by Lucy Coleman
‘Your bio said your first novel was published when you were only twenty. I don’t mean to be rude but that’s a tender age at which to be writing full on sex scenes.’
Is he trying to insinuate something here? Well, I think that is a rude statement to make and it’s intrusive. Fictional stories aren’t based on first hand experience and the art of lovemaking isn’t rocket science. Maybe my positive first impression of him was a little hasty after all and the more I get to know him, the less I’ll like him.
‘You’re assuming everything I write is from personal experience?’
Touché. He looks shocked by my forthright response and quickly shakes his head.
‘I wasn’t… I mean, maybe I should rephrase that question. Was it difficult to get into a genre where the readers’ expectations are so high with regards to one particular aspect of a story? You hardly had much in the way of life experience when you began writing.’
I burst out laughing. If he’s trying to insult me then I’m not going to take him seriously.
‘I pride myself on always meeting my readers’ expectations,’ I reply, playfully. ‘But initially I wrote contemporary women’s fiction about relationships and real life. Okay, the pursuit of true love was a part of that, but aren’t most people looking for someone to love? After three books, and with Carrie in my corner, I ramped up the heat and here I am.’
‘I gather sex sells, then?’
I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, or whether he’s genuinely interested but his tone is a little disapproving to my ears.
‘It does.’
‘So, what is your definition of love.’
This is beginning to feel like the Spanish Inquisition; whatever I say is going to be the wrong answer because Arran Jamieson clearly doesn’t take romance seriously, full stop. Well, two can play that game. I don’t have to explain myself or pander to you, Mister. So now it’s time to put on my game playing mask.
‘I love being an international bestselling author. Enough said.’
He goes quiet, pretending to concentrate on eating but I notice he’s only toying with the food on his plate. Even though this conversation is beginning to irritate me immensely, it’s beginning to feel like we’re bantering. As if he’s playing with me. There’s an understated coolness to his manner that’s not unattractive. He has that slightly broody, enigmatic quality which is rather magnetic to watch in action.
‘Ah, sidestepping the question. You don’t seem to take sex seriously, either.’ Arran’s voice is tinged with amusement. It’s not that I don’t take either seriously but I certainly don’t have to explain myself to him!
‘For a lot of people sex is just about pleasure. It doesn’t mean anything deeper and as long as it’s between two consenting adults who aren’t in a committed relationship with someone else, then where’s the harm in it?’
I know that I’m coming across as an advocate of no-strings-attached sex here and as someone who writes solely for the money, but neither one is true. I write because I think a lot of people need a hero in their lives and some never find one. And writing is my guilty pleasure, not simply an occupation, more so than chocolate even. But he’s pressing my buttons. It might be tiredness making me grouchy, but I stand up, more than ready to bid him goodnight. Besides, if you need to ask someone to define love, then you sure as hell won’t be able to grasp the answer.
‘Thank you for picking me up from the airport and for supper, Arran. Is nine in the morning a good time to make myself available?’
He stands, making no attempt to either shake hands, or hug.
‘Nine o’clock is fine. I’ll run through the week’s agenda with you. Goodnight, Brie; sleep well.’
9
A Frosty Start Despite the Sunshine
I only drank a couple of glasses of wine last night, but I awaken with a cracking headache. Then I realise I’m probably dehydrated and I head downstairs to grab some water. As lovely as the room is it’s lacking a few things. Like a drinking glass, for one, and it feels bare rather than minimalist. There isn’t really anything to personalise the room and it lacks any hint of a feminine touch. It’s curious because I thought Arran was married.
When I walk into the kitchen his back is towards me and he’s singing to himself under his breath.
‘Good morning, Arran.’
He spins around and has the audacity to look me up and down before replying to my greeting. It seems my simple, knee length floral dress in bright reds and pinks has invoked a reaction and I struggle to hide the beginning of a smile that starts to tug at my lips.
‘Good morning, Brie. What would you like for breakfast?’
‘I came down for some water, actually. But I’d love a coffee too, if it’s not too much trouble and I’ll grab a couple of pieces of fruit.’
‘How do you take it? Americano, espresso, cappuccino?’ Arran asks, as he reaches up into the cupboard in front of him.
‘Americano, no sugar, thank you.’
He pops a coffee pod into the machine and presses the switch, then turns to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
‘That’s not much of a breakfast,’ he replies, handing them over. ‘The fridge is always full, so help yourself whenever you want. I only stock breakfast foods and snacks, aside from drinks, as the restaurant a short walk down the hill saves the hassle of cooking. You’re not one of those fussy dieters, are you?’
It sounds accusatory.
‘No. I just watch what I eat and avoid gluten whenever possible as it gives me headaches.’ I’ll leave out the bloated stomach and the flatulence bit. But just thinking about it, I have to stop myself from grimacing. Fortunately, his back is towards me as we’re speaking.
‘How did you sleep?’
In fairness I slept well, waking at 5 a.m. to begin writing. I’m not ashamed to admit that I vented my annoyance through my characters and Izzie has just put Ethan in his place big time. But a lot of love stories begin with characters who don’t instantly fall in love. It’s the same in life, isn’t it?
I suppress a sigh. If Arran is going to be difficult then I’ll just put up a wall around the real me and keep him very firmly on the other side of it. He’s obviously very well off and mixes in different circles but I won’t tolerate anyone talking down to me.
‘Very well, thank you. I’ll be back down in an hour. I have a chapter to finish off, first.’
It’s only just after eight so I have plenty of time.
He glances at me, a slight frown on his face.
‘I didn’t realise you would be working this morning. It was rather a late one last night after a day of travelling. I’m… um… sorry if I said anything to upset you. You left rather abruptly.’
Now he wants me to ease his conscience.
‘Don’t worry about it, Arran. I get that sort of reaction from a lot of people who don’t read the genre in which I write. I was tired, but I’m used to surviving on five hours’ sleep every night, so I’m well rested this morning.’
He’d made me feel uncomfortable and I’m determined not to let that happen again.
‘Good. I’ll see you in a bit, then. I’m going to grab some breakfast and begin setting up the tables outside on the terrace. The group will arrive at around twelve thirty. A minibus meets them at the airport, so we have plenty of time to get things ready.’
Last night he said nine o’clock and I don’t intend on coming back down until then, even though he sounded a little disappointed I wasn’t going to join him for breakfast.
*
With another three thousand words added to the manuscript this morning, I turn off the laptop feeling content. Sometimes it’s good to write when you are in a different frame of mind because you take that emotion and plough it into your storyline. Poor Izzie is left waiting alone at a restaurant because Ethan had an emergency at work. He didn’t remember their date until several hours later, when he arrived home tired out and a little stressed. She’s mad at him and this morning it was
so easy to write that dialogue and the accusatory back and forth of their first argument. The conflict is building between them but it’s time to start peeling away the layers and find out why.
I was disappointed with Arran last night because my first impression was that I’d been too hasty in assuming he’d be a bit standoffish. Then he did a total turnaround and seemed to want me to justify my work, as if he didn’t consider romance to be a valid genre. He might be younger than I thought he was, mid-thirties I’d guess now I’ve seen him up close, but his attitude was tinged with disapproval; it was a reaction one might expect from a much older man. I also can’t stand writing snobs. Besides, it’s an insult to romance readers all around the world.
I’ll give him his due though, he does carry off that broody, slightly intense smoulder so well. As someone who spends a lot of time creating characters who give off the same vibe, I know that’s precisely what makes them so irresistible. If they were happy, chatty people they’d be boring.
My phone pings and it’s a reply from Mel. I texted both Mum and Mel when I arrived last night. Mum responded immediately. Naturally, I was expecting to find a text from Mel awaiting me when I woke at five this morning but there was nothing. I’m just relieved to hear from her now.
Sorry! Very late night on Skype with Ross. We talked for hours and now I really can’t wait until our date tonight! Glad the flight was uneventful and hope you have a good day today. Best of luck and don’t be nervous. Speak soon because I can’t wait to hear all about it. M x
I feel excited for her. That first buzz when you meet someone who catches your attention is electrifying and it’s a shame it’s a short-lived thing. It’s meant to be replaced with much deeper feelings and emotions, of course, but I’ve yet to experience that first hand. Mel already has, but who could have guessed Justin would turn out to be a love rat?
It’s two minutes to nine and I make my way downstairs and out onto the terrace. Arran has set up a row of small wooden tables and butted them all together to make one long one. It will probably seat over a dozen people quite comfortably, so it’s going to be plenty big enough for eight. He’s just installing a second parasol in a vibrant blue as I walk through the door.
‘I’m almost done here.’ He slides the parasol into a slot in one of the tables and turns the winder to open it up. ‘I need to pop into the office to get the paperwork; shall we do the tour of the ground floor, so I can show you where everything is kept?’
I nod and follow him inside.
He looks very casual again today in slightly baggy jeans and a navy, short-sleeved cotton shirt. Arran is most definitely an attractive guy to look at and he can be charming, but there’s something missing. There’s no sense of genuine warmth to a voice that has such a… direct, and brusque tone. It reminds me of Richard Burton’s voice from a black and white clip I watched, many years ago. He was performing Shakespeare and hearing him speak gave me goosebumps. The passion came from the gritty, clipped pronunciation of the words to which there was no warmth attached whatsoever.
With Arran, I can’t put my finger on what isn’t quite right – it’s as if he’s wary of me. I wonder if that’s just around me, or women in general? He could be a man’s man, I suppose, but he definitely isn’t the matey sort. Well, I’ll soon find out when the others arrive.
Arran leads me out through the kitchen-dining room and across the corridor into a huge sitting room, which looks out over the pool and the lake. In front of this side of the villa the luscious, Mediterranean vegetation has been kept low-level, unlike the other side where there are some tall cypress, lemon and olive trees partially obscuring the view.
The room has five large, off-white leather sofas arranged around a coffee table that’s about six feet wide. It’s a statement piece of polished glass set over a large chunk of stone. Obviously, his intention is to encourage informal discussions. This is a room that makes a statement, with an unbelievable view of the mountains to the front and side of the villa. I notice there’s no TV, although there is what looks like a projector mounted quite high on the wall above a doorway. The air conditioning throughout the villa is quiet, but in here there is a definite low humming sound.
My eye is drawn to a very expensive and ultra modern walnut sideboard. The grain in the wood is beautiful and standing on short, chrome legs, it’s aesthetically pleasing to the eye.
‘That’s a Wrensilva HiFi audio system. You can play everything on it from vinyl to plugging in an MP3 player. The sound quality is amazing, and it links to speakers out on the terrace.’
It’s an expensive piece, that’s for sure and, clearly, he’s a man who appreciates music. I do a half turn and follow Arran in the direction of the back wall, where he swings open the door located directly below the projector. ‘The study is in here.’
Like the sitting room, it’s another dual aspect view but this time onto the rear and side garden. My room has the same view. An oversized desk butts up against the wall of glass and I wonder if the beautiful greenery is a welcome distraction for Arran when he’s writing those harrowing scenes in his novels.
I’m two thirds of the way through his book and while I admit military fiction is never going to be my chosen reading matter, I respect his meticulous attention to detail. I’ve learnt a lot about the tactical side of a battle and how troops are deployed. I just didn’t need the blood and the gore to be quite so explicit, as my own imagination would have easily filled in the gaps.
His desk is neat and well organised; the kit looks expensive and his monitor is almost the size of a small TV screen: the sort that allows you to work on several documents simultaneously.
When I spin back around, I’m surprised to see that the wall behind us is a library of vinyl records. I haven’t seen one single book anywhere in the villa and in this, his private space, his most precious possessions are records?
‘An interesting collection you have there, Arran.’ I have no idea how many records are there, beautifully lined up in purpose made racking set back within the wall itself.
‘My grandfather on my father’s side was a conductor and musical director; his name was Quinn. He was born in Scotland but brought up in Surrey. He studied in Vienna, before moving to Italy and was celebrated for his podium skills and embracing a wide range of musical styles. He was a noted interpreter of the music of Mozart, Strauss and Wagner. He led many of the world’s greatest orchestras in his time. Sadly, he’s been gone a few years, but I still miss him.’
I can see by the look on Arran’s face that the thought of his grandfather really affects him.
‘You were brought up on classical music and opera then?’
He nods. ‘My father loves music, although both of my parents are retired medical doctors.’
‘That must have been quite an inspiring childhood, surrounded by a family passion for music and being brought up in such an academic environment.’
He looks at me sharply, as if I’ve annoyed him.
‘I follow my own path in life. After gaining a PhD in social history I studied interactive media at York University. The project I worked on ended up being developed into a TV series, which started my career as a presenter.’
I know, I’ve watched a few episodes. I don’t say that out loud, obviously. I wonder why he’s so tetchy? My question wasn’t offensive in any way at all. I wonder if his parents’ expectations for him were different, although clearly, he’s done very well for himself. He leads a privileged lifestyle.
‘That’s quite an achievement. Where did your interest in warfare and military history come from?’
I can see his discomfort growing and wonder if I should back off, but he didn’t last night, and I can’t see any harm in my question. I’m interested to know his background.
‘I had a nanny, her name was Hope; sometimes we went to visit her father who told us stories about the Second World War. I came to realise why she’d been given that name. He was a brave man with a drawer full of medals, and yet he was very hum
ble. He served his country and lost an arm while doing so. Anyway—’ Arran looks at his watch ‘time is flying by.’
I understand that being a doctor is a very noble and demanding career but if you have children you have to set time aside for them. To have two parents focusing solely on their careers would surely make any child feel they take second place. Still, it depends on the circumstances. It is noticeable there are no family photos around the villa, and yet he said he spends most of the year here.
Arran walks into the sitting room, after grabbing a box that was sitting on his desk. He leads me in the direction of the hallway. Adjacent to the door to the rear garden there is a cloakroom with a hand basin and toilet. Then we head back into the kitchen and a door in the corner takes us into a laundry room, with a pantry leading off it.
‘The only restricted area to guests is my study. Feel free to use any of the facilities. If you’d like to listen to a vinyl record, I have a catalogue of titles and I’d be more than happy to put something on the turntable for you.’
‘You don’t have a library, I notice.’
He peers at me over the top of the box he’s carrying and smiles. ‘I’m saving that as a surprise for when our guests arrive later.’
10
A Conundrum of Sorts
Returning to the kitchen area, Arran asks me to grab two bottles of water from the fridge. He turns on his heels and makes his way out onto the terrace. Curiously he carries the box around to the far side of the table, while I take the seat directly in front of me, facing him and the view. I can’t help wondering why he did that; it seems odd. Perhaps he’s being polite by putting his back to the stunning scenery.
‘Pass me your phone and I’ll put in my number. If you need anything at any time you can text me.’
I watch as he taps away, before handing it back to me. Then he slips the lid off the box and extracts a few printed sheets of A4 paper.
‘The itinerary is quite straightforward as each week has the same agenda.’ He hands me a couple of sheets of paper. The first page shows the entire month split up into days of the week. In each box is a short description of the daily activities and at the side a list of each week’s attendees.