THE BLOOMING OF JOHN MUSGRAVE
by
Robert Burke
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Robert Burke on Smashwords
The Blooming of John Musgrave
Copyright © 2010 by Robert Burke
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THE blooming of john musgrave
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Friday, March 3rd:
It’s not easy being an internationally renowned bestselling crime novelist.
Yes, I know I should be grateful. And I know what it’s like to struggle. But after all these years, I feel like just another cog – albeit a large one – in the Manley Spencer machine, churning out another in the line of adventures of Detective Inspector Richard Steele. Forget about literary merit; meeting projected sales targets and lining shareholders’ pockets seems to be all that matters.
They’re just about to publish my latest effort, yet Mark Edwards is already asking when I’m going to start on the next one. But I need a break. I want to get away from D.I. Steele for a while, even if he has served me well over the years. I’ve run out of ideas for him if the truth be told. Call it writer’s block. Maybe that’s why I’ve been feeling so uptight lately; well, more uptight than usual. I’ve started to feel the urge – no, the need – to turn my hand to a different genre. Something more literary ... a romantic epic, perhaps? Who am I kidding; what the hell do I know about romance and relationships?
It feels good to rant though, to get it all down on paper. So I’ve started to keep this diary. It might help flex the creative muscles; maybe provide some inspiration. Not that there’s much variation in my daily routine to write about: I mean, how many ways are there to say Got up, had breakfast, wrote two thousand words before lunch, spent the afternoon gardening ... ?
It could turn out to be a pretty dull read.
****
Edwards rang this afternoon.
“Just thought I’d give you a call to fill you in on the details for the book launch.”
“Great.”
“Look, I know you’re not a fan of these things, but they’re a necessary evil as you know. At least you’ll be glad to hear you won’t have to travel too far. We’re going to have it in Temple Bar. We’ve got a contingent of literary editors and social diarists flying in from London, as well as the usual Manley Spencer publicists and PR people. Get them all beered up on Guinness and everyone will have a great old time.”
I took a deep breath. “Just answer me this,” I said. “Is David Lenihan being invited?”
A pause. “I think you know the answer to that, John. He is the foremost literary critic in Ireland. It would be strange not to.”
“Even though he’s savaged every book I’ve ever written?”
Edwards’ tone became more authoritative. “You don’t do yourself any favours either, John. If you want to get onside with these guys then you’ve got to play their game. Socialise. Mingle. Talk to them. Let them see that you’re an okay guy. They’ll be less inclined to give a guy a bad review after they’ve spent an evening getting pissed with him.”
“I don’t care what Lenihan or any of his kind thinks of me,” I snorted. “Let them write what they want.”
“I’m just trying to help, John. Your invite is in the post. It’s got all the details. Talk to you soon.”
I shuddered, and put the phone down. These damned book launches. The thought of being cooped up in a room full of simpering, sycophantic backslappers for a whole evening fills me with the kind of dread usually reserved for dental appointments.
And with Lenihan there ... as old Dick Steele might say: something’s bound to happen and I know it’s not going to be good.
Saturday, March 4th:
Josephine called by today. She sauntered into the front room, dressed stylishly as ever in a green silk top with tight-fitting black cardigan and jeans. She flopped down on my sofa, bottle of wine in hand.
“Make yourself at home,” I said.
“Here, uncork that. It’s a nice Lebanese red I picked up on my way over.”
I brought in two wine glasses from the kitchen. “So. How’ve you been?”
“Fantastic,” she said as I poured. “I just had a tarot reading today. She couldn’t say when, but the fortune teller told me that there’s going to be a big change for the better in my love life.”
“I’m delighted for you,” I said dryly. Typical Josephine: ever the hopeless romantic and buying into all that astrology crap.
She took a sip from her wine. “What’s happening with you?”
I told her about the conversation with Mark Edwards.
She curled up on the sofa. “I love those gigs. You never know who you might meet. They’re fun.”
I screwed up my face. “You must be kidding. Having to mingle and schmooze with those dreadful industry types? I can’t think of anything more awful.”
“Don’t be such a killjoy,” Josephine said. “It’ll be fine. Why don’t you actually make up your mind to go along and enjoy one of these things for once?”
“Enjoy listening to tiresome publicists’ speeches and munching on soggy vol-au-vents? I don’t think so.”
“Oh, lighten up!” she spluttered, taking her glass from her mouth. “Look, if it will make you feel any better, I’ll even come along and keep you company. How about that?”
“Well, I suppose it would help make the blasted thing more bearable, at least.”
“That’s settled, then,” she said with a grin. “Looking forward to it.”
She settled back into the sofa. Suddenly, I froze in horror as I noticed the drop of red wine trickle down the side of her glass, along the stem, towards the base, and – no doubt about it – heading for the spotless cream upholstery of my sofa. I had to lunge into action. While simultaneously reaching for a drip mat, I swiped the glass from Josephine’s hand and placed it gently on the coaster on my coffee table.
“That was a little too close for comfort,” I said, exhaling deeply with relief.
Josephine looked at me, frowning disapprovingly. “Really, John, you’re so infuriating sometimes. Do you treat all your guests like that?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, wiping the glass with a clean handkerchief before handing it back to her, “I don’t have that many guests.”
“I wonder why,” she said, slowly lifting her glass to her pouting lips.
Monday, March 13th:
I called over to my parents’ place for dinner this evening. I walked the half mile to the house to find my father crouched down and poking his trowel into the ground, probably digging holes for bedding plants or something.
He glanced at his watch on seeing me, wrinkling his forehead. “You’re late.”
He stood up slowly, rubbing his knees, running his hands through his thinning grey hair. His face seems more leathery and weather-beaten every time I see him. I’d suggest he wear a hat and sun block, if he ever listened to me.
I walked into the dining room where Liam sat slouched at the table. He looked at me with bleary eyes through his dishevelled fringe, his face as pale as the tablecloth.
“You look like you had a good night,” I said.
“Don’t you start,” he growled, rubbing his temples. “I feel like I’ve got a head full of chimps with jackhammers.”
Mum breezed in from the kitchen, bearing a large steaming dish in her oven-gloved hands. “John! Sit yourself down there. I’ve made some casserole. You like casserole, don’t you?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her “no” – again.
We sat down and began to eat.
“It’s too hot,” Dad snapped, blowing on his forkful.
Mum scowled at him before turning towards me.
“You must send me a copy of your new book, John. I can’t wait to read it.”
“Another crime thingy, is it?” said Dad. “Surprised anyone still wants to read that aul’ guff.”
I ignored his comment and concentrated instead on picking out the chunks of celery and moving them to the side of my plate. I turned to Mum. “So when are you going to start writing again? You haven’t written anything in years.”
“Oh,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “where would I find the time?”
“Don’t be daft,” I said. “You could write a short story or something. Enter it in a competition. I’m sure it would do well.”
“Maybe,” she said, with a wistful expression. Finding the time isn’t the problem, I’m sure; finding the confidence to do it probably is.
She turned to Liam, absent-mindedly pushing his food around his plate with his fork.
“How is your job going, Liam?”
“What job?” he grunted.
Mum frowned. “The job in the insurance company.”
“I packed it in. The hours they expected me to work were too long.”
“Interfering too much with your social life, more like,” Dad snorted. “Do you know how many contacts I went through to get you that job? How are you ever going to be able to support yourself, flitting from one thing to the other?”
Liam shrugged. “It wasn’t for me. I just have to find something that is.”
Dad was beginning to turn purple now. “Well, when you do, be sure and let us know.”
His two deadbeat sons. We really are a credit to him.
I got up from the table to leave.
“Are you going already?” asked Mum. “You’ve hardly eaten a thing.”
“It’s okay, Mum, I’m not hungry. I had a big lunch.”
“Won’t you have dessert? It’s sherry trifle.”
“Again?” said Dad, rolling his eyes.
“No, really. I’d better be going. Try and get some writing done.”
I went to use the bathroom before I left. It was while I was looking for a fresh bar of soap in the cabinet that the little white box fell out.
The box with Lexapro written on it.
Mum saw me to the front door. I opened it, paused, and turned to her.
“Mum ... are you okay?”
She looked at me, quizzical and defensive at the same time. “Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“It’s just ... I noticed the meds in the bathroom.” Her expression fell. “Are you back on them again?”
She sighed. “Look, don’t worry about me. The doctor prescribed them because I was feeling a little down lately, that’s all. It’s just to get me through things for a while.”
“It’s not medication you need. You should get out more. Take up an interest. Get back to your writing.”
“Sure what’s the point? Nothing much happens in my life. What would I write about?”
“I think it would help. You never seem depressed when you’re writing. Only when you stop.”
She waved dismissively. “Don’t be worrying about me, now. I’m fine! Don’t I look fine?”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “You take care.”
I walked home, troubled. I tried to work on my manuscript for a while, but it was no use. My storyline seems incongruous, the characters not fully fleshed out, not quite real.
I wish I could get some inspiration from somewhere.
Thursday, March 16th:
The evening of the dreaded book launch. The knot of anxiety in my stomach grew as I got ready. The thought of facing into a room full of people with all eyes on me, made me want to crawl under my bed and cower there for the evening. Still, I’d made an effort and had a relaxing bath in the afternoon, which helped a bit. But not much.
I pulled out my corduroy jacket from the back of the wardrobe. It smelled a little musty but I supposed it would do. I splashed on some aftershave, and peered self-consciously in the mirror. I winced at the bags beginning to appear under the eyes, the crow’s feet. I combed my hair back, noticing how it was starting to thin back from the forehead, and the appearance of the odd grey hair.
I took a sharp intake of breath.
“Come on Musgrave, what are you afraid of? This is your night. Get out there and face those people and be a man for once in your life”. I could hear the sound of a car horn outside; the taxi had arrived. I patted my hair, straightened my jacket and headed down the stairs, but not before checking every room to make sure I hadn’t left any lights on or windows open.
“Where ya off ta, bud?” the driver asked as I sat into the car.
“Temple Bar, please.”
“Right you are,” he said, and off we went.
We weren’t far down the road when a thought suddenly occurred to me.
“Sorry, driver,” I said, leaning forward in the back seat, “I’m afraid we’ll have to go back.”
“Go back?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
He grunted and shook his head in annoyance.
“It’s on the meter, but.”
“That’s fine by me.”
Pulling up back outside the house, I dashed inside and into the sitting room. There, sitting on the ironing board, was the iron I’d used earlier on my clean shirt; thankfully though, I had unplugged it after all.
I hopped back into the car. “That’s fine, we can go now.”
The driver didn’t speak another word for the whole journey, not that I was in the mood for a discussion about politicians or immigrants or whatever else these guys usually rant on about. But my sense of imminent dread increased the closer we got to my destination.
I found the launch venue: an art gallery tucked away in a side street off the cobbled thoroughfare of Temple Bar itself. Of course it was only when I got there that I realised that the following day was St Patrick’s Day, so I had to negotiate my way through hordes of drunken louts staggering along the streets and past pools of vomit in the process. Wonderful.
At the entrance I was confronted with a huge cardboard mock-up of the cover of my new book, the first time I’d seen it. It had the title – Dead Centre - emblazoned on the front in metallic letters, with a garish picture of a corpse on the ground, blood seeping out from under the sheet covering it into a pool represented by an embossed red blob. It also had a tagline below it: This Time It’s Personal, presumably a reference to the fact that the victim is D.I. Steele’s brother. Honestly, who is paid to come up with this dreadful stuff? Not that I’m ever consulted on these matters. No wonder the critics hate my work; they probably gag before they even get to read the first page. Still, the stuff sells, so what do I know?
Inside, a few flunkies stood around, helping themselves to the complimentary drinks. Mark Edwards rushed over on seeing me, looking so delighted that you’d think he’d just won the lottery.
“John! Great to see you.” he said, pumping my arm like a piston. “Come on. There are some people here I’d like you to meet.”
Before I knew it he’d whisked me over and introduced me to a bunch of publicists and marketing people from Manley Spencer. I managed a weak smile for them; I mean I was trying my best, I really was. They all gushed about how fantastic they thought the book was, how much they all loved it, how it was sure to outsell all the others. I’m sure they hoped it would anyway, since it all helps keep them in their well-paid jobs. I wondered how many of them had actually read the thing.
When they’d finished with their sycophantic platitudes, I decided I needed a drink to help settle my nerves. A waiter passed by and I took a glass of red wine from his tray; I immediately returned it on noticing a grubby thumbprint on it, and took another - unblemished - one instead.
Josephine arrived, dressed in a low-cut green sequined dress. I could tell she’d had a new hairstyle for the occasion; her normal shoulder-length brown hair had a tint of red through it, and it looked pretty sharp. I could see a few heads turn in her direction when she entered.
“Thank God you’re here,” I said, relieved to see her. “I could do with a friend to talk to.”
“You’ve got a good turnout,” she remarked, casting her eyes around the room, no doubt scanning it for eligible men. She’s a good-looking woman, I suppose; she can have her pick. So it always amazes me how many prize duds she’s managed to choose over the years.
“Oh look, I see David Lenihan is here,” she gushed. And sure enough, there he was, holding court to a group of fawning women, with his floppy dyed-blonde hair and toilet-bowl-white teeth, and a suntan as fake as his personality.
“That leech,” I swallowed another mouthful of wine in disgust. “I can’t believe he’s had the gall to turn up after all he’s written about me.”
“Don’t let it get to you,” Josephine said. “I know he’s given you some negative reviews in the past, but not everyone is going to like your work. Anyway, tonight’s your chance to chat to him, have a bit of banter. He might even turn out to be an all-right guy.”
I nearly choked on my drink. “You must be kidding,” I said. “Suck up to that sad hack? You’re beginning to sound like Mark Edwards now.”
Josephine drained her glass. “That’s the way the industry works. That’s the way any industry works,” she said.
“I have my principles,” I said, “and I’m sticking to them.”
“Your principles won’t sell books,” she shrugged. “Anyway, I’m off to do some mingling. Catch you later.”
With that she hurried off into the throng, leaving me to fend for myself once more. At this point it would be fair to say that I felt pretty downcast about the whole affair, and wondered if I should just slip out unnoticed and go home.
“These launches, they can be such tedious affairs, don’t you think?” A tall slender woman, with long strands of wavy dark hair, stood next to me. Her accent, at a guess, was Eastern European.
I paused before responding. “I agree,” I said nodding my head. “Quite tedious.”
“And this wine,” she said, screwing up her face in disgust at the glass in her hand. “Pah! Why must they always serve such terrible wine on these occasions?”
She had a point. It tasted as if it had been dredged up from the bottom of the E.U. wine lake - if such a thing actually exists - and strained through an old sock.
“Once again, I couldn’t agree more,” I said.
She was on a roll now. “And who is this man, John Musgrave? I am not familiar with his work. I believe he writes crime fiction, but I do not read such dreadful trash.”
I cleared my throat. “Actually, I’m John Musgrave,” I said, slightly miffed.
She burst out laughing at that. “Oh! You must excuse my manner. I must offer my apologies, please. I hope I have not offended you.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “There are plenty of people in this room with a lower opinion of me than that.”
She offered me her elegant hand. “I am Anna Stilerova. I also am a writer. I come from the Czech Republic but I live in London; so much more cosmopolitan.” She held me in the gaze of her piercing, ice-blue eyes. “I came to Dublin to promote my latest book. Since I also am published by Manley Spencer I was invited to this event while I was in town, so I thought: why not?”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand. She smiled at me, revealing a row of even teeth. I tried to think of some conversation to make. “So. What types of books do you write?”
“Erotic fiction,” she said. “I write of the human spirit; attraction between the sexes; the physical side of relationships; our deepest sexual desires.”
I flushed. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your work,” I said, “or with that entire genre, really.”
“It is a shame,” she sighed. “There is much to learn from such writings. It would give you such insight into the female soul.” She narrowed her eyes and gazed into mine. “You would like to know more about the workings of the mind of a woman, would you not, John Musgrave?”
“Well,” I said, slightly alarmed at the direction the conversation had taken at this stage, “I’m always willing to be ... educated.”
She flashed me a satisfied smile. “Very good! I like a man who is broad-minded and open to new experiences.” She took another sip from her glass of wine and winced. “Uch! Such piss!” she sneered, and poured the contents of the glass into a nearby potted plant. I couldn’t blame her, I suppose, but I thought it wouldn’t do the plant much good.
I heard a few muffled thumps and realised that Mark Edwards had stepped up to the lectern, and was tapping on the microphone. He began to speak.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “If I can have your attention for just one moment.” The general hubbub began to subside. “Thank you all for coming this evening. I know some of you have travelled from far afield to be here. Well, I hope the famed Irish hospitality has made it worthwhile.” The remark elicited a few whoops and cheers.
“But of course, the reason we’re here tonight is to mark the launch of another book - Dead Centre - from our esteemed author, John Musgrave. And in true Musgrave style, a rollicking good read it is too.” The crowd politely applauded.
“So, without further ado, I’d like invite John himself to come up and say a few words. John!” People started to clap and, to my horror, Edwards beckoned for me to step up to the lectern. I started to cross my hands frantically and shook my head to indicate that I had no intention of speaking in front of everybody. But he was insistent.
“Go on, John,” Josephine said, suddenly appearing behind me and shoving me in the back. “Get up there!”
“You must be joking,” I said in exasperation.
But what was I to do? I didn’t have much of a choice at that stage, what with the general clamour for me to speak. I took a great swig of wine and trudged up to the microphone.
I gaped at all of the expectant faces staring in my direction. I froze with panic. I remembered that my father once said if I ever found myself in such a situation to simply imagine the audience in their underwear. Unfortunately, at that moment I spotted Anna Stilerova; and imagining her in her underwear made me feel uncomfortably aroused.
“Em, thank you, I guess,” I started, fumbling for words. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking – ”
The audience began to laugh. I felt the need to clarify. “No, seriously, I am unaccustomed to public speaking.” The laughter suddenly stopped. I felt beads of sweat forming on my forehead. “Anyway, where was I? Yes, the book. Another one in a long line. More to come. Maybe.” The puzzled expressions just made me more nervous. “I hope some people will enjoy it. Maybe not everyone in the room, I suppose, but that won’t bother me.” I could hear the murmur of people beginning to talk amongst themselves. “Some have come to bury me, not praise me, so Shakespeare said, or something like that.” I scratched the back of my head. “Well, that’s all I have to say, really. Enjoy the night. If not the book.”
I stepped down from the stand to the sound of feedback from the microphone. There was a moment’s pause before a few people began to clap mutedly, eventually joined by the others. I was just glad it was over and grabbed another drink from a tray.
“Well done, John,” Edwards said, patting me unenthusiastically on the back. “That was ... different.”
“Don’t ever put me through something like that again,” I said, taking a gulp from my glass.
David Lenihan took the opportunity to come by to gloat.
“Well, John, what can we expect from your latest blockbuster? Any dramatic changes in style from your previous œuvres?”
“Yes,” I sneered. “This one has a built-in literary critic repellent. Any hostile reviewer who reads it will suffer an allergic reaction, and die instantly.”
He laughed mockingly. “Such a sharp sense of humour,” he said. “Pity it doesn’t come across in your work. Anyway, I look forward to reviewing it.”
“You might manage a second star this time, instead of your usual one,” I said sarcastically.
He didn’t reply, merely leered at me and slithered off, practically leaving a trail of slime in his wake.
Anna sidled up to me. “I like the way you speak,” she purred. “Your voice, it is so very sexy.”
“Sexy?” I spluttered in disbelief. “Nobody’s ever described it like that before.”
“Oh, but it is!” she insisted. “You are too modest.” She glanced at her watch. “It is getting late. I must go now. I stay at the Hilton for some few more days. It is a pleasure to meet you, John Musgrave. I hope your book sells well.”
“I hope yours does too,” I said as I shook her hand. “Nice to have met you.” And with that, she floated out of the room and was gone.
I felt sorry that she had left; I had certainly enjoyed talking with her. There was something about her; she was intelligent, opinionated, and – dare I say it – sexy.
After that, there really wasn’t much else to hang around for. A few people wandered by to shake my hand and I offered random inanities in response. I took another sip from my glass of wine. I had a look around for Josephine. And there she was in a far corner of the room, in the process of examining David Lenihan’s tonsils with her tongue. I couldn’t believe it; of all the people in the room to choose from, him! Such an act of betrayal! That really was the final straw, and I decided I’d had enough. I grabbed my jacket from the cloak room and went outside to make my way home.
I jostled my way through the crowds, managing to hail a taxi on Dame Street. I gave the driver my destination, and we were on our way.
The driver was listening to a talk show on the radio: one of those dreadful programmes where irate listeners with nothing better to do ring in to rant on about whatever random topic happens to be on their minds. On this particular show, two people were arguing over whether to put their tea or their milk in the cup first. Personally, I’d plump for tea first, but I hardly think it warrants a discussion on live radio.
“Excuse me, driver,” I said, “but would you mind tuning in to Classic Radio instead?”
He looked askance at me over his shoulder. “You’re the boss, mate,” he huffed, as he turned the dial through the stations until the soothing sounds of Beethoven came drifting out of the speakers, carrying me to my home and my solitary bedroom.
Friday, March 17th:
St Patrick’s Day: the national holiday. Rather than indulge in the traditional pursuit of watching the parade followed by an afternoon of binge drinking in a pub, I just stayed at home and worked on my novel instead.
Josephine rang in the evening.
“You’re not going to see that awful Lenihan man again, I hope,” I said to her. “Please tell me last night was a once-off.”
“I kind of like him,” she said, giggling like a love-struck schoolgirl. “We’ll see how it goes. You shouldn’t worry about what he’s written about your books in the past, it’s nothing personal.”
I decided not to press her on the matter. The more you try to convince Josephine to do something, the more likely she is to do the complete opposite, just out of pure rebelliousness.
“Anyway, enough about me,” she continued. “You seemed to be getting on quite well with that Polish writer woman last night.”
“If you mean Anna, she’s Czech,” I corrected her.
“Well, whatever her nationality, are you going to see her again?” she asked.
I became defensive. “Well, she’s only in town for a few days, so what’s the point? And who says she’d want to meet up with me anyway?”
“Sounds like you’d like to, though,” Josephine said, teasing me. “Do you know where she’s staying?”
“She told me she’s staying at the Hilton.”
“There you go, then. Why do you think she told you that? Go on, give her a call.”
“All right, maybe,” I said, not wishing to be drawn on the matter any further. “Maybe I’ll ring her later.”
Josephine was appeased. “Do,” she said.
I changed the subject. “Are you up to anything yourself this evening?” I asked.
“I’ve invited David around to my place for dinner. We’ll probably watch the fireworks from the balcony.” There was a mischievous pause. “And maybe we’ll have our own fireworks inside later.”
I shuddered. “Spare me the details,” I said.
Later, following much procrastination and hand-wringing, I looked up the phone number for the Hilton. My finger hovered hesitantly over the ‘dial’ button before I took a deep breath and pressed it. The phone began to ring and, after having to convince the reluctant receptionist of my bona fides, I was put through to Anna’s room.
“John Musgrave! You have called. How are you?”
“I’m, em, not too bad,” I replied nervously. “And you?”
“I am well, thank you,” she replied.
I decided to get straight to the point. “I was ... just wondering if you’d like to meet again before you leave Dublin? I mean, only if you have time, that is.”
She chuckled. “I would like that,” she said. “But tonight I must appear on one of your television chat shows - The Late Late Show, I think it is called? - and tomorrow morning I leave again for London.”
I immediately felt disheartened, but tried not to show it. “Oh. That’s a shame. Well, not to worry. It was just ... well, I was just hoping you might be able to give me some advice on a manuscript I’m working on at the moment.”
She thought for a moment. “I do not have any appointments in London for some days. I could ring the airline and change my flight, stay for an extra day and meet you tomorrow.”
I felt a tingle of excitement. “You’d do that? But only if it’s not too much trouble.”
“It is not trouble to me,” she said.
“Well, that would be great. I could meet you in the hotel bar, maybe? Say at eight?”
“I look forward to it. I will see you then, John Musgrave.”
I put the phone down with a mixture of relief and mild elation. Motivated by a new sense of urgency, I sat back down to my writing. The words just seemed to flow effortlessly. It was as if I was a conduit through which some cosmic stream of consciousness was being channelled onto the page. By the time I’d finished I’d produced a prolific three thousand words. I felt quite pleased with myself, and eager to show Anna what I’d produced. Afterwards, I poured myself a nice glass of Pinot Noir and stretched out on the sofa just in time to tune into The Late Late Show.
After first having to endure some awful dirge of a pop song by some new boy band or other, Pat Kenny began to introduce the first guest. When he announced Anna Stilerova’s name she swept into the studio to warm applause, looking stunning in a thigh-length red dress, revealing the toned curve of her long legs as she sat down. She proceeded to charm Pat by commenting on how handsome he looked - to his blushes - and began to take control of the proceedings, brushing aside his banal questions about her book with some rather racy anecdotes of her life and times. The audience lapped it up, laughing and clapping on cue. Eventually, Pat woke up to what was happening, and began to probe her further.
“So, have you met any interesting Irish men since you got here? What do you think of them?” he asked.
“Oh yes. I like Irish men very much. Especially that sexy Irish accent. It does something to me,” Anna replied. Some of the men in the audience wolf-whistled and cheered. “I would like an Irish boyfriend, I think. Maybe I will find one before I leave.”
Well, that comment nearly brought the house down. It left me wondering how many Irish men besides me she was likely to meet before leaving the country, or whether she was just playing to the gallery like the professional interviewee she clearly was.
Saturday, March 18th:
“Stand still, will you!” Josephine barked as I stood in the men’s section of Brown Thomas. She tugged on the blazer I was wearing, checking it for size. She stood back, casting a critical eye up and down. The price tag dangled from the sleeve; I cringed at the amount.
“Perfect!” she declared. “Goes well with the other stuff,” she added, referring to the fitted white shirt and pinstriped trousers I had already tried on. “We’ll take the lot,” she said, turning to the grinning sales assistant.
It certainly wasn’t my ideal way of spending a Saturday, but when I phoned Josephine for some advice for my date, her first suggestion was that under no circumstances was I to wear “that tatty old jacket” I’d worn to the book launch. When I admitted that I had planned to because I really didn’t have anything else suitable, she declared – without allowing me a say in the matter – that we were going on a shopping trip to buy an outfit for the night ahead. I relented; I suppose I wanted to make as good an impression on Anna as possible, even if it meant spending the afternoon feeling like a shop window dummy.
After I’d made my purchases, we found a coffee shop on a side street nearby, and sat at a table on the terrace. Josephine ordered a cappuccino and I asked for a pot of Earl Grey.
“You’ll really knock that Anna woman out with that outfit,” Josephine insisted. “Every woman likes a well-dressed man.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
“And don’t forget to compliment her on what she’s wearing. And just relax and try to be yourself. Except don’t be so fussy about everything, like you usually are.”
I was beginning to feel like a prize fighter being coached just before getting in the ring.
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” I said.
The waitress returned with our order, and placed the cups on the table in front of us.
I looked at my cup. “Excuse me miss,” I called after her.
“Yes?”
“I’ll need another cup. There’s a smudge of lipstick on it.”
She leaned over, squinting.
“Where, sir?” she asked. “I’m afraid I can’t see it.”
“There it is,” I said, pointing. “You can see it if you look closely.”
The girl sighed as she took the cup away, while Josephine merely shook her head and sipped her cappuccino.
****
I sat nervously in the hotel bar, glancing at my watch. It was just gone eight. I clutched my manuscript in my hand. I thought of buying flowers beforehand, but decided against it. I opted to play it cool instead, as if I wasn’t bothered whether Anna fancied me or not. How my strategy would work out was another matter.
“Can I get you a drink, sir?” the barman asked.
“Gin and tonic,” I replied.
“Coming right up.”
“In a tall glass,” I added.
“Not a problem.”
“With one cube of ice. And one slice of lemon. With the rind removed. And the pips.”
“As you wish,” the barman said with a nod and a sigh.
Just as he returned with my drink, Anna sauntered up to the bar. She wore a tight black leather skirt that ended a few inches above the knee, and a gauzy cream-coloured top, low-cut enough to reveal a tantalising glimpse of cleavage.
“John Musgrave,” she gushed, “how nice to see you again.” She offered me her hand in a practised sweep and I shook it. I thought of kissing her on the cheek, but decided against it, unsure of how it would be taken.
“You, em, you look great,” I said; and I meant it: she did.
“Thank you for saying so,” she said. “I always like to look sexy.”
She ordered a Cosmopolitan from the barman.
“I saw you on T.V. last night,” I said. “It was ... quite entertaining.”
“Do you think? I hope so,” she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “That man, Pat Kenny, I toy with him. Sometimes I like to do that. It was fun.”
I wondered if she liked to toy with all men; I wondered if she was toying with me.
She took a sip from her cocktail. “Ah, you bring your book,” she said, looking at the manuscript clutched tightly in my hand. “I am so looking forward to reading it. May I?”
“Of course,” I said, handing it to her. She took it eagerly in her hands and began to read.
She sat silently for several minutes, poring over the pages. I took a few swallows from my gin and tonic, wondering what she thought of it. But as she continued to flick through the sheets, I took that as a positive sign.
Finally, she put the pages down on the bar, and took another mouthful from her drink.
“So. What do you think of it so far?” I tentatively asked.
“Well,” she said, “I have read ten pages so far and yet there is no fucking.”
I spluttered as I took a swallow from my drink, putting my hand in front of my mouth so as not to spray it over the bar. “Em, okay,” I said. “That’s feedback, I guess.”
“You say you want to write about romance, about relationships,” she continued, “and yet you do not write about fucking. It is the ultimate physical expression of the attraction between a man and a woman, from which all else flows.”
“I guess that’s something to work on,” I said, and finished the rest of my drink.
She looked at me over the rim of her glass. “Have you read any of my work yet?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“Then you must do so. It will demonstrate what I mean. I have a copy of my latest book in my room. It loses a little in its translation from Czech, but still, I will show you.”
We ordered two more drinks - a large one in my case - and took the lift to the second floor. As we ascended, my own nervousness and anticipation rose too.
Anna unlocked the door to her room and I followed her inside. It was a spacious suite, with a luxurious sofa and a vase of lilies on a coffee table. I sat on the sofa and took a swig from my drink.
She leaned over to put a CD in her stereo, her figure-hugging skirt accentuating the curves of her glorious behind. The soothing sounds of classical music began to play.
“Dvořák,” I said. “A fellow Czech.”
“But of course,” she said with a grin.
She took a copy of her book from the table and thrust it into my hand.
“Please read some of this,” she said, “and let me know what you think.”
So I began to read. And by the end of the first page, there had already been - as she would put it - fucking. Pretty graphic descriptions of it, with dialogue to match. It was a very racy narrative of a sexual encounter. And though it seemed thoroughly outrageous, still it had a ring of truth about it.
“Where do you get the inspiration for this?” I asked.
She shrugged. “From life,” she said. “I have had many lovers,” she purred, leaning closer to me.
I began to feel beads of sweat on my forehead, and a rising hardness in my trousers.
“Is that so?”
With a rapid movement, she placed her drink on the table and looked me straight in the eye. She began to speak in a low, husky voice. “I sense in you, John Musgrave, a man who, to the outside world, is content with his life, and indeed he himself deludes himself into thinking so. But there is a disquiet in his heart, a yearning for something he cannot define. He longs for passion in his life, an opening up to new experiences, sexual liberation.” She drew even closer to me. “Am I correct, John Musgrave?”
Well, that certainly caught me unawares. I just sat there open-jawed and speechless. And yet there was something in what she said that struck a chord in me, touched something deep inside and awoke it from a long slumber.
I nodded affirmatively, almost as if under her spell. “Yes, Anna, you are so correct.”
I sat motionless, frozen in her sultry gaze, and in a moment she lunged at me, pressing me into the sofa, straddling me. She kissed me on the mouth, and our lips parted, our tongues met and interlocked. I felt a wild desire surge through me, my hands reaching out to touch her silky-soft skin. She drew away from me, unbuttoning her blouse, hastily removing it and flinging it to the floor. I fumbled with my shirt and did likewise. She slipped one bra strap from her shoulder, then the other, before unfastening it and freeing her ample breasts from their captivity, her delicious dark pink nipples inviting me to engage with them, which I promptly did. She began to moan softly, tossing her head backwards, shaking her wild mane of hair. I groped at her legs, feeling the toned muscle just under the skin, and began to peel off her stockings. In one movement, she then wriggled out of her skirt and knickers, and I gaped in awe at her long lovely body in its full glory, before she ripped off my trousers and boxers. With an extraordinary - and somewhat unnerving - deftness she produced a condom and placed it on me in one swift movement. And then suddenly we were connected, and I was frantically thrusting, possessed of a desire unlike anything I had experienced before. She sighed with pleasure, and moved up and down on me, the wondrous orbs of her breasts gently heaving; and before I knew it I had exploded in a supernova of ecstasy and delight, exclaiming a long low groan as she collapsed on top of me, and it was done.
I lay on the sofa for some moments, panting with exertion, my body dripping with sweat, my addled mind trying to comprehend what had just happened. “That was amazing,” I gasped. “You ... are ... some woman.”
She smiled knowingly at me, her body glistening. “I am not done with you yet, John Musgrave,” she whispered in my ear, before taking me by the hand and leading me to the bedroom.
And we made love once more, this time more deliberately, less frantically. She guided me across the map of her body, like a teacher eager to impart her knowledge to an inexperienced but willing student. And the lesson lasted for hours, as she moved my hand to where she wanted it, or gently spoke instructions, and I responded in kind; fingers touching, tongue licking, lips caressing, her low moans registering her approval.
When eventually we had finished, and I had collapsed on the bed with exhaustion and exhiliration, she spoke to me:
“You are a man of deep desires, John Musgrave,” she said, “that you are only now beginning to explore. And sometimes in such cases a man may experience many swings of emotions. You should be aware of this.”
I was unsure of her meaning, but nodded in agreement. “I understand what you’re saying. I think.”
She suddenly sat up in the bed, propping herself up on one elbow as she looked at me intently. “No. You do not understand just yet. But you will, in time.” Then she smiled, and reached out to switch off her bedside lamp. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”
I curled up beside her, feeling the warmth of her body, the swell of her breathing, the slenderness of her waist as I clasped my arm around it. I felt sated; content. And before long, I had drifted off into a deep and pleasant sleep, with a peacefulness of mind of a sort I had never before known.
Sunday, March 19th:
I awoke in the hotel suite to the sound of a vacuum cleaner beyond the bedroom door. I reached out my arm to the other side of the bed but it was empty. I opened my eyes and looked around; I was alone in the room. On the pillow beside me lay a note written on hotel stationery. I picked it up and began to read:
Dear John,
It was most enjoyable meeting you. Now I must return to London. I will take pleasure in the memory of our brief time together. I hope you will think of me from time to time. Continue to write; you have much potential and much yet to experience. Take care.
Anna
I put the note to one side, suddenly possessed of a gnawing sensation of separation. Anna was gone and I missed her. What was I thinking? I hardly knew the woman. Our encounter was amazing, but surely it was just sex and nothing more than that? Were these the powerful emotions that Anna had spoken of, just beginning to be unleashed? I didn’t know. I scratched my head and made for the shower. I turned on the water and let it flow over and revive me, though loathe to remove the last traces of Anna’s scent from my body.
I wrapped a towel around myself and went out to the outer room to retrieve my clothing. The Chinese chambermaid jumped with a start on seeing me, clearly unaware of the presence of anyone else in the suite.
“This room. It check out. It check out!” she said. “You not supposed to be here.” She wagged a reproachful finger at me.
“Okay, okay, just give me a minute,” I said, raising my arms in acknowledgement before taking my clothes and returning to the bedroom, where I dressed myself.
I skipped down the staircase, through the lobby and out into the spring sunshine. I felt slightly dishevelled, still wearing the same clothes from the previous night, but otherwise felt pleasantly light-headed. I strolled along the canal in front of the hotel. A pair of swans glided by. How elegant they looked, how devoted to each other they seemed. I stopped off in a coffee shop along the way and ordered a cup of Earl Grey and a toasted bagel. I read through the Sunday newspaper, not even particularly bothered by the unknown grubby paws that might have handled it before me. I watched as people strolled by on the street outside, couples hand in hand, smiling and in love. It seemed as if aspects of life were revealing themselves to me for the first time; I wondered how I had missed them all before. Sure, there had been other women, other encounters before now, but how insignificant they seemed in comparison to my night with Anna.
After I had finished breakfast, I hailed a taxi to take me home. I even engaged the driver in conversation for a change, and didn’t feel moved to complain about the execrable golden oldies show on the radio. When I arrived home, I sat down to write, but I was distracted, unable to concentrate. I tended to the garden for a while in the afternoon instead. Then I sat down to browse through the newspapers that I had bought on the way home. I checked the arts supplements to see if there had been any reviews of my book, but it was too early for that yet. The usual snobbish dismissal of my work would have upset my good mood anyway.
But as the evening wore on, my previous sense of wellbeing was gradually replaced by something more unnerving: a sense of unease, a creeping emptiness. I began to feel lonely; I wanted Anna to be here beside me, to talk to, to try and express how I felt, to put it in words. But she was gone and I realised I didn’t even have any means of contacting her. I became aware of a general dissatisfaction with my life and how I had lived it thus far.
Now I’m wondering if these are the first signs of the new emotions that Anna had alluded to. Whatever it is, I know that something has changed in me, like a light being switched on for the first time, illuminating all of the aspects of my personality that I’ve neglected for so long. I feel like a crocus tentatively poking out from the hard winter earth, taking its first breath of spring air, with the threat that a hard frost might still come along and snuff it out before it has a chance to grow.
Monday, March 20th:
I woke this morning, still with a vague unsettled feeling, but determined to try to get back to my normal routine. So I showered as usual, ate breakfast, and wrote until lunchtime. I paid my weekly trip to the local supermarket to stock up on groceries for the week ahead. I cantered along the aisles, picking various items from the shelves, trying to block out the inane piped music. I inspected each item in turn - packaging for best-before dates, canned goods for dents, vegetables for bruising - before deciding whether to choose them and place them in the trolley.
I began to wonder if paranoia was one of the new sensations I was experiencing, because it seemed to me on a few occasions as if the employees passing by were glancing at me with knowing grins. I dismissed this as ridiculous; after all, I had shopped at the same supermarket for years, and had never noticed anything like it before.
But when I got as far as the checkout, and the cashier seemed to be stifling laughter as she registered my purchases, I felt compelled to finally say something.
“Excuse me,” I said in a low voice, “but do I have shaving cream on my face or something?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head but looking as if she might burst. “It’s nothing.”
I looked around at the other cashiers, and noticed some of them sniggering too, averting their gaze as soon as I glanced their way.
And then it hit me. At eye level, I noticed a copy of a morning tabloid with the banner headline screaming “BESTSELLING AUTHORS IN STEAMY SEX ROMP”; and beneath it, two photographs side by side. The first was of Anna climbing with her luggage into a taxi outside the Hilton; and the other was of yours truly leaving the hotel afterwards. It must have been taken with a zoom lens; but the features - along with the dishevelled clothing - were unmistakably mine.
I quickly whipped a copy from the shelf. Not much point in being discreet at this stage. “Here,” I said, handing it to the giggling girl, “I’d better take one of these as well.” She bleeped it through the machine, and I handed her my credit card - which of course took an eternity to clear - before leaving the premises red-faced, the cashiers no longer able to contain their squawking laughter.
****
I sat down at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee, my heart pounding as I read the story inside. It went like this:
SIZZLING SEXPOT author Anna Stilerova’s search for an Irish boyfriend seems to be over - and it is none other than bestselling crime fiction writer JOHN MUSGRAVE, the DAILY HERALD can exclusively reveal.
Both were pictured leaving Dublin’s Hilton Hotel separately yesterday morning after a STEAMY night of PASSION in one of the hotel’s exclusive suites.
Musgrave - the famously reclusive creator of popular detective character Richard Steele - left wearing the SAME CLOTHES that he had worn on arriving the previous evening.
And Stilerova looked as glamorous as ever in a SEXY LOW-CUT TOP and jeans.
“They ordered drinks at the bar,” a barman at the top hotel revealed to our reporter. “She had a glass of wine, and he drank a gin and tonic. He was a bit odd about how he wanted it mixed. Maybe he just has strange tastes,” he added with a grin. “But they didn’t hang about for long and soon he was following Anna up to her room like a love-sick puppy.”
“He was still in the room this morning when I serviced it,” one of the hotel’s cleaners informed us. “He came into the main living area from the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel and a cheeky grin.”
Well, the fluency of the cleaner’s English certainly seemed to have improved since I spoke with her.
I put the newspaper to one side, my hand trembling with agitation and anger. It was bad enough that the staff at the hotel had spoken to the reporter - who in turn had clearly spiced up their comments for tabloid consumption - and that the details of my encounter with Anna had been laid bare, so to speak, in such spectacular and lurid fashion. But I shudder at the thought of how this will affect my privacy. After all, the first people I’d met - the cashiers at the supermarket - had recognised me and found it a great source of hilarity. Admittedly, the newspaper cover was right in front of them at the time. But I wonder if I’m now destined to be recognised in the street at every turn, and sniggered at as I pass by. The thought of such public humiliation horrifies me; it’s bad enough being on the cover of some gutter tabloid.
My night of passion with Anna has already changed my life in ways I would never have thought possible.
Saturday, March 25th:
I’m still feeling bruised and sore today. It all began last night when I went out with my family to celebrate my father’s sixtieth birthday party. The restaurant we booked was fairly dimly lit, which was fine by me. It was the first time I’d ventured outside of the house since the newspaper story appeared, and I was wary of being recognised; still, I thought I noticed one or two people whispering and looking in my direction as we walked in, but I could have been imagining it.
And I was also worried about my family’s reaction to the whole affair. Dad’s not a particular fan of eating out anyway, and he seemed a little embarrassed when a waitress brought out a cake with candles on it. Still, he seemed to be making an effort to enjoy himself, maybe for our sake more than his own. He still felt obliged to call over the waitress to ask her to bring back his soup, complaining that it wasn’t hot enough. I cringed at that, but when I thought about it afterwards, I realised it wasn’t unlike something I might do in similar circumstances. Could it be that, subtly, I’m metamorphosing into my father? I can’t say I’m too comfortable with that possibility.
Eventually, the conversation turned to the subject that must have been on everybody’s mind.
“I see you got yourself in the papers this week,” my father said, snorting disdainfully before taking a sip from his Cognac.
“Well, I’m not exactly over the moon about it,” I said.