric and a little less “ka-razy” and a little more human. That would have made him more appealingly believable. But of course everyone has to submit to becoming an “archetype” to satisfy this director. India Stoker’s amoral, murderous sexuality has been a fetish for middle-aged men seeking to relieve their guilt (and excuse their behavior) for literally HUNDREDS of years. “Some girls” don’t have “proper feelings” so can be ruthlessly used and heartlessly exterminated.

    Poor Mia Wasikowska! I have admired her ever since In Treatment with Gabriel Byrne – she deserves better. That said, I have to admit a personal failing – Nicole Kidman’s frozen weirdness always gets my back up. I have been rolling my eyes over her rigidity since Cold Mountain.

    Mostly I feel sorry for actors who are talked into limiting the range of their gifts by these visual directors who set out to make a cohesive, visually stunning objet d’art, not a complex story about humans. As proud professionals they know how to give the director what he wants, thereby betraying their actual abilities which could create something much more intriguing, provocative and mentally long-lasting.

    I watch a fair amount of crime and it’s always entertaining for me to speculate about how people could have gotten away with it. In this case, easily with a modicum of adulthood & sanity which seemingly bores our first-time scriptwriter (Wentworth Miller) who needs to be more “in your face”. Too bad. But I did enjoy seeing it because I relish being given a puzzle mistakenly assembled – in my view. Then I have the mental fun of putting it together more effectively myself – an amusing occupation for a winter afternoon Ah.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 44. A New Life

    Candi admitted everything. According to the newspapers, who disclosed much more than the police, “Scorned Girlfriend Plots to Confront Wife.” Candi admitted only that her plan was to “get the truth out of Scarlet,” but Miss Bottomley started screaming when Candi entered the house – “I couldn’t shut her up and I just panicked.”


    Mrs. Pourfoyle was indicted for “Malice Murder” – a capital offense. The murder weapon – brought by Candi all the way up from Wyvern House – was a table leg she wielded as a club.

    Candi’s husband David announced he was standing by her. “Husband Claims Home-wrecking Cad Manipulated Lovelorn Girl.”


    Was Ian the one who really wanted Scarlet dead? That was David’s argument! Would Ian be indicted? And how long would the generous, the fantastical, the life-altering disposition of Miss Bottomley’s estate remain private knowledge?


    For these reasons and many more it was no surprise to receive a call from Scarlet’s solicitor, Pelham D’Arcy.


    “Ian agrees to sign the divorce agreement we propose, without changes.”


    “Well, that’s a relief.” Scarlet sighed.


    “He’s worried about being indicted for “transferred malice murder.”


    “You mean they think he suggested killing me to Candi? I’ll never believe that.”


    “The press is painting him as a lady-killer. He’s concerned about losing his job. A quick divorce removes his motive and makes him an eligible bachelor.”


    Eligible Ian. Didn’t women flock to “lady-killers”, no matter what devastating facts they knew? Perhaps, thought Scarlet with her newly-acquired cynicism, they flocked BECAUSE of the “devastating facts.” Doesn’t every woman long to reform a roué? Horribly, I did, thought Scarlet. I fell for that. But she was a different person now. Still, the world thronged with eager victims. Ian wouldn’t be alone for long.


    “When’s he going to sign?”


    “It’s contingent on meeting you alone. I told them it would have to be at our offices.”


    “All right. Let’s get it over with.”


    “I suggest you wear your police whistle.”


    Could Pelham be serious? Surely Ian wouldn’t try anything violent – but she knew he would expect to physically touch her and she shrank from the thought. She knew him that well.


    “Is that a serious suggestion?”


    “I’m very serious. If you don’t bring it, we’ll have to bell you like a cat.”


    “I’m sure Enid will let me borrow it. If he signs, then where are we?”


    “Then we get a decree nisi, which is provisional for one year. They usually rush these things through to get it out of the papers but it depends on the judge. Every now and then you get a Huey.”


    “What’s that?”


    “It’s Bob’s and my shorthand for an impossible judge. I must say the publicity makes this very unlikely.”


    “Why’s that?”


    “It’s an open secret that everyone hates our divorce laws. Literally everyone. They’re just on the verge of either breakdown or reform.”


    Scarlet shuddered. So many things you didn’t think of when you stood before the altar, wide-eyed and innocent!


    “I’ll bring the whistle,” she promised.


    She took care to wear it well-concealed. No point red-ragging Ian. She had never figured out his level of self-control. Was everything he did well-planned, or was he ruled by a raging id? Well, thought Scarlet, I don’t care. I don’t have to care. She imagined a future of trying to explain to Nick why Daddy did the things he did. Why he wasn’t like Pom. Adorable, sensitive, reliable Pom, who talked things out, who listened, who cared. Who changed, day by day, evolving to love better. To live better.


    Ian looked different. Older, battered, his eyes bloodshot. Scarlet thought she smelled whisky underneath the cigarettes. Was he drinking every morning now, or was it just because he was seeing her? His suit hung on him in a peculiar manner, as if he had given up on any real nourishment. He and his solicitor, Mr. Jellicoe, whose suit also was ill-fitting, could have been a vaudeville act – one so fat and the other starving-lean. Then again, perhaps Ian just wanted Scarlet to feel sorry for him.


    Mr. Jellicoe seemed very obliging and impressed by his surroundings. He shook damp hands all around.


    Ian looked at Scarlet with deep hunger. I’m the one who “got away”, she thought. The only one. She was glad of the whistle.


    They were guided to the Partners’ Room. At ten in the morning, no sherry was on offer. Ian refused everything, even water. Scarlet accepted a cup of tea to have something to do with her hands, until she noticed they were trembling. Then she set her teacup down hastily.


    Pelham made a point of seating them at opposite ends of the table. He closed the door softly.
    Ian began. “Scarlet, I want to let you know how sorry I am.”


    He waited for a moment as if to allow her to speak. But what could she say? She had already decided there was no point in being accusatory. When he was her ex-husband and the “occasional” father of her child perhaps they could concoct a relationship. At the moment, the situation was hopelessly fraught.


    He spoke again as if covering her silence. “I never guessed…what she’d do. I didn’t listen to her natterings.”


    There went her resolve about accusations. She was just too angry. The words boiled out of her.
    “You treated her like a joke, but the joke is on every one of us. Poor Candi wanted to be treated like a wife without realizing how cruel you are when you’re sure of someone. You ignore them, you devalue them. You fobbed her off with lies while you went your smug and merry way. I think you secretly enjoyed making her crazy. I think you wanted to see just how crazy she would get. Makes it easier to get rid of them, doesn’t it?”


    She half-expected him to fire up or at least smile that he’d gotten her goat but he hung his head like a shamed schoolboy. Scarlet struggled to contain herself. After a moment, he spoke.


    “Don’t compare yourself with her. You’re nothing like.”


    She could see the oil bubbling beneath his surface. Planning, planning, all along. He schemed to flatter her, fawn on her, throw himself on her mercy. He was testing, testing, for any way in. She should never have bothered giving him her honesty. It was all a game with Ian, and any game with Ian was just too dangerous. She summed up as best she could, “No one likes being lied to. A word of advice: it torpedoes relationships.”


    He rose.


    “You’re right, I’m wrong. I managed everything badly. I want to turn over a new leaf.”


    She rose as well, feeling a bit panicky. Was he planning to chase her around the table?


    “There’s Nick,” she said finally.


    “Of course, there’s Nick. But we won’t be together – with him – all the time.”


    Creepy! We’ll never be together with him at all. If I can help it. She summoned up her strength.
    “I don’t see that. I’m afraid we have little in common.”


    “How can that be? Don’t you remember the two young Oxford students working on St. Euphrosyne, with all our hopes and dreams and ambitions?”


    “I do,” she said. “I thought you didn’t.”


    He seemed calculating as to whether he could to rush her. He leaned forward, light on his feet.

    She pulled out the police whistle.


    At the sight of it he sat down heavily and put his head on the table.


    “Oh, Scarlet, Scarlet.” He began to weep.


    She felt stunned. She had never seen him cry. She was surprised it was even possible. Could he be faking this? Then she suddenly realized with a flash of insight that, from her point of view, the problem wasn’t that his emotions were false, but that they were ephemeral.


    “I’m sorry, too.” She advanced toward the door. “Haven’t we said everything?”


    He looked up, tear-streaked. “Do you hate me?”


    She was startled. She had hated him. That feeling was ephemeral. “No.”


    “Will you tell Nick to hate me?”


    Now she felt irked. “Of course not.”


    He gazed at her slyly.


    “Aren’t you afraid he’ll look on me as the fun dad, the devil-may-care seducer who knows how to get whatever he wants?”


    He’d been arguing inside his own head, cruelly mimicking her voice.


    “I’ll take my chances.” Nick would know Pom. He could choose; trustworthy love or untrustworthy disappointment. Choice – once well-informed – is up to each of us.


    “I’m forgiven?”


    This was strange. Odd word from a self-confessed unbeliever. The trial hadn’t even been held. Was he planning to call her as a character witness?


    “Not yet,” she said briskly. “You haven’t signed this document.”


    She put a hand on the doorknob. “Aren’t we done here?”


    He seemed almost confused, as if she’d spoke an unknown language. He rose awkwardly, holding out his hand. He had the sense to say nothing.


    She took his hand slowly and he immediately grasped it with his other one, as if he wanted her to feel his strength.


    She realized she just didn’t like the man.


    She turned away. She wrenched her hand back and, very unwillingly, he let it go and picked up the pen.


    Then she opened the door upon her new world.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 53. Shattered

    Dawn was just breaking as Scarlet came home. She took a long, hot bath and dressed, but the warmest sweaters and tights could not block the chill that had settled in her bones. The kitchen had become a crime scene. Enid switched her sphere of operations to the tiny kitchen off the ballroom. She could toast bread. Milk could be placed against the cold windowsill to keep it fresh.


    Scarlet crawled into bed with Nick. He still was healthy, wide-eyed, fresh, new and needy. He had no idea how horrible the world really was.


    “She’s gone,” Scarlet told Enid. “The brain injury was just too awful.”


    “What made you wake?”


    “I’m not sure. I had a dreadful dream. Something about Miss Bottomley lost on a raft. I must have heard a sound from downstairs.”


    “Miss Bottomley screamed. I heard it too. That dreadful woman must have attacked her to stop her noise.”


    Candi had lots of reasons for attacking people. All given to her – thought Scarlet grimly, by my dear husband.


    The policeman climbed up the stairs to see the women. He didn’t look like a detective but more like a department store floorwalker with his shiny bald head and a sharp-cut suit.


    “Scotland Yard,” he introduced himself. “Inspector MacBlythe. May I get the details of your story?”


    “We’ll meet you in the sitting room,” sighed Scarlet. She climbed reluctantly out of bed and walked to the chintz settee she had so admired just a few brief weeks ago. She had thought she knew trouble and sorrow then, but in reality she had been only too naïve in the ways of misery. Fatally so. How could she could have ever guessed what depths of viciousness simple selfishness and greed could release!


    The Inspector was not as surprised by the existence of a night guard as the bobby had been. “This place is a treasure house,” he said. “It’s at least a two-man job.”


    “I wish we’d thought of it,” Scarlet wept. “The security man seemed so confident.”


    Enid freshened the tea.


    “What connection are you to Mrs. Pourfoyle?” MacBlythe was coming to the meat of the matter.
    “When I found out she and my husband were having an affair I told him I wanted a divorce. She quit her job and moved into our country house – at least that’s what my solicitor tells me. But last week she came up to London and threatened me as if I was the one blocking the divorce. But Ian’s been the blocker. It seems he’s got other girlfriends, one actually living with him in his flat. Again, according to my solicitor.”


    MacBlythe took down all Pelham D’Arcy’s and Ian’s information, and moved over to Enid. Nick began to cry and Scarlet gladly sprang to her feet to remove him from the room.


    Pelham called when the police had finished with him and requested an interview – “you and Enid both.”


    “Oh, good,” said Enid. “I don’t want to be alone. Let’s have dinner out, afterwards.”


    “I’m too tired for anything but fish and chips,” said Scarlet, who really didn’t want to see people.


    “That’s fine with me.” Dear Enid, obliging as always.


    Bob Thomas and Pelham met them in the Partners’ Room, which had a long table, imposing portraits and deep comfortable wingback chairs. Nick slept angelically in his carrycot. Scarlet imagined someday trying to explain all this to him.


    “Well, this is a terrible thing,” said Bob Thomas, pouring tea all around. From an antique silver set, Scarlet noticed. She and Enid refused sherry. “Is the woman mad?”


    “Temporarily maddened,” contributed Pelham, who was more accustomed to the vagaries of divorce.


    “Well, she’s committed murder, is what she’s done,” said Bob Thomas.


    They all agreed it was an unconscionable thing as they sipped their tea. There was a knock on the door and Pom thrust his head inside.


    “Pom, I’m in a meeting!” gasped Scarlet.


    “I asked Mr. Bronfen to join us,” said Bob Thomas. “Tea? Sherry?”


    Pom accepted a small sherry. He sat next to Scarlet and held her hand tightly, under the table.
    “All three of you – Mr. Bronfen, Mrs. Rumson and Mrs. Wye – are beneficiaries under Miss Bottomley’s will.”


    Light burst onto Scarlet when she realized, he is talking about me! She had forgotten she was Mrs. Wye. Suddenly she was on a par with Lady Lechmere in her attorney’s eyes. She had been upgraded.


    “Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “But won’t they contest it?”


    “Who?” inquired Bob Thomas calmly. “There are no interested parties. She was literally the last of her line. The property would have reverted to the Crown.”


    “Mr. Inkum-“


    “Mr. Inkum would not dare. The papers he attempted to get Miss Bottomley to sign were so outrageously self-interested he would be drummed out of the profession if anyone complained.”


    Reality began to sink in. She sadly recalled Miss Bottomley’s delighted exclamation, “Do you know, I am a very rich woman?”


    Pom and Enid and Scarlet gazed at each other, dazzled.


    Bob Thomas cleared his throat. “There are six trusts concerning real estate, art, publishing and commercial properties. Mrs. Wye is the discretionary trustee and I am the advisor.”


    And he proceeded to explain.

    Scarlet was openly clutching Pom’s hand as they staggered out of the lawyers’ office.
    “I’m gobsmacked,” said Enid. “What a lovely human being she was.”


    “And how we’re going to miss her,” gasped Scarlet.


    Pom guided them into a nearby bistro – “do you like pizza? You must try it,” and ordered a bottle of chianti.


    “To Miss Bottomley’s foresight and generosity,” toasted Pom.


    Nick’s eyes were big as he looked from each to each in the candle flame.


    “But we couldn’t protect her!’ sighed Scarlet. “It’s because of me she’s dead, don’t you see?”


    “How could you ever have guessed that Candi would do such a thing?”


    “I couldn’t!”


    “Any thug could have broken in and attacked poor Miss Bottomley at any time. She could have been assaulted on the street! She was all alone before we came.”


    “But the time was so short. Too short.”


    “Time is always too short,” said Pom and he squeezed Scarlet’s hand meaningfully.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 52. The Snarl Behind the Smile

    That very night Scarlet had the strangest dream. She was picnicking with Pom – a Watteau-like scene of countrified perfection. They lolled on a riverbank, dressed in party clothes with the best offerings of Fortnum & Mason spread out at their feet. But it seemed however much they laughed, lifting their glasses to each other, some desperate dread lurked right below the surface. Suddenly in the stream beside them Miss Bottomley appeared on a raft. Night-clothed, disoriented and woebegone she lifted up her hands in supplication before being swept away. Neither Scarlet nor Pom could react. Scarlet felt her clothes an enormous weight, her limbs immobile, she could not even force her lips into a scream. The terror was so immense Scarlet struggled to wake up.


    “This must be a dream,” she told herself, and so it was. Scarlet fell back against the pillows as exhausted as if she’d been fighting, not sleeping. Yet she felt some relief. She had been given another chance. She must not waste it. What had she forgotten? It was something connected with Miss Bottomley. Her preoccupation with Pom was causing her to neglect Miss Bottomley. Something – something – she forgot to do. But as so often happens, the dream words melted away on the sand before she could read them.


    Was Miss Bottomley calling out for her? There was only one way to find out. Scarlet struggled into a dressing gown and slippers and hurried down the stairs.


    She heard it before she saw it, pushing against the baize kitchen door — some desperate struggle in the lighted kitchen. Scarlet braced her body against the door to see a slight figure kneeling over Miss Bottomley with a flail, beating and beating. Blood was everywhere, swirling patterns rising and falling to the very ceiling. The room stank like a charnelhouse.


    Scarlet sprang forward, grabbed the black clothed creature whose eyes beneath a ski mask swiveled up to confront her. Those eyes – mad with rage – were Candi’s eyes. Scarlet tore off the mask to reveal Candi’s demonic face. Candi shrieked – “You!” and attacked her.


    The club slipped from her hand and fell to the floor while the women struggled in a desperate embrace. Scarlet felt strong, but stupid and slow – the other woman was wiry and crazed.


    “I’ve got to knock her out somehow,” Scarlet thought and with all her power forced Candi’s head against of the cast-iron Aga stove. Again and again she cracked it until Candi went down.


    Then she heard a siren, ear-splitting – and saw Enid aghast in the doorway.


    “What happened? I pressed the panic button!”


    “Call for an ambulance – Miss Bottomley’s been hurt.”


    Before she attended to Miss B she must hogtie Candi with kitchen clothesline – no risking another assault. Candi seemed completely out of it but she was breathing.


    Miss Bottomley’s eyes were open. She was wearing the cursed red anorak over her nightclothes – bitterly Scarlet rued their casual swap. How much trouble this had caused! She had already received one warning about the dangerous potentialities of clothing confusion but she’d failed to grasp its meaning.


    “What happened?” gasped Miss B. “Did I fall?”


    Scarlet, hot with tears, pulled her wounded employer into her lap and began rocking her like a child. “You’re going to be all right,” she chanted. “We’re taking you to hospital.”


    The night guard appeared in the doorway, his mouth agape.


    “What happened?”


    “Somehow this woman got in and attacked Miss Bottomley. Enid called the police and ambulance.”
    “Oh, my lord,” said the poor man, “Must have been when I went to the phone for hourly report.”


    Miss Bottomley gasped and gurgled. She clutched Scarlet’s hand so hard it was difficult to surrender her to the medics. As Scarlet climbed into the ambulance she could hear the night guard explaining to anyone who would listen, “I had to make my report.”


    Why hadn’t she been informed that his post would be unwatched for minutes every hour? It was ludicrous! She grabbed his arm.


    “Don’t you dare let the attacker go,” she commanded. She didn’t trust him anymore, but at least Candi seemed immobilized. Scarlet could hear the police siren, but the ambulance couldn’t wait.
    Rocking back and forth she asked herself, Why had it occurred to literally no one, that a single guard couldn’t possibly cover the entrance? What about bathroom breaks, not to mention the hourly reports from the corner phone the client had not even been informed about? She gritted her teeth, but the person she most blamed was herself. She could kick herself for not thinking it through.


    How easily we accept reassuring appearances without enquiring deeper!


    At the hospital, Miss Bottomley was rushed away and Scarlet was given a blanket to cover her bloodstained nightclothes. She longed for the comfort of Enid’s presence but knew Enid must remain at Norfolk Crescent for Nick. She’d have to get through this alone.


    “May I speak to you, ma’am?”


    It was a London bobby, helmet removed, holding his notebook.


    “Sure,” said Scarlet in her exhausted American drawl.


    “What occurred precisely? Best you can recall?”


    “I must have heard something. I really don’t know why but I got up, thinking Miss Bottomley –“


    “The injured party?”


    “Yes. She’s my employer. I thought she needed me. When I ran downstairs I heard them struggling. This woman Candi Pourfoyle must have come through the back entrance – there’s a guard on but he says he was making a phone call.”


    “There’s a guard?” interest in his gray eyes.


    “Well stone masons are building a new entrance at the back and there isn’t a door so they set a guard there. But he’s no good!” She bit her thumb angrily. “I wish I’d known he was going to be no good.”


    “Cup of tea?” A sympathetic sister approached.


    “Yes, please.” Scarlet accepted the white china cup – you could see the sugar they’d sloshed in. It was lukewarm but enormously comforting.


    “You recognized the attacker?”


    “Candi Pourfoyle, I told you. “


    “And she is?”


    “My husband’s girlfriend. I don’t know if she thought Miss Bottomley was me or not – poor Miss B. was wearing my anorak – but Candi would have to come through the kitchen and Miss B often fell asleep sitting by the Aga –“


    “Hold on now, please. What exactly did you see?”


    “They were both on the floor. Candi was beating her with a club – blood everywhere. I pulled her off, knocked her out and tied her up with clothesline. Enid heard the ruckus and called police.”


    “You knocked her out? Did you have a weapon?”


    “No. I wish I had. But I bashed her head against the stove.”


    The bobby patted her knee. “That’s a ghastly experience,” he said sympathetically. “Dreadful.”


    And it’s only going to get worse, Scarlet could tell from the doctors’ faces as they pushed through the operating theatre doors. She stopped trying to be strong and burst into tears.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 41. Puzzle Pieces

    Thus began the busiest week of Scarlet’s life, but at first, the happiest. The weather was sharp and clear emitting occasional puffy snowflakes; the sky was wide and open and even in London one could see forever. The streets were festive with Christmas lights and bustling shoppers. There were visits to the Victoria and Albert museum where Kirby Crousam gave Scarlet, Miss Bottomley and Pom a guided tour. Scarlet had never imagined early, high and late Victoriana could all be equally interesting. They thoroughly enjoyed an auction at Christie’s where Miss Bottomley wanted to bid on everything but allowed herself to be guided to a gorgeous big green and grey Larry Rivers at an excellent price – dinners at Simpson’s, drinks at The Gay Hussar and ices at Largo’s.

    Miss Bottomley even talked them into attending a pantomime where she clapped as excitedly as a child.


    The front door had been endowed with a coded lock and two peepholes – one specifically placed at Miss Bottomley’s height – not that she ever bothered to answer the door any more. Now that she had Enid. All three residents approved and declared this entry was “much less bother”. A “panic button” was installed promising to start up a loud siren signal anytime the Norfolk Crescent Irregulars felt themselves threatened.


    Pom behaved like a perfect gentleman, but he looked less haunted and so Scarlet relaxed into guiltless joy. He studiously avoided body contact with Scarlet but his eyes maintained a reassuring glow of intimate promise. Scarlet was mentally relieved but her body was less cooperative – her whole soul ached for him. According to Pelham, the divorce case proceeded swimmingly: Ian had expressed relief to see from their divorce proffer that Scarlet wanted only maintenance for Nick and was offering nanny-supervised visitation. Scarlet felt confident Enid was not Ian’s “type”, and that if he pretended that she were, Enid would see through his gambit.


    “Between you and me I think he’ll sign,” said Pelham. “He’d be a fool not to with what we’ve got on him. Ian will agree to be the guilty party and only the judge will ever have to know the details of the harrowing time you’ve been through. Should be over fairly soon when they accept our bargain.”


    Scarlet welcomed the days when Miss Bottomley conferenced with Bob Thomas leaving her free to drop into Coltsfoot & Briggins and liase with Mr. Mountjoy. She finally met the elusive Jemima Plympton “pleased to meet you I’m sure” and was given an introduction to the printer, Prollops & Daughters. She was rejoiced at this Dickensian name and accepted it as a very good omen for their future venture! She had already contacted Francesca Joringel, asking to see her manuscript.


    The interview she coveted, however, was with Mr. Beebee, head of the advertising firm Coltsfoot & Briggins had used for, quoting Mountjoy, “donkey’s years.” And what she had found out as Mr. Beebee made his pitch caused her to think nobody but a donkey would ever use this firm, but rather than tell them that, she resolved to ask Pom at the first opportunity if he knew anyone in advertising. She had already discovered through happy experience that his art school connections were invaluable.


    Once again, she was lucky. On her way out, she saw a young woman – she couldn’t have been more than twenty – showing a portfolio to the bored receptionist who almost certainly had no clout whatsoever.


    “I’m sorry,” said the woman frostily in a not-sorry way, “Mr. Beebee’s in meetings.”


    Scarlet held the door open for her as the girl marched dejectedly out.


    “You’re casting your pearls before swine,” Scarlet remarked.


    The girl flushed, “They don’t want to hire a woman, that’s the truth. I doubt they have a single woman working there other than that bloody receptionist.”


    “The more fools they,” said Scarlet. “That’s what keeps them living in the past like a pack of dinosaurs. And the same thing that happened to the dinosaurs is going to happen to them. The ideas they showed me were hideously hidebound. Positively strangled at birth.”


    The girl looked at her with more interest as they stepped into the elevator together.


    “I’m Lalage Sumner-Locke,” she said. “I just finished up at Durham Technical College and my parents gave me two weeks at a hotel as a graduation gift to see if I could get a job in the City.”
    Scarlet knew this naïve introduction would have been counted against her anywhere except in front of a member of The Norfolk Crescent Irregulars.


    “My publishing firm is planning a hardbound reprint of the Miss Clew books of sixty years ago. I wonder if you’d read the books and mock up a advertising plan to get people excited about them.”
    “I think I’ve heard of those!” gasped Lalage. “My aunt read them through regularly every year. I’d certainly love to try my hand.”


    And so Lalage Sumer-Locke came to tea in the Norfolk Crescent kitchen, showed everyone her amusing portfolio and was given ten pounds – “This gives me an extra two weeks!” – and a full set of Miss Clew books.


    “She was lucky to have found you,” commented Enid and the two women cleared up afterwards when Lalage had departed and Miss Bottomley, worn out from a morning with Bob Thomas (“Money’s a terrible responsibility!”) had gone to lie down.


    “I was lucky to find her! What did you think of the portfolio?”


    “I loved the Piccadilly swan lording it over the Mayfair ducks! She’s clever, that one!”


    This cleverness was confirmed when, the very next day, Lalage phoned from the Royal Park Hotel (“My parents said I could stay anywhere with Royal in the title”) and suggested she’d also like to illustrate the books.


    “The illustrations can be part of the advertising,” she said. “We’ll seize on say, ten moments or however many you want – show an exciting scene – and get people caught up in speculation. “Can Miss Clew escape this time? Is Miss Clew’s number up? Can the world exist without Miss Clew?” That sort of thing.”


    “I love it,” said Scarlet. “How are you getting along with the books?”


    “I’m loving them so much I have to put them down and force myself to draw. I’m on The Jade Monkey Puzzle right now.”


    “Keep up the good work,” said Scarlet.


    She was interrupted by Branner of Palace Security.


    “That back entrance going to take us longer, miss,” he explained. “We need to sub-contract a masonry job – mortar’s so friable you can put your fist through it.”


    “So, you’ll be opening up the wall, then? How can you keep us safe?”


    “We’ll hang tarpaulins. And of course, there’s the night guard, ma’am.”


    Forever after, Scarlet was to regret not demanding extra guards. Was it possible to be too happy? It could make you careless.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 50. Pom Pom Pom

    Walking towards the kitchen Scarlet found herself wondering at the joy she felt from Pom’s sheer presence, the lightness he imparted to her step. Quite the opposite of Ian whose mind seemed to have hardened into such an inscrutable wall and whose dry, dusty heart had been devoured by pride and greed . Her spirits literally hit the floor when he was around. Scarlet eerily felt that she and Pom seemed always to be thinking the same thoughts – she could literally feel his ideas quivering in the air, yearning for contact with her to make them visible to the world at large.

    Miss Bottomley was drawing on her gloves, getting ready for her banking trip.


    “It’s just my own things here,” she said, gesturing at her modest bedroom – more like a nun’s cell than anything the rest of the house contained. “And I like the kitchen furniture. So once again your idea was sound: just tell him anywhere but here – unless you’re attached to the furniture in your own room, of course. You can exempt anything you’d like to personally own.”


    “I am fond of the desk in my room,” said Scarlet. “Thanks. You’ve been very generous.”


    Mr. Crousam paid Pom and Scarlet no further attention as he wandered from room to room, making notes. They could spend the whole morning together.


    “We’ll have to think up a new excuse after this,” said Pom and Scarlet laughed and squeezed his hand.


    “How about those auctions Miss Bottomley is so eager to attend?”

    “Good plan,” Pom agreed. “Do you think we could get away with one auction and one gallery visit per week?”


    “Or perhaps two,” said Scarlet and Pom pulled her back behind a Coromandel screen and kissed her. Ecstasy!


    “Oh, I wish you hadn’t done that,” Scarlet gasped huskily as she fell against him.


    “Why’s that?” he murmured, playing with her hair.


    “Because it changes everything.”


    But Pom was kissing her face and Scarlet was kissing back. Time itself melted, goals melted, there was no future, only this eternal sense of glorious happiness – Pom loved her, she loved him, she was the luckiest girl in the world.


    “Why are you crying?” he asked gently, wiping away tears with his lips.


    “Because this is a disaster,” she cried, “I’m in the middle of a complicated divorce – if I have a lover – if I have a boyfriend – aren’t I as bad as Ian?”


    “Surely not,” he said. “Your husband is rejecting love. We are finding it.” But he halted long enough to allow her to back away from him, straighten her clothing and question frantically, “Can’t we pretend this never happened?”


    “But it’s the truth,” said Pom. “I love you and you love me. I want to shout it from the housetops.”


    “Don’t you dare. It can’t happen if I want Ian to sign the divorce agreement I need, can’t you see? Let’s agree to put this on hold. No love talk –“ she gasped, “And no touching.”


    He backed away, putting his hands up. “Forgive me. I’m sorry. I’ve waited thirty-three years to find you, I can wait a few more months.”


    “It will go much faster than that if Ian sees he has no choice,” sighed Scarlet, then asked, “Thirty-three years?”


    “That’s how old I am,” said Pom. “Are you appalled?”


    “No,” said Scarlet. “I’m – hopeful. But I’m also frightened. Frightened.”


    He held up his hands, kissed her forehead and left.


    No sleep for Scarlet that night, as tossing and turning, she contemplated a divorce on Ian’s terms. She’d experienced marriage on his terms and it hadn’t been tolerable. She must not let him get the upper hand.


    The new world Pom offered was spectacular, exciting and completely unexpected. In the moment of his warm erotic presence she had wanted him totally – they had been near a bed, she would have fallen into it. And she was certain the experience would have been wonderful, their attunement was so perfect. But she had also been looking forward to her job, her new life in Miss Bottomley’s house as a single woman and she didn’t want to forgo those exciting experiences either. No, it was just too soon with Pom. She hadn’t yet learned how to properly care for Nick or care for herself, and she had just acquired s new charge: Miss Bottomley. The only way forward was slowly, one thing at a time. But as her hand reached down to touch herself she couldn’t help but vibrate to the promise of joy she had experienced.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 49. An Appointment With the Past

    And they both managed a full night’s restful sleep.


    Scarlet was breakfasting alone at the dining table, scanning the papers when the phone call came.
    “You’ll never believe what Ian told the magistrate,” said D’Arcy. “By the way, our detective lost him at the BBC – there are just too many entrances – so he very sensibly dispatched himself to your current place of residence. He obtained one long distance photo of Ian backing you up against a wall – no kissing, but the buttons of your coat undone.”


    “What did Ian say?”


    “He said you were disguised as the nanny! Is that possible, Scarlet?”


    Scarlet flushed. She had not expected this. “I did borrow the nanny’s greatcoat. And hat.”
    “Why on earth?”


    “I wanted to get a good look at any loiterers.”


    “Please leave that to us and don’t do it again. We are presenting ourselves as the innocent parties here – if a judge gets a whiff that the two of you are playing some marital game he’ll toss the whole case out as collusive.”


    “I’m sorry,” said Scarlet. “I guess I didn’t think. So, what did the magistrate do?”


    “Well, he absolved Ian of contravening a court order but of course one isn’t supposed to slam nannies against walls, either. Since the detective testified to some kissing, Ian said he was having a “try-on.” It certainly doesn’t help his case and he was unarguably too close to your residence. The judge has added the nanny to the order and repeated “Stay away.” On the whole, I think we can call this a win.”


    A hammering at the front door vaulted Scarlet to her feet. Must be the security crew.
    “I must go. Is that all?”


    “That covers it. You be a good girl, now.”


    Scarlet promised, too distracted to argue that girlhood felt very long past now and never to come again.


    A woman wearing an old-fashioned duster stood on the doorstep, arm akimbo.
    “I’m here to see why I was fired. Mollie Jarviss of Jarviss Cleaning.”


    “I’m sure we didn’t fire you,” said Scarlet, who had been expecting the security men. “Why don’t you come in and we’ll sort this out?”


    She seated Mollie in the dining room and found Miss Bottomley toasting her toes in the kitchen, “keeping Enid company” which seemed to be her favorite new pursuit. She was wearing Scarlet’s bulky red anorak.


    “I hope you don’t mind,” she apologized, “it just fits me so well, it’s so hard to stay warm and it’s so comfortable.”


    “Not in the least,” said Scarlet. “You can have it. It doesn’t really fit me anymore. Clearly, I need new outerwear. By the way, was there any problem with the cleaning company that you can remember?”


    “Our cleaning company? I can’t think of any,” said Miss Bottomley. “I never saw them. But they certainly seemed honest, quiet and best of all from my point of view – they were fast.”


    “Mrs. Jarviss is claiming she was fired.”


    “I didn’t fire her,” snorted Miss Bottomley, “I fired Mr. Inkum. Bob Thomas and I did.”


    “So you won’t object if I re-hire her?”


    “Not in the least. I wouldn’t care to audition anyone new at this late stage.”


    Scarlet carried the good news to Mrs. Jarvis.


    “It’s Inkum who’s been let go,” she averred. “We’ll be paying you from now on.”


    Relief melted Mrs. Jarviss’ face, followed by embarrassment.


    “That’s all right, then,” she said. “I apologize if I was forceful. I thought we’d been found wanting but nobody told me. Fix anything the customer doesn’t care for is my motto. My girls are honest and hard-working.”


    “That’s great, then. Miss Bottomley is well satisfied.”


    “Four o’clock today, then? Two pounds ten.”


    “Certainly,” said Scarlet, trying not to show how surprised she was at such a low figure for this vast place. She escorted a much-subdued Mrs. Jarviss to the door. “We’ll see you this afternoon, then.”
    If it was once a week, she thought, there wouldn’t be a need to give Mrs. Jarviss the code. But she must remember to get a cheque from Miss Bottomley.


    The security men were pulling up at that very moment.


    “Good morning,” said Mr. Dyson. “This is Bert, who will work on keying your front door. John Truax here will oversee the job at the back.”


    Bert was all business in a gray oil-stained boiler suit He immediately knelt to study the door locks with scarcely a glance at Scarlet. Truax was more personable. He looked ex-military with his shoulders bulging out of his turtleneck and tweed jacket.


    “Miss Bottomley’s favorite number is 881,” whispered Scarlet. “Some childhood address.”


    “That’s where we’ll start, then. If you could walk us to the back?”


    Miss Bottomley was delighted by the company and offered tea all round, which the men did not take up. Elevenses, they averred, at eleven, would be welcome.


    “I will need a chair, if that’s all right,” said Truax. “For my post.”


    It was certainly all right.


    Three trucks had already pulled up in the forecourt.


    “I wish I could watch,” said Miss Bottomley regretfully, “But I must get ready for Mr. Thomas. We’re going to the bank.”


    “Nick and I can keep watch,” said Enid.


    Scarlet thought it was really the handsome Truax who had drawn Enid’s attention.


    “I have some things to do upstairs,” said Scarlet.


    But it was not to be. The front door bell summoned her yet again. Who’s the housemaid now? Wondered Scarlet but her disgruntled expression changed when she saw Pom and a sweet-looking young man standing before her on the doorstep.


    “Finally, someone I want to see!” she gasped. Pom and the stranger broke into smiles immediately.
    “Kirby Crousam,” Pom introduced, “From the Victoria and Albert. We went to art school together.” They had to step over locksmith Bert to enter.


    Scarlet bit her tongue to avoid telling poor Mr. Crousam that he didn’t look old enough to be running his own affairs, much less anyone else’s. The boyish-looking man produced a very professional portfolio with pages of checklists. He insisted on a complete tour.


    “Oh, my goodness,” gasped Crousam, “I can’t believe my eyes. Wells Antiquarian chairs, St. George cabinets –and this washstand – simply priceless!’


    “I thought it was a prie-dieu or something,” muttered Scarlet.


    “No, this rather strange piece of marble was simply laid on top. I suppose they thought they were repurposing it. But the upholstery looks original.”


    “Well, no one has ever sat there,” said Scarlet, while Pom echoed, “Who would WANT to?”
    “It’s true these pieces are thoroughly out of fashion now,” Crousam agreed. “But they are living history. All the more reason they should be protected.”


    “They belong in a museum,” said Scarlet, and Kirby Crousam flushed with pleasure at a comment which in her country would be more of an insult. Scarlet’s conscience smote her and she offered Kirby Crousam a cup of tea.


    “After I’ve finished that would be most welcome,” said Crousam.


    “After you’ve finished you may be ready for dinner,” said Pom. “There are three floors of this stuff.”


    “I feel like I’m dreaming,” said Crousam. “It’s a treasure trove!” Closer up, Scarlet saw the network of wrinkles. He looked more like a jockey, really – boyish at a distance but seen close-to he was prematurely aged, more like a chimneysweep .


    “How can everything possibly be in such perfect condition?” Crousam continued. “It’s a curator’s dream come true.”


    “Well, the old lady who lived here before Miss Bottomley seemed to prefer luxury cruise ships.”


    Kirby turned up the carpet to study the weave.


    “It usually comes down to some old party too frightened to make a will.”


    Pom flashed his charming smile. “And whose relatives were all too shy –“


    “Or too snooty –“ teased Scarlet –


    “To get married or have children and so when the old lady died the whole property went to another old lady the first old lady had never even met.”


    “How Dickensian,” murmured Crousam.


    “And our heiress old lady was a novelist who believed in finding the proper place for everything,” Scarlet finished. “These pieces should be where people can enjoy them.”


    “And learn from them. The museum would be so honored to receive any of these pieces. We have such a small endowment – people don’t realize – but sometimes we can raise funds for certain items -“


    “I think you’ll find Miss Bottomley wants to be as generous as possible. Why don’t you get in touch with Bob Thomas of Thomas & D’Arcy – he’s her man of business.”


    “Of course,” said Crousam, making a note. “Are there any rooms I shouldn’t enter?”


    “I’d say the kitchen and the rooms behind it. Those are Miss Bottomley’s private quarters,” said Scarlet. “Why don’t I let you know when she’s available?”