Alysse Aallyn

Tag: Writing Community

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 28. Our Miss Clew

    Here was a lived-in room, complete with cat, telly and smoking kettle.


    The cat opened one eye.


    “That’s Ceawlain, King of Wessex,” the hostess introduced. The cat closed its eye again.


    The woman hoisted the kettle, poured water into an earthenware pot and sighed ecstatically.


    “I’m glad this day’s done!” she announced. “I never expected it would be so dreadful.” She took stale-looking brown bread from a tin and began buttering slices.


    “So, you’re American,” she said briskly. “I don’t see how THAT’s going to work.”


    Scarlet cast back in her mind for the exact phrasing of the advertisement. She recalled the lessons of her college days selling magazines door to door and sat down without invitation.


    “If you’re trying to modernize Victorian novels,” she began, “Surely you want the largest market possible.”


    “I don’t want them Americanized,” said the woman sharply, “That wouldn’t do at all.”


    Scarlet tried to look bright. “What is the series, exactly?”


    The old lady began slicing an apple and placing each apple slice on a piece of brown bread. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down.


    “Our Miss Clew,” she said brusquely. “Ever heard of it?”


    Scarlet’s face flushed an intense red. This was nothing short of a miracle.


    “Heard of it?” She gasped, “I’m reading The Whiplash Puzzle right now!” And she pulled it from her bag. “Are you Esmé Hope Bottomley?”


    The old woman’s face crumpled as if she might cry.


    “You’re the only one who’s read the books,” she gasped. Then she seemed to regain control. “Do you suspect the vicar?”


    “Does a vicar come in later? Because this mystery takes place at a ladies’ college. Or do you refer to the dissenting preacher?”


    “No,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction, “There is no vicar.”


    Scarlet laughed out loud. She had been “tested”. And she had passed.


    “Miss Bottomley, I am so glad to meet you,” she said. “I admire your writing so much.”


    Miss Bottomley snorted. “I haven’t written a line in fifty years. Life got rather rudely in the way.”


    “Please do tell me about the job,” asked Scarlet.


    But Miss Bottomley was already busy munching. Instead, for an answer, she reached into a pocket of her apron and produced a letter from Coltsfoot & Briggins, publishers.

    “Dear Madam,” it said,
    “We are in receipt of your letter of the ninth and would be willing to extend our deadline until April 1st allowing you to attempt your own revision of the “Miss Clew” series. If you feel you are unable or if the revision does not meet with our needs we have in house editors on whose expertise we can call. Please feel free to contact me if you experience difficulties.

    Nigel Mountjoy
    Editor in Chief”

    “How perfectly obnoxious,” said Scarlet. “What an awful man. Have you signed anything with these people?”

    Miss Bottomley sighed. “I sold the series long ago. They don’t have to do this for me. They don’t have to do anything for me. I just hoped to prevent anything really embarrassing – Miss Clew becoming a hooch dancer or a James Bond spy with knives in her shoes.”


    “I totally agree,” said Scarlet. “She’s so wonderfully daring and intrepid with such imaginative ideas. Will they allow you to keep the story Victorian and simply update the language?”


    “I don’t know what they will allow,” said Miss Bottomley. “Modernize” is the only word they used. I just don’t want to be left out of it entirely. I think they were surprised I was still alive.”


    Scarlet saw at once what was required. Miss Bottomley needed a liaison with the publishers – a go-between with writing ability whom she could trust.


    “I will negotiate with them for you,” she offered, “To make the new books something you can be proud of. I’ve been negotiating with publishers for years as my vita shows.” She produced the piece of paper and laid it smartly on the table. This was certainly true, although the publishers usually said “no” at the end. Poetry being so difficult.


    “You have the job if you want it,” sighed Miss Bottomley. “You can’t imagine how dreadful all the other applicants were. They all took me for the housemaid. I must say it’s instructive to see how people treat the help. They really display their true colors.”


    Scarlet had to agree.


    “What does the position pay?” asked Scarlet.


    “I’ve no idea,” said Miss Bottomley helplessly. “What do you think is fair?”


    “Sixty pounds?” asked Scarlet shyly.


    “Sixty pounds a week?”


    “No – for the whole three months.”


    “Let’s say ten pounds for the first week and we’ll see how it goes,” said Miss Bottomley. She’s not completely gaga, thought Scarlet.


    “That would be acceptable.”


    Miss Bottomley read slowly through Scarlet’s qualifications.


    “You live in the country?”


    “Not anymore. I’m looking for a place in town. I’m getting a divorce.”


    “There’s plenty of room upstairs,” Miss Bottomley waved a hand. “I don’t go up there. But it would be quite convenient for you to be in the same building as I hope you will see.”


    “But I have a baby,” Scarlet said. “So I don’t know –“


    Miss Bottomley glowed. “A baby? How old?”


    “Six weeks.”


    “Six weeks old? And you’re getting a divorce? What did the devilish man do?”


    Scarlet told her. Miss Bottomley gasped like a benevolent gudgeon.


    “Thank goodness you found a competent solicitor! They’re hardly thick upon the ground. Certainly, I’ve never had such luck.”


    How could the resident of this vast house in such a toney square not know any decent solicitors? Scarlet tried to figure out the politest way to enquire about Miss Bottomley’s peculiar living situation.
    “Have you always lived in this house?”


    “Good heavens no,” said Miss Bottomley. “I was a pensioner in a bedsit. I won the tontine – a year ago, now.”


    “Tontine?”


    “Last one alive sweeps the pot,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction. “There’s got to be some benefit to living to 88 years old.”


    And the story spilled out.


    Miss Bottomley had been the only child of a country parson who scrupulously educated her as a hanger-on of rich county families – some of whom were her relations. He clearly saw no other life for his daughter than “sponger”, flatly telling her she wasn’t “pretty” enough to marry. Scarlet could see how this kind of life spawned Miss Clew’s character – a skeptical observer born with principles in an unscrupulous world.


    Miss Bottomley had written the Miss Clew series – thirteen books in total – as her virgin flight into the world of literature, securing just enough cash to transfer to London and secure her own flat – a scandal causing many relatives at the time to loudly wash their hands of her. But Miss Bottomley’s newer, more personal novels were unsuccessful at reaching an audience – several, indeed, remaining unpublished. Scarlet made a note to get her hands on these manuscripts at the first possible opportunity.


    Miss Bottomley said that as she moved into her forties she became less and less able to “suffer fools” (she meant the literary world) and was reduced to taking in typing. The “flat” became a bedsit – she was even forced to sell off the Miss Clew series – her only asset. Love – marriage – courtship – were completely out of the question as prerogatives of the comfortably off. Some sad experience with a curate soured poor Miss Bottomley even on the modest comforts of the church.


    Therefore, it was with considerable surprise when at age 86 she was informed that she was the sole living heir to the Pursuivant Estate (“My dear mother was a Pursuivant.”)

    She had never even met Mabel Pursuivant – ten years her elder – a woman who preferred foreign travel to a life at home.


    One year later, she inherited this house, indeed, this entire square. Her shoulders rocked with laughter. Who would ever have believed such a thing? What had become of the six daughters of Lord Henry Pursuivant – and the two nephews of Mr. Roundswell? Dead, it seemed. Everybody died. Nobody could muster up an offspring.


    “Unlucky lot. Lumbering me with this place,” she laughed. “Well, it’s a good address. Certainly comfortable. I took one tour when I moved in – I don’t go upstairs now. There’s a cleaning staff, hired by the estate agent, so should you encounter bugs or dust simply inform me and I can assure you heads will roll.”


    “Thank you,” said Scarlet warmly. “What will you charge?”


    “Oh, my goodness,” Miss Bottomley demurred, “I couldn’t charge anything for having you on permanent call! It’s to suit my convenience! What we’ll need to see about is how it suits you.”


    Good luck all around! So much glorious, clean, quiet space, warm – and in the heart of London! An entire square? Her new employer must be very rich – it was obvious she hadn’t yet come to terms with it – at the age of 88 perhaps never would. She should be receiving abject letters of accommodation from her publishers, not condescending brush-offs! Something was very wrong there.


    Miss Bottomley had suddenly emerged as more of a fairy godmother than an employer and Scarlet was determined to return the favor.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 26 – The Solicitor

    Scarlet asked Frankie to stop at the church so she could drop her package at the jumble sale.
    “And what is it, ma’am?” he inquired, eyes sharp.


    She displayed Candi’s stained glass creation.


    “Oh, that’s lovely, that is! See his fine red coat! Matches the foxes’ fur! I’d accept it in payment, ma’am, if you’d be willing. I’d be proud to put it in the window of the garage.”


    Scarlet thought that would be perfect. So pleasant to imagine Candi coming to town, stopping at the garage and seeing her own handiwork showcased between the neon, the Michelin man and the Pirelli tire girls.


    “Excellent,” she said.

    Pelham D’Arcy was a youthful man trying to make himself seem older – or so Scarlet assumed – by dressing and posing as some kind of a revenant from the nineteenth century. He had the most extraordinary moustache – as carefully trained as a miniature bonsai bush – and he had a way of stroking it when speaking which meant Scarlet couldn’t take her eyes off it. He first apologized that he handled marriage contracts as a usual matter, but he did have a “small” practice in divorce.
    “Marriage contracts?” Scarlet collapsed exhausted into a chair, feeling that if she had any strength left she would just walk out of there. Marriage contracts? And I there was I, innocently thinking wedding vows would cover everything! Ian had promised before God to cleave to her before all others, to worship her body with his body until death did them part. If a man was ready to go back on THAT, what help could a contract possibly be? She feared the worst about all solicitors, but at this particular moment she was far too dispirited to seek further. She summoned up as much energy as she could manage and asked a question.


    “What good is a marriage contract?”


    “Well, I am afraid that under our laws the wife and children are entitled to only one third of the husband’s income,” he confirmed. “Any income she makes would be added to that pool – she still gets only a third. A marriage contract would guarantee that in the event of – er, negative outcomes – the wife gets a fairer disposition.”


    Now she could see the point. Too late, of course. She explained her situation.
    “Plus, I don’t currently have any income,” said Scarlet faintly.


    “What is your husband’s income, if I may ask?”


    “I don’t really know,” Scarlet admitted. “He’s negotiated something with the BBC. It seems to include a flat.”


    “Well that’s unfortunate,” said D’Arcy, “decidedly unfortunate. What’s to prevent them cutting you out?”


    “Why would they cut me in? Are you saying the BBC would conspire with my husband to cheat me?”


    “Goodness no,” he gasped, “I am saying no such thing. On the other hand, if your husband is seen as a desirable acquisition they will attempt to accommodate his needs. If not, they may of course, simply get rid of him. This is a most awkward time for the pair of you to decide that your marital difficulties are insoluble.”


    Scarlet looked at his hands – no wedding ring to be seen – only a sizeable carnelian pinky ring that looked to have just been dipped in the red wax seal of some Top Secret document.


    “I just gave birth to our first child,” she said as calmly as she could, “And my husband has announced that he has a girlfriend, he’s keeping his girlfriend and he will always have girlfriends. I don’t want to be in that kind of a marriage. If I get a separation, first, instead of a divorce, there’s a chance – just a possibility, mind you, that Ian will come back to sanity.”


    It wouldn’t happen. She could no longer force herself to believe it this possibility. How could she ever trust him again? Wouldn’t he simply wait for the next time she was incapacitated and vulnerable to spring something similar – or something even worse, if that could even be imagined – upon her?


    “I can’t recommend marital gambits, I’m afraid.” Said D’Arcy in a decidedly chilly manner. “Possibly your doctor –“


    “Separation or divorce,” said Scarlet, matching his cold tone, “Which do YOU recommend?”


    “Separation definitely,” he agreed, “If what you say is true.”


    “Do you have any law female partners? At this firm?” Scarlet was rapidly losing patience with this troglodyte.


    He drew back as if her question was improper and she had somehow insulted him. Then with an effort he seized control of himself, stiffened his upper lip, (thinking of England, presumably), and mustered up a calm facade.


    “I’m afraid we do not, nor do I know of any I can recommend.”


    “It’s just that I’d just like to start with a solicitor who doesn’t call me a liar.”


    “I am not “calling you a liar”, madam” – he seemed to put the words in quotes as if afraid he was soiling his mouth, “I am accustomed to ascertaining the facts of the case.”


    “The facts of the case are, that my husband spent the night with another woman who masqueraded as Mrs. Wye at The Carpathian Hotel. I have the receipted bill. When I challenged him he admitted it, saying it would continue because of Modern Marriage and stated further that he’s a man of the world, or some such thing, and showed me some photographs a detective took of me meeting a platonic male friend in London.”


    D’Arcy perked up and looked interested in spite of himself. “Your husband was having you followed?”


    “Apparently. For all I know it’s still going on – I didn’t see anybody but because I’m not doing anything, I wasn’t really looking.” I’m never doing anything, she thought disgustedly.


    D’Arcy stroked his moustache. “About this friend –“


    “Pomeroy Bronfen – the man we bought Wyvern House from – we ran into each other on the street by the sheerest coincidence. He invited me to dinner and a movie, and because he had a car, he ended up driving me around.”


    “I believe you, of course – I would hope that goes without saying – but I also think it would be sensible on your part to keep some distance from – friendly men.”


    “Should I stay away from all men?” Scarlet asked and D’Arcy looked physically pained. “That will be difficult as I’m looking for a job.”


    “Don’t ride in cars with them, don’t have dinner alone with them, don’t sit in darkened theatres with them,” said D’Arcy huffily. “It is not that I don’t trust you,” he emphasized the word – “It’s a question is what a judge might think.”


    “And what might he think?”


    D’Arcy sighed. “In England, ma’am, it is not possible to get a divorce for adultery if the spouse has been compliant or collusive.”


    She let those terms sink in. This was what she needed to know, this was why she was sitting in this dreadfully overheated room listening to this silly little man. She needed to find out what game Ian was playing.


    “You mean if we both have affairs?”


    “If neither one of you – such is English law – truly can be considered an injured party.”


    She stared at him. She wanted to tell him what she thought of English law – what a bunch of idiots they all were – but she knew that wouldn’t help.


    “I gather your husband doesn’t desire this divorce,” said D’Arcy.


    “You gather correctly. And it isn’t for any reason flattering to me, it’s because of this division that exists in my husband’s mind between “wives” and “girlfriends.”


    “I see. He doesn’t wish the categories to – collide, as it were.”


    Was there a human being buried inside this pompous little twerp after all?


    “Exactly. And I want no part of it.”


    “How refreshingly American,” said Pelham D’Arcy, shuffling papers.


    “American?” Was he insulting her again? She bridled.


    “It’s very American to want to be both wife and girlfriend,” said D’Arcy. “But I must say my wife shares your view.”


    Scarlet felt enormous relief. Perhaps this man would do after all.


    “Hopefully the world will come around to our opinion,” she said. “So, given all this, what do you recommend?”


    “Under the scenario you describe, I recommend we hire a detective of our own, get the goods on hubby so to speak – romantic and financial – and you file for divorce. A settlement contract will prove a more productive path than separate maintenance which allows him to play bloody hell with your allowance. And he seems to be a gamesman. I’ve got an excellent fellow – er, detective – er, Bogswell.”


    “Thank you,” sighed Scarlet. “What do I owe you?”


    D’Arcy raised a blocking hand.


    “Nothing until we get a better sense of your husband’s assets. I also suggest we establish a trust with you as the trustee, and you write a will.”


    “Why a will?”


    “It’s part of establishing the trust. A trust allows you to open a bank account in your own name which your husband won’t have access to – which I’m afraid you will find difficult otherwise.”


    “I’ve got even fewer assets than he’s got,” Scarlet sighed.


    “I beg to differ. I believe you said something about an infant child?”


    Scarlet brightened. “Yes, there’s always Nicholas.” An asset indeed.


    The session ended warmly on a handshake.


    “I suggest you obtain a separate address your husband doesn’t know about,” said D’Arcy. “Until you notify me I will await your call here or at my home – here’s the number to exchange news. And I’ll take that hotel bill, by the way.”


    “Sounds smart,” said Scarlet. Yes, it did.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 25. A Mysterious Employer

    On her way to pick up Fern she bought all the London papers. Scarlet found herself unable to return the newsagent’s “Happy Christmas” with anything more than a nod. It was NOT a merry Christmas. The most that she could give thanks for was that Nicholas was too young to notice.
    She phoned Pom from a call box and luckily, he was in.


    “I wonder if you could suggest a London solicitor,” she asked.


    “What’s it in aid of?” Pom inquired, very reasonably. “Purchasing more real estate?”


    She had actually hoped not to get into it but she realized now she needed to simply rip the bandage off.


    “We’re getting a separation,” she said. “I’ll be moving to London so I think I should find a solicitor there.”


    “Oh, my God,” said Pom. “This is all my fault.”


    Good thing she had phoned him instead of dropping by. How humiliating if he saw how her cheeks suffused with red – she could never explain properly and he could never understand. If it was Pom’s fault it was the world’s fault. How could she ever explain about the photos – the detective – how utterly disgusting Ian was and how low he was willing to go. His enraging method of manipulating and ruining everything. But Pom continued smoothly, “Selling you that awful house. I ought to be shot.”


    “No, really,” she gasped, almost grateful for his thorough misapprehension. “It isn’t that. I think it was Nicholas being born. He says now he never wanted children.”


    “Well, he’s an arrant idiot. Forgive my caterwauling, no one sees inside a marriage, do they? My solicitor’s Bob Thomas in Maida Vale – he’s the best – and he’s got several partners. I’m sure he would recommend the right person. He’s jolly easy to talk to – he just lets me wail and then offers sane, useful suggestions. Should have been an alienist, I always tell him.”


    “Alienist.” Strange expression. Like ‘Alienation of affections…’


    “I’m a shoulder to cry on, don’t forget,” Pom said as he gave her the number. “Two shoulders, really. And I don’t judge.” If he only knew what she’d involved him in. But somehow, she didn’t think he’d be angry. She scribbled in her datebook and rang off.


    Bob Thomas’ clerk Mr. Gotobed said “Mr. Thomas” never handled “matrimonial,” that was Pelham D’Arcy and he had an opening tomorrow at twelve. After that, nothing for a week. Scarlet chose tomorrow at twelve.


    When she stopped in at Mrs. Mugle’s the other woman said she would be “most pleased” to take Nicholas tomorrow. She had Ladies Union – would it be all right to take Nicholas along? Naturally Scarlet agreed and Mrs. Mugle all but jumped up and down in her excitement. She did not enquire why Scarlet needed to go up to London again – seemingly taking it for granted that leasing a London flat was a complex endeavor.


    Back at Wyvern House, Ian was closed in behind the library door, making himself scarce. She could hear him murmuring into the phone. Fern said, “I’ll take the babby for a walk, shall I?” and Scarlet hastily agreed. She took the newspapers up to her tower room to peruse them in privacy. And there, in the window, was a round stained glass rondo depicting a medieval hunter – possibly Robin Hood – setting an arrow to his bow while a fox peeped out of the luxuriant shrubbery. Candi was the hunter and Ian was the fox? Or was Scarlet the prey?


    Scarlet felt so faint she almost fell back down the stairs. She picked up the offending object from its chain – it was quite heavy – and battled with herself not to open the window and fling it out onto the courtyard.


    However. It was glass. Pointless to assist Candi in wreaking yet more havoc on Scarlet’s household. She wrapped it in the political news and taped it up so she wouldn’t have to look at the thing. The right method of disposal would come to her. Grinding it up and putting it in Candi’s food? Dropping it on her head from an airplane? Concealing it on Ian’s side of the bed where he would break it with his big, no-longer-desiring, no longer desirable body?


    All these revenge modalities threatened unforeseen consequences. The solution came in a flash – church jumble. Exactly the right thing to do with a houseguest’s gift you had previously begged them – by telegram – not to assault you with.


    She pushed the object away and opened Situations Vacant.


    Nothing. Nobody wanted to hire an American poet to do anything. Teachers, even nannies, were expected to have extensive, specialized qualifications. Scarlet couldn’t imagine herself even pretending to keep house or cook to request. “Companions to the elderly” paid worse than kennel maids. Sewing and laundry facilities sounded like sweatshops – she couldn’t support Nicholas on that kind of pay. Librarians’ assistants were expected to be British and bookshops and galleries requested “equity” investment in the business – YOU paid THEM. Jewelers and antique shops wanted “bonding”. Fashion and advertising firms wanted “portfolios.” Even clerks’ jobs seemed to require a civil service exam. Selling door to door was “commission only.” The only hope appeared “typing pool” – if she could pass “the test.” But poets don’t cultivate speed – slow deliberation is the necessary pace. “Maybe I could speed up if I had to,” she thought. And then she saw it – a boxed advertisement in the top corner:

    Editorial Ability – Temporary.


    Possibly, thought Scarlet.


    “Editor required to update Victorian novels. Three months’ employment. Present qualifications in person to:

    14 Norfolk Crescent, Fitzrovia, Tuesday – Thursday, 2-4 pm only.”

    No telephone number! What did THAT mean? In America, this kind of “cattle call” meant they wanted to take a look at you. Scarlet felt hope for the first time. Thank God, she’d bought those new tweed suits. At least she could look the part, although it was certainly possible that she would be rejected simply for being American. It really depended what kind of Victorian novels these were. But she might be able to talk her way into it – whatever it was. She had a good knowledge of Victorian literature, had indeed studied Mrs. Humphrey Ward as well as all the poets. Literary qualifications were the only kind of qualifications she really possessed. And a three-month job might give her exactly the kind of entrée, recommendations and resumé to try for better positions.


    She began hashing out a list of “qualifications” and immediately ran into the problem of references. Her American references seemed pointless and outdated. All her London connections were more Ian’s than hers. Gossip about their separation would soon be rife: who could she trust? Rather desperately she wrote Pom’s name feeling he was the only human being she could truly depend on to represent her well. She felt too embarrassed about it to even call him. She called Francesca Joringel, instead, at The Fruitful Browser and explained her difficulty.


    “I really need someone to testify to my familiarity with Victorian literature,” she said shyly.


    “I think I can testify to more than that!” Francesca said with unexpected loyalty. “They would be lucky to get someone so well-spoken with such wide interests. Now, who are they exactly?”


    “I don’t really know,” said Scarlet. “I’ll be finding out about them while they’re finding out about me.”


    “Some kind of literary jobbing would be perfect for a new mum,” offered Francesca, “Particularly one whose husband works for the BBC.” Gossip jumped from the rooftops while truth struggled to put on its spats. “I’d be honored to speak for you, and I’m easy to reach. I’m always here, working on my manuscript.”


    So comforting.


    “We’ll see,” Scarlet sighed. “Thank you. It may all be a mare’s nest.”


    “Or,” said Francesca, who loved Mystery, Adventure and Thrillers best of all, “It could be the Opportunity of a Lifetime.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 24. A Separation

    The last train came in at nine o’clock, but why would Ian need it? He had the car, and Scarlet hadn’t seen it at the station. He could be anywhere. She heard nothing from him. As she gave Nick his bath she wondered what she should do. Should she call Candi and ask about his plans? But there seemed no more reason to expect her husband’s girlfriend would be any more truthful than Scarlet’s own husband had been or that he even told the truth to her. Maybe David – Candi’s husband – was the one she should call. Or how about Margalo?


    “Hello – we haven’t met – I was just wondering –“ No wonder country wives got such a bad reputation as jailers: they were both jealous and clueless; perpetually the one because they were the other. Day late and a dollar short as the Americans put it.


    Even some disguised query about job or flat would be ridiculously transparent. Her private job, as Nick’s mother, was to figure out just how much of this she would tolerate, and what she would do about it. She knew marriage was no bed of roses but she had not expected so many thorns.

    Scarlet, the writer, so long buried, had nothing to say. Her only role was to be oblivious, unworldly and unassuming. Scarlet surrendered her thoughts and fell asleep.


    Nick awoke, like clockwork, at one in the morning. She fell back asleep while feeding him. She dreamed she stood at the junction of several dark, long tunnels. Which offered the best way out? In the distance, she heard a roar of water – but from which direction? She would drown – she felt a laggard inertia – the horror of such hopelessness awakened her. It was already light out. Here she was in Nick’s bedroom so freshly decorated with the hopeful yellow paint she’d applied herself just before his eagerly anticipated birth. There was no threatening water, no terrifying tunnel. The future that awaited her was terrible enough – or maybe just sad, really. But at least there wouldn’t be a drowning at the end of it.


    She placed Nick carefully in his crib and went downstairs to the cold kitchen to make coffee and light the boiler: what Ida called “the heart of the house.”


    Outside a fresh coating of snow had settled over the drive. She shivered, making toast, skipping butter but slathering plenty of tart, orange, homemade marmalade. She remembered exactly what insanity had brought them here. It was Ian’s dream of power, and she had eagerly embraced them hoping for a by-product of happiness. What had it wrought instead?


    She carried her coffee and toast to her bed to find Ian sprawled beneath a pile of blankets. He must have come in during the night, and she hadn’t heard him. She moved his clothes from the armchair to the valet and settled down to watch him. He was in a deep, deep sleep. She herself was wide awake, although she felt odd, as if hung over. After effects of a restless night. Her brain was buzzing.


    Miss Clew couldn’t help, the lady detective having no assistance to offer to those who willingly immerse themselves in intolerable situations. She needed someone who understood how you could be pulled one way and another till paralysis inevitably set in. She settled a lap robe over her knees and opened Muriel Spark’s The Comforters.


    She must have fallen back asleep because it was past ten when she awoke. Ian sighed and rolled onto his back. Now, she thought, the light will wake him. If he can still be affected by the light. She checked on Nick – right above the kitchen he was in the warmest upstairs room – and then went downstairs to bring up more toast, warmed milk, and the coffee thermos.


    When she returned to the bedroom, Ian was in the bathroom. She shivered reminiscently as she heard water running. She placed the tray on his recently vacated spot, poured herself another cup of coffee and returned to the lap robe and armchair.


    He wore only boxer briefs, his big body seeming somehow more hairy and sprawling. He yawned theatrically but she noticed his eyes skittering nervously over her face. Then he smirked with reassurance. Why was that? His wife’s lack of splotchy tears or visible distress?


    “Thanks for this,” he said, crawling into her side of the bed and helping himself to coffee.


    “I went to the Carpathian,” she said. “I was surprised to find you’d checked in with a Mrs. Wye.”


    He cocked his head. “I suppose you made a scene? Screaming and sobbing – “I’m the REAL Mrs. Wye!” he chortled, munching toast. “A right show to entertain the tourists. Give ‘em what they came for.”


    She felt the hot blood bubble in her veins – as surely he intended – but she fought it down. He wanted her to get angry – to give him the upper hand. Many people preferred the relief of rage to the pain of mourning. She refused to oblige.


    “I found the receipted bill,” She told him, “You lied about where you stayed. I wondered why.”


    “If I don’t tell you everything – come to Jesus and confess every sin of thought and deed like one of your poor rubes at an American tent revival, does that mean I “lied”?” He scoffed. “You don’t tell me everything.”


    She gasped like a fish. She hadn’t expected this return attack. But that, of course was precisely why she should have.


    “I don’t have a boyfriend and a hotel bill!”


    He rose portentously, snapped open his dispatch case and produced a
    manila envelope from which he extracted grainy, full-size black and white photos. It took a moment to uncover the sense in them, but finally she recognized shapes – herself and Pom, going in and out of his flat, at the Soho restaurant, at the Cumberland Hotel. Riding in his car. She could scarcely believe her eyes.


    “You were SPYING on me?”


    “They don’t do that in America? Home of hardboiled Sam Spade? We call it alienation of affections here. At the very least. Possibly criminal conversation.”


    She was at a loss for words. She had definitely not expected this.
    “I ran into Pom in town! It was entirely coincidence.”


    “Says you!” He jeered. “Look darling –“ he reached out a hand to touch her shoulder but she shied away. “Don’t you see the birth of our son puts our relationship on an entirely different footing?”


    “No, I don’t.” She rose and paced away from him.


    “It’s an American fantasy that a young couple with a squalling newborn is still enjoying honeymoon sex, don’t you see? It doesn’t happen anywhere else, it’s never happened anywhere else – I wager it doesn’t even happen in America but Ladies’ Home & Garden or whatever slop you read won’t admit it. It really is possible to love two people, three people, even seven people at once, just not in the same way. Adultery strengthens marriage. Read Lawrence.


    Seriously, try to view this objectively. You get Nicholas, and I’m guessing the odd passade with a sychophantic poofter – and I have…my dollies. Little bits of fluff. That’s what’s done. I can guarantee you it won’t interfere with our family life. I think I can promise that I won’t invite them to dinner – how about that?”


    “No,” said Scarlet, taking a breath and trying to remain stone-faced. “I want a separation.” Was she angry because he wasn’t jealous? Because he wanted her to be a cheater too?


    “Oh, that’s how it is, is it? You’ll be moving out?”


    “I’ll live in the London flat.”


    “That you won’t. It’s leased by the BBC for me and my –“ he paused delicately – “Household. I could give you permission to live there, of course. But you can’t keep me out – or anyone I choose to invite. I’ve already accepted a position with the company.”


    She was filled with horror. She couldn’t keep him out of this house either – and she didn’t want to, really. Where could she be safe? She just wanted out.


    “We’ll see,” she said and it sounded feeble to her own ears. “All I know now is that I can’t trust you.”


    “By all means seek counsel,” he said. “Someone to explain the realities of British marriage. But don’t let it be so very expensive. If you’ve determined on a separation I think you’ll find your allowance won’t stretch very far. Luckily women are masochists. According to Freud.”
    “I’ll get a job,” she said loftily.


    “All right then. And I’ll get Nicholas.” He backed away. “Not that I ever wanted children. But you were so determined. There’s no talking sense to a woman in heat.” At the sight of her face he finished, “Move to the guest room, shall I?” His eyes swept over he with…was that disgust or nauseated disinclination? He closed the door in just enough time to miss the bookend that was thrown at him.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 23. Down From Town

    Ida answered the phone. “I don’t know where he’s gone. The babby’s safe with my girl.”
    Scarlet was too dispirited to ask if Ida meant her daughter or her granddaughter.
    “I suppose I could take a cab if the bank’s open and I could cash a cheque,” Scarlet sighed. The bank’s hours were so bizarre. She didn’t relish dragging these boxes up the street. Maybe she could deposit them in the left-luggage room.


    “You stay right there and I’ll call down to the garage for Frankie to get you,” said Ina. “He’s coming to fetch me anyway – just add it to my pay – he charges less than a cabdriver anyhow. Would you like to pick up the babby?”


    “Yes,” said Scarlet, suddenly teary. “Thank you.”


    Here was the Scarlet Pom couldn’t know, the kind of desperate idiot who needed a cleaning woman to solve all her problems. If she’d been able to think she could have laid in some grocery items. As it was, all she was showing up with for was a pile of expensive, useless, yet-to-be-paid for clothes.


    No wonder Frankie dubbed his flivver a “gypsy cab” – the aging Singer looked held together by string. But he was certainly obliging – even willing to stop for bread, milk, ham, green beans and tomatoes. And when Scarlet was reunited with her “babby” the world magically righted itself. Nick had been at Mrs. Mugle’s, naturally, the center of a group of admiring ladies. He had just been fed and smelled powerfully of Amazing Baby Ointment. We’ll never be parted again, thought Scarlet fiercely, hugging him to her chest. But she thanked Mrs. Mugle as politely as she could. For a wonder, Mrs. Mugle disclaimed payment.


    “It’s a joy to touch a sweet baby like he is,” she said, her whole face shining. How could anyone muster hostility against such a woman? Scarlet’s heart melted and she had the grace to realize that her unwillingness to allow another woman to “mark” her child was nothing more than atavistic jealousy. She herself would always possess the powerful priority of motherhood. No one could take that away.


    “Shall Fern come up at three o’clock?” Mrs. Mugle inquired. “The library switched her to the mornings.”


    Gritting her teeth, Scarlet agreed. It reminded her that the Fern situation was temporary – whenever the library gave her extra hours she’d drop baby-minding like a shot. Scarlet actually preferred Mrs. Mugle’s attitude. But beggars can’t be choosers and delivering her baby to a house eight miles away so that she could write in her tower made little sense.


    As for Frankie, after he’d unloaded patiently at Wyvern House she gave him all the rest of her cash as a tip.


    “And there’s more coming through Ida’s cheque,” she promised. She showed him her empty coin purse. It occurred to her – too late of course, the way every other insight seemed to come – that she could have cashed a cheque at the hotel. She’d skulked out of there like a street drab from an assignation.


    But Frankie was cheery. As she took down the garage phone number he offered, “Everyone spends all their cash in town. That’s what towns are for is what I figure.”
    Her heart warmed to him. She wrote Ida a cheque. Thank God for the glorious English invention of the “overdraft.”


    Now she must confront her enormous exhaustion at the mere sight of her own home. From a tiny three-room flat she and Ian had been acquiring real estate in a frenzy – there was no way they could actually take care of all they possessed. Where was Ian now? Gone! Where was Ian planning to be? Gone!


    It was just so crazy Scarlet dreaded trying to explain it to her sister in one of her long, newsy letters home. Better wait to see how it played out. The approaching confrontation would go better if she were calmer. She heated a can of soup and made herself a sandwich. While she ate the high and low points of her London trip danced through her memory in a blur, seemingly as if they’d occurred to someone else, or were part of the film she’d seen. The food helped her feel better.

    Now she felt silly and sad as she put her new clothes away. What need had she for party gear in her new life? She tried imagining Ian contrite and promising fidelity: would she even believe him?
    She was grateful to be rescued from her thoughts when Nick awoke, hungry. She was even able to produce milk for him. She relaxed into his body as he melted into hers.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 22. A Train Ride

    She missed the first train; overslept as if resting up for coming trials. The simplest breakfast order (croissants and coffee) seemed to take this hotel forever; they couldn’t believe she didn’t want their “nice kippers” and “fried tomatoes”. Managing all her new boxes proved impossible until the concierge fetched twine and roped them together into a still threateningly unwieldy parcel. Why wouldn’t she have them sent? Impossible to explain that these clothes suddenly seemed more intimate, more “hers” than the pre-pregnancy and shabby maternity clothes awaiting her at that castle. She definitely required the services of a porter. Scarlet had come up in the world. Unfortunately, she missed the second train, too.


    Sitting in the third train – it was lunchtime as this point – she felt dull, self-accusatory, downright stupid. Her buyer’s remorse was so severe she couldn’t even open Miss Clew. She’d managed everything so badly.


    Ian didn’t know when she was arriving. Oakhampton was too far to take a taxi. She’d have to call him from the station and hope he answered the phone. She was feeling nervous about all this shopping. London clothes in the country? What was the idea behind that? Was the best way to deal with Ian’s sudden aristocratic craziness to get crazy too? The Merry Widow was especially embarrassing.


    It now seemed to her like angry, “revenge” shopping, which was exactly what it had been. She couldn’t forget that spectral look in the eyes of Stella, manager at Montcalm Ladies’ Clothiers, inciting her by acceptance and flattery into playing the “wealth game”. Scarlet had only been too glad to comply. Was that what it felt like being Ian, taken advantage of by all the broadcasters and auctioneers he hoped to impress?


    Even the London flat seemed now more like a will o’ the wisp than a solid achievement. How had she let a giggly young estate agent maneuver her into the biggest place on offer, without getting any idea of its actual cost? If she was behaving just like Ian, then his behavior was hardly extraordinary. This is how people go bankrupt, she lectured herself. And how on earth could she ever explain any of it to India?


    Ian had done all he could to make his new job sound big and important, but were new people really treated this way at the BBC? In her experience the English workplace was decidedly cheese-paring. She couldn’t help feeling there was something else on this table, something she wasn’t getting. What if everything was just another one of Ian’s rather terrifying but hopeful daydreams, like winning a football pool?


    She calmed herself. She hadn’t signed for the flat. Jane was only “talking” to Margalo – surely you can’t accept responsibility for something so evanescent! If Ian’s employer didn’t give a green light, nothing would happen.


    She found herself longing for the ordered world of Miss Clew who alone, it seemed, possessed the razor-sharp standards to brush all this confusion aside. The world of the Victorians was famous for its explosion of pretense, imposture and hypocrisy keeping right up with every new marvel of the technological world. But somehow, Miss Clew always saw through to real motives and intent. Eagerly Scarlet opened the next book in the series and prepared to disappear inside. After all, no amount of money could be considered “within their budget” because Ian staunchly refused to make one or even explain or plan his income.


    Yet even this book flatly refused to come to life with her head in such a whirl. What were her exact fears? She looked blindly out the carriage window and resolved to list and face them. If leasing a tiny hole in the wall meant she’d be cheek by jowl with the man she was currently feuding with, that would certainly be money down the drain. But this selected flat could potentially be shared – one parent “up” and the other “down” – for the benefit of the children. It seemed like in many ways the best solution, she comforted herself.


    The real question was, why did she feel so awful? Such a failure? Because of Pom, dammit! Why was this man so interested in her and why was so she so dependent on that fact?
    Because her own husband was ignoring her. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 21. Voyeurs

    So that’s where they went. She felt relieved that he didn’t suggest that they could have coffee just as well at his place; this was all coming at her too fast as it was. They sat in the window looking out on the darkened street. He chose espresso. For her it would always be “café americaine.”


    “I liked that man’s helplessness,” she said finally. “It’s the exact opposite of every other movie.”


    “Well, he has to trust his girlfriend to do what he can’t do.”


    “Trust her not to get herself killed, you mean? They share an unbearable curiosity. Audere scire, that’s my real motto. Dare to know.”


    “What a perfect phrase! Family?”


    “Hardly,” said Pom. “I think they chose some scrap of boilerplate that meant “Toady like your life depends on it.” Picturing a toad rampant.”


    She laughed until his tense face relaxed.


    “The camera’s like the wheelchair, in a way,” she suggested.


    “How do you mean?”


    “Well, he’s at one remove from the action. At a distance, always.”


    “A voyeur, you mean,” agreed Pom. “That’s what they say about Hitchcock, that he turns us all into voyeurs.”


    ‘And he wants us to be both intrigued and ashamed.”


    “I suppose our hero was so eager to find out if he was right about his neighbor being a killer that he didn’t mind putting Grace Kelly in harm’s way,” Pom suggested. “Pretty unforgiveable, really. They needed three scriptwriters to figure a way out.”


    “She was brave, I thought. She really went in without his permission.”


    “But knowing she was doing what he wanted.”


    “He’s still helpless at the end,” said Scarlet. “Breaking the other leg.”


    “He needs a special manager,” Pom agreed.


    “And then Hitchcock makes fun of our happy ending by showing she’s already bored by his life before they’re even married.”


    “Perhaps he’ll realize he must always find – and film – mysteries that keep her interested. Apparently Hitchcock’s real wife always wrote his screen treatments. He thought in pictures, working the film out in storyboards and then she’d write the first script.”


    “What a perfect combination of skills,” said Scarlet. Like our movie tonight – he’ll be curious about the neighbors and she’ll investigate, and that’s what happily ever after is.”


    “For their sake I hope so,” said Pom. A little sadly.


    Scarlet realized with a start that Pom must always be looking from his lonely life into the brightly lit windows of others’ married bargains. But she couldn’t think of any polite way to broach the subject.


    Pom drained his espresso, then effortlessly became very personal indeed. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”


    She panicked as she realized two things – both that it was possible to have too good evening and secondly that she needed to put a stop to this very agreeable fantasy right now.


    “I want to thank you for such a pleasant evening,” she began formally.


    “Oh no…” he supplied. “I can feel the disclaimer coming. I brace myself.”


    Could she explain, “I’m especially vulnerable right now -“ no, that was a mistake. Putting poor Pom in the wrong. Best come clean. “Ian and I have been having trouble.”


    “I hope it’s not the house. I’m afraid I’ve sold you a permanently sinking ship.”


    “No. No.” In a way it was, but nothing specific to Pom’s estate. She had assumed the “trigger” was her pregnancy but maybe the truth was even worse. Had Ian always been mistress as well as house shopping? “It’s his – attitude. As a country gentleman.”


    “I begin to see,” Pom supplied. “The “girlfriend” thing?”


    “Yes. He’s separating himself from us, as if he’s fulfilling some kind of ancient pattern that I thought we’d both rejected. It closes him off to me and to the baby.” Really, this conversation was getting too intimate. It proved that she was desperate for a friend. But could Pom – could any man, much less an Englishman – ever be that?


    “Tell me,” she hazarded, “When English men go shopping for a country house are they really looking for an excuse to be unfaithful?”


    She was trying to lighten the desperate moment but Pom gave the comment deep consideration.
    “I suppose so,” he said finally. “It’s the nest thing. You’re asking, does “nest” mean “harem” to an Englishman?”


    “Am I?” She felt stunned. She gave a gasping, nervous laugh but neither that nor her stricken face intimidated him.


    “I’m imagining things I haven’t experienced,” he went on. “That’s my voyeurism for you right there. It’s been my perpetual difficulty because I’ve always been considered such an odd duck. Ian blocks you off so you open yourself up to me and I don’t want that to stop because I’m feeling something I’ve never felt before, something that I’d given up expecting to ever feel – something I assumed would always be impossible for me.”


    Blood flooded her face; she couldn’t speak. She was grateful for his calm. Was this something adults who’d just met could discuss? He kept his voice level and his eyes serious. “I put a curse on you by selling you that house. Sadly, you can’t have the money back.”


    She hadn’t been able to lighten the moment but he certainly could. She laughed to the point of tears.


    “In America, we call that “no backsies”, she said.


    “No backsies,” he agreed. “I’ve spent most of it anyway.”


    When she raised her eyebrows – he shared, “Debts. I bought an annuity with the rest. Keep a little money coming in.”


    So he was careful! A cautious, forward planning man. Ian was the one equating masculinity with carelessness, Ian, who enjoyed recklessness for its own sake. To such a man, thoughtful Pom seemed a “poofter.”


    Pom said, “So what are your plans, if I may ask?”


    “I’m going to confront him with what I’ve found,” she allowed. “We have to start telling each other the truth. So really it’s about what HE will do.”


    “Or?”


    She pulled away. He was too persistent.


    “There is no “or.”


    “I’ve got a lot riding on it,” he admitted.


    Once again, she was wrong. Pom was, in his own way, a reckless man.


    “I can’t go that far. Yet.”


    Truthfully, she had imagined so many possible scenarios. She wanted to pray, to hope, even to pretend. Anything rather than dwell upon the ugly possibilities. She knew she couldn’t live with a liar and continue to seek the truth in art. One of those devotions must be sacrificed. She had never imagined Pom stepping in to fill her husband’s place.


    He squeezed her hand. “Keep in contact,” he said. He stood up over their empty coffee cups.
    Their ride to the hotel was silent. She wondered if his mind was as busy as hers. He seemed to concentrate on the route.


    “Don’t come up,” she said at the hotel. “I can only repeat what a wonderful time I’ve had.”
    “Are you going back tomorrow?”


    She nodded. “First train.”


    “I’m driving down tomorrow night and I can give you a lift if you can wait.”


    She couldn’t wait. She couldn’t bear to be parted from Nick for an extra moment.


    “You won’t cut me off?” he requested anxiously.


    She was touched – a little scared – to have so much power over this wonderful man so recently encountered.


    “Of course not.”


    In the elevator, she reflected on the oddness of their exchange. What kind of man made overtures to a woman who had just borne a baby to another man? It made him sound so awful. She heard herself trying to explain to anybody – India perhaps – that he “wasn’t like that”. But where honesty and directness stopped and fantasy took over in either of their hearts and minds she really couldn’t say. She didn’t know him that well, and it was beginning to seem like she didn’t know herself either.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 20. A Date

    At the hotel salon, she had just enough time for a wash and set. She refused to let them cut her hair so Angelique swept it up into a stiff French roll that Scarlet knew would showcase her new dangly jet earrings to perfection. Angelique didn’t want money either; just her room number.


    “This is almost too wonderful,” thought Scarlet. “I definitely see why people claw at each other like crazed rats just to enter this world.” However, Angelique didn’t object to a tip.


    Scarlet stopped at the front desk for her parcels: “In your room, madam.”


    Well THAT was a bit creepy and unforeseen. She WAS a rube, fresh from the country. A “goober”, India would say. She didn’t care for the idea of strange men entering her room.


    Hopefully the bell captain watched while the parcels were unloaded – but if he delivered them himself, didn’t that mean that technically he had access to her room at any moment? Hotels were creepy! She could see that this attractive new world came with a side serving of helpless paranoia.

    If you expected to be waited on by anonymous people closely scrutinizing your behavior, wasn’t that like inviting permanent spies? Could the loss of privacy ever be worth it? wondered Scarlet. Already she missed her anonymous old free-wheeling self – independently setting herself up as a critic whom it would never be worth anyone’s time to criticize back.


    The idea for a play began to stir inside her – people following a treasure hunt finding terror instead and unable to warn the optimists still coming. Eyes glittering with an imagined future, like something out of a om painting – endless warnings but no one would listen! Hmmm.


    Ten minutes to change meant a “whore’s bath” in Ian’s unlovely terminology: just a once over at the sink. She hadn’t brought perfume but the hotel’s lavender and cucumber soap left a pleasant enough scent. She wore the brocade top and the long black velvet skirt – she wouldn’t need the merry widow for that – what a pity she hadn’t thought to purchase a new pair of gold high-heeled sandals. Her old black court pumps would just have to do.


    The phone rang: a gentleman awaited her in the lobby. The brocade top came with a matching evening bag – and once she had a room key and a handkerchief she didn’t really need anything else. That, she realized, was because she trusted Pom. He wasn’t a masher or a blackmailing cad – she felt certain he wouldn’t stand her up or strand her anywhere. On the other hand, if the hotel staff wandered in and out of her room at their pleasure, then she needed to add her coin purse and datebook, jut in order to feel confident nothing “truly Scarlet” had been left behind. Just another anonymous hotel room filled with a day’s shopping.


    Pom glowed with a fresh shave and a deep crimson tie set off by his dark suit; no paint stains in evidence. Funny, thought Scarlet, we each removed a layer of skin and donned unaccustomed finery to spend the evening together.


    “New outfit?” he inquired. “You look smashing.”


    The doorman opened the passenger door of his battered Dorset with a flourish and Scarlet climbed in.
    “I suppose you know what Thoreau said about new clothes,” she teased.


    “Thoreau?” He pronounced it “thorough.” “Your naturalist fellow?”


    “He was a philosopher. He said to beware enterprises requiring new clothes.”


    “I hope you don’t feel that it was truly a requirement,” drawled Pom. “Certainly not by me. You know, we English also have a philosopher: Keats.”


    “Oh, and what did he remark?”


    “That beauty is its own excuse for being.”


    No doorman at Luigi’s, the dark little restaurant in Soho whose shrimp scampi came so highly recommended.


    They shared a dark booth, a bottle of chianti and an antipasto salad. Scarlet ate with an appetite.

    She supposed any comment about the depthless hunger of breastfeeding Moms would dampen the conversation. Just thinking about Nick made her breasts leak. Perhaps she wouldn’t dry up after all.
    “Is there anything I should know about this film?”


    “No,” said Pom. “Hitchcock introduces the problem very elegantly. A fresh mind is all that’s required.”


    “But that’s a lot,” said Scarlet. “Then tell me about the first time you saw it.”


    “And the only time. Let’s see: it was two years ago – I just happened on it at The Rialto. The picture of James Stewart with a telephoto camera was intriguing. I think I assumed it was about blackmail, gangsters – you know, typical American. Then I saw the wheelchair.” He grimaced. “You’re tricking me into giving away the plot.”


    “I’m not trying to. It’s just hard to get you to talk about yourself.”


    “That’s a very English quality. I think we’re raised to be self-deprecating and make fun of ourselves.”


    Not Ian, thought Scarlet. He always said no one toots your horn if you’re too shy. Maybe it was a class thing. But she certainly didn’t want to discuss her husband tonight.


    “But ask me anything about cricket, shooting, or the ancient Greeks and Romans,” Pom continued. “The joke’s on my parents who spent all their assets qualifying me for a club I don’t care to join. Quantum ille canis in fenestra?”


    “Family motto?”


    “I suppose it ought to be. How much is that doggy in the window is what it really means.”


    Scarlet burst out laughing. “You can see I’m deficient in dead languages.”


    “They’re dead for a reason. There’s a credible theory that the English became great conquering explorers just to get away from their bad weather, repellant nannies and disapproving headmasters.”


    “I heard something about the pursuit of sunlight. Warm weather.”


    “Sadly, it seems we carry our inner darkness with us. All this “white men’s burden” stuff was really about trying to make seemingly happy people as miserable as we were.”


    “I love your iconoclastic approach to history,” said Scarlet. “Learning iconoclasm is Artist’s Job #1 in my book.”


    “Amen. How else could the whole colonial adventure have gone so horribly wrong? They gave us so much and we gave them so little. Sterno-flavored tea and cricket paddles explains everything.”
    The scampi was worth waiting for. The shrimp were tiny, but encrusted with garlic and pecorino like so many little nuts.


    “This is divine,” gasped Scarlet. “But I’m afraid I’m going to reek. What if they refuse to allow us into a public place?”


    “This is Soho,” Pom explained. “Everyone in the theatre will have dined on garlic and onions.”
    If they had, Scarlet wouldn’t be able to tell, but of course that was the wickedness of garlic.


    The film was unexpectedly funny. Scarlet had expected something very dark and shocking but it was in full color and seemed to focus around an entire apartment house of fascinating relationships.


    “Like an ant farm,” she whispered to Pom, but his, “Pardon?” seemed to suggest this was just another incomprehensible American reference.


    “We used to get ant farms for Christmas,” she explained as the credits rolled. “Dirt encased in glass. You watched ants digging tunnels and rushing their little eggs around.”


    “Sounds awful,” said Pom. “I was spared American excitements. It was all nuts, oranges and socks for the likes of us. I think I got a compass one year.”


    They were silent until they found themselves sitting in the Dorset on the way to her hotel.


    “So what did you think of the film?”


    Her mind was bursting with complex impressions.


    “Could we stop at a coffee bar? This is going to take some time to hash out fully.”

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 19. Acquisitions

    “I’m certain you’ll like this one,” said Jane as both women drove in Jane’s Ford Anglia toward Hampstead Heath, “No garden but such a view! It’s a second floor maisonette – two whole floors with a bit of a balcony. Lots of room, considering it’s a London flat. Be honest if you take against it – I’ve got four other possibilities – it’s just that this is the one with the most space.”
    The yellow stone-faced outside bore a plaque honoring the building – or at least the location – as one of William Blake’s London residences.


    “Promising augury for poets,” said Scarlet, resolved to love the place and get this over with.
    “Of course!” agreed Jane, who clearly had never noticed the plaque before. Possibly a disorganized, half-crazed ancient mystic was not the type her usual clientele yearned to emulate. “So, you write, too?”


    “I’ve been a bit absorbed in the baby,” said Scarlet. “But I have hopes.”


    The entrance was cramped and unphotogenic– obstructed as it was by dustbins – and the narrow staircase was clearly impossible for prams.


    “Furniture comes in through the windows,” said Jane, and when Scarlet commented, “Like Holland” she agreed, “As you say.”


    Jane was too agreeable – it was beginning to make Scarlet’s skin crawl. What would Jane would say if a male client asked to squeeze her knockers? “As you say?” Or is that just my cynicism, Scarlet wondered. Have my husband’s predilections ruined my temperament?


    After the hard work of stair climbing they stepped into a lovely, light filled flat, large as promised, with a full bathroom on each floor. Scarlet wanted it at once. The kitchen was miniature with the usual unacceptable Stone Age English appliances – but there was a bedroom off it – “Servant quarters” according to Jane – which would do for an au pair. Scarlet fantasized that if you got rid of the huge Victorian bathtub and installed a shower instead the downstairs bath could contain a modern washing machine. Three large reception rooms, and upstairs three big-windowed bedrooms. Off the largest bedroom was a tiny balcony with room only for a pair of chairs but with a glorious view all across London.


    “We’ll take it,” said Scarlet and Jane crowed with satisfaction, “I thought you might.”
    There was nothing to sign and no mention of money.


    “We need Margalo to negotiate with the builders,” said Jane, “She’ll tell them what’s what. I’ll give her the green light, shall I?”


    “How lovely,” sighed Scarlet. Was this what spending was like for rich people? Minions took care of all details, while your sole obligation was to consult your pleasure.
    “Shall I drop you at your hotel?” queried Jane.


    “No,” said Scarlet. “Montcalm Ladies’ Clothiers.” She couldn’t say, “I have a date.” And after all, wasn’t shopping what ladies were expected to do when they came up from the country? Scarlet needed London clothes for her new London life.


    “I can find it,” Jane said confidently.


    Two suits, two cocktail dresses, a long black velvet skirt and a brocade gold top were what Montcalm Clothiers’ fashion wizard Stella told Scarlet she would require, and Scarlet quite agreed. Two tweed suits – for town and country – thrown into the bargain. Scarlet sat on a miniature Louis Quinze sofa, accepted a cup of weak China tea (no milk, sugar or lemon) and watched a parade of garments. The dark blue chiffon cocktail dress made her heart beat fast but, “I don’t think I have a waist yet,” she sighed.


    “Nonsense,” said Stella brusquely, “Where would any of us be without our corsets?” And she produced a buff and black merry widow complete with stocking suspenders. “Give it a try.”
    It worked.


    Stella said, “We don’t sell proper jewelry here, just a few outfit-finishing costume pieces but nothing better instructs a man what to give for Christmas and birthday when he contemplates the shortcomings of your jewel box.”


    So that’s how it’s done, thought Scarlet. Clever girls!


    A brooch, a necklace and a wonderful pair of dangly jet earrings were consequently chosen.

    Scarlet felt most important. No mention of Margalo here – but merely – “Would you like to open an account? We need a few items of personal information.”


    These included references. Scarlet gave Margalo and both the London and Oakhampton bank managers.


    “Shall we bill the country or town home?” Stella was good. She was almost as good as Jane but, because she was older and consequently wore a lot more makeup the tension lines around her lips gave her away.


    “The town home,” said Scarlet, “We’re not moving into the London flat till February 1st.”
    Stella’s face relaxed and she purred like a kitten as she took down the address. “Wyvern House” did sound quite chi-chi.


    “Shall I send these along to your hotel?”


    “Will there be delivery by five?” asked Scarlet and when reassured, gave her address. Mentioning the Cumberland seemed to seal – not queer – the deal.

  • Devoured Heart – romantic suspense by Alysse Aallyn

    Chapter 18 – In the Mews

    It was a mews flat – small and tucked away above a car barn.


    “You can’t seem to get away from the auto motif,” was Scarlet’s comment as she climbed the steep stairs.


    “I do keep my vehicle downstairs,” said Pom, “So it’s right handy.”


    It was a cute little space elegantly furnished with modern Scandinavian fittings. Tiny bedroom, tiny bath, a kitchen separated from the lounge by a polished wooden pub top.


    “Looks like the only wine available is burgundy,” he said as he uncorked it. “I was cooking boeuf bourguignon last night. Or trying to.”


    Scarlet readily accepted a glass. “You cook?”


    “I’m taking a cookery class. Let’s say I wish I cooked. I hate interrupting my work to travel out for forage. Ideally, I’d like a big pot au feu I can dip into, but it needs to taste like something other than burned. I see you’ve got the roses back in your cheeks. Ready for the studio?”


    She averred that she was ready. The studio was a big empty room on the other side of the stairs – well lit by skylights. Canvases were stacked against the walls and a big unfinished one hung from the ceiling. Pom slung a tarp over it.


    “I can’t bear comments before I’m ready,” he said. “I’m sadly impressionable. I always end up seeing it their way, get completely derailed and end up with a buggered mess.”


    He tossed some drawings aside and spread the portfolio open on a paint stained table.


    She studied the picture before her. The paintings she had previously seen were all about color – these were different. Black and white with a slash of red.


    “It’s like… an eye.”


    “Yes. Reflections.”


    He leafed through the collection slowly. She wasn’t sure she liked them so she didn’t know what to say.


    “I know,” he said. “My abstracts are a lot more popular. I suppose your husband’s money – your money – has given me the courage to risk rank unpopularity. I’ve always been rather ashamed of my brushwork so I’m attempting to evolve. Using my palette knife more. I’m playing with – not needing beauty. With … whatever’s the opposite of beauty.”


    “They’re scary,” she said finally. Who would have guessed! So unlike his social presentation.
    He zipped up the portfolio. “I’ll accept that,” he agreed. “Life has a decidedly dark side.”


    “Doesn’t it,” she agreed. “When did you…evolve?”


    “Truthfully, you had something to do with it.”


    Was he blushing? He seemed to be studying her face, looking at her hungrily, as a portraitist looks. Suddenly she regretted the good lighting.


    “Lady Scarlet to the Dark Tower Came,” he said softly. “You’ve instigated a good many of my sleepless nights.”


    She quivered. She couldn’t face it – turned to flee.


    “I don’t know what’s happening,” she said when he grabbed her shoulders.


    “I find it’s best to wait storms out,” he suggested. They stood quietly for a moment. “Then assess the damage. If you’re staying in town, there’s a Hitchcock movie I’d like to see again.”


    “Really? Which one?”


    “Rear Window.”


    “Haven’t seen it.”


    “Then you should. What’s your favorite meal?”


    “Shrimp scampi. Are you going to try to cook it?”


    “I most certainly am not. But I do know the perfect Soho restaurant with exactly that specialty. Now you will experience the pleasures of running a car in town.”


    “As long,” she said, “As the car doesn’t run you.”


    “Touché.” They smiled at each other, relaxed into complete understanding. Somehow the dreadful moment had been averted. She wants…she doesn’t want… how could Scarlet explain herself to herself, let alone anyone else?


    “Now let’s see – where’s this estate agent?” He studied the card. “That’s almost Kensal Green. Let’s check you into the hotel and then I’ll run you over.”


    She didn’t argue. When the English said, they would run you over they offered a favor, not a traffic accident. She trusted him more each minute. His company felt like a benison.


    Why was she so completely certain “everything would work out?” The confidence Pom lent her must surely be misplaced. Squarely faced, the facts were bad. Ian had a girlfriend – that was terrible enough. Worse, he had met her in a London hotel. And when he came home, he was not interested in sex with his wife. Could she ever get the old Ian back? Did she want him?


    She stepped thoughtfully into Pom’s 1950 Austin Dorset two-seater. The bucket seats were so low it was as if they sat directly on the road.


    “Do I get goggles with this thing?” she queried.


    Pom laughed as she tied up her hair.


    The Cumberland was huge, impersonal. They seemed unconcerned about single ladies. No one cared that she had only a dressing case, and no one watched Pom carry it to her room.
    “I’m not tipping you,” she said.


    “Yes, you are,” he insisted. “By coming to dinner with me. It will have to be early because of the film. Six o’clock?”


    Could she choose a flat in four hours? How could she still contemplate a London flat? Yet one seemed preferable to The Dark Tower she realized. It functioned as some kind of promise that she wouldn’t be abandoned in the country with a baby while her husband swanned about ordering room service.


    She was ten minutes late to the estate agent’s, but as Pom had insisted, estate agents don’t care. After all, it was only young Jane Lumley and her very elderly father who seemed more like her grandfather. Jane was fresh, pretty, a real English rose. Scarlet looked at her sadly with Ian’s eyes.

    Was there any girl left in the universe whom she could trust her husband not to desire?