Love, In Writing

by Elsa Winckler

  “I was looking for you,” Graham said from behind her.

  She turned around unsteadily, holding the glass in front of her. She frowned. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want this,” she said, and put the glass down on the desk in her office.

  Graham smiled. “You agreed, remember?”

  “I didn’t have a choice, remember?” she said, and hiccupped.

  Amused, he picked up the glass. “How many of these have you had?”

  She turned her back on him and stared out of the window. “Not enough, not nearly enough. I can still think,” she murmured.

  “Honey, sit down. I’ll get your assistant to bring you something to eat.” He gently pushed her down onto the chair and knelt in front of her.

  “I did put you in an awkward position. I’m sorry.” His eyes searched hers. He took her hand in his and played with her fingers. “I do strange things around you. But this is going to be good for your shop. You should make lots of money.”

  Margaret frowned down at him. “How do you know the shop is struggling? Has anyone said anything?”

  He grimaced. “You’ve just told me. But surely you must see this kind of thing will help. In fact, I know several authors I can tell about this place who might be interested.”

  She was shaking her head even before he finished. “Please don’t do me any more favors. It’s not your problem. I don’t need you.”

  “I know,” he murmured, his fingers skimming over her face. She forgot what she wanted to say. When had he moved so close to her? He frowned and closed the gap between them. Margaret licked her lips, already tasting him. She shouldn’t do this, but...

  “There you are.” Peter’s near-hysterical voice interrupted and Graham got up unhurriedly.

  “What now?” he asked.

  Peter’s hands fluttered around. “You have to come out. People want to talk to you, I must make a speech, and you have to say something too, Margaret. Come on!” he urged and stormed out.

  Graham looked down at her and frowned. “I nearly kissed you again. I don’t understand this. You are—”

  Margaret jumped up. “If you are going to tell me again I’m not your type, save your breath, I know.” She pointed toward the front of the shop. “Go do your thing. Leave me alone.”

  Graham opened his mouth, but she pointed toward the door again. “Just go.”

  She collapsed in the chair when he finally left, and finished the rest of the champagne. This was good stuff. She should go and find another glass.

  Graham met Jen as he reached the front of the shop.

  “Where’s Margaret?” she asked.

  “I think you should make sure she eats something. I’m not sure how many glasses of champagne she’s had, but I think she’s...well, I think she’s tipsy.”

  Jen’s eyebrows shot up. “Margaret? Tipsy? You don’t know what you’re talking about. She rarely drinks anything, and if she does, it’s one glass of wine.”

  “Well, I suggest you go and see for yourself and get her to eat something.”

  Jen cocked her head. “Do you know you are the hero in her latest romance?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Jen laughed. “I mean, she used you, used your face, to create the hero in her latest book. You should read it. You might find it interesting.” And with a grin she disappeared down the corridor.

  Graham wasn’t sure how to react to this news. He thought of Mags, the character in his story. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been so involved with a character. And all because Margaret had been his muse. There. He was finally able to admit it to himself.

  Purposefully, he walked toward the table where Peter was waiting. Damn it, he dreamt about Margaret, had long conversations with her in his head during the day, constantly wondered what she was doing, where she was. And now she was the reason he could write again, the reason his main character this time ’round was a woman. Called Mags.

  It had to stop. She was wreaking havoc with his mind, his writing, his dreams. It simply wouldn’t do. Maybe he should just give in to his basic urge and have sex with her. It might be the quickest way to get her out of his system.

  ***

  Finally. Graham signed the last book and tried another smile. He didn’t think it was working, but what the hell. He wasn’t sure how many books he’d signed, but if the smile on Peter’s face was any indication, there had been many. Peter was rubbing his hands as he walked over to him.

  “Well, I was wrong. When I walked in here this afternoon, I was convinced no one would pitch up. I’m sure not many people knew about this place before today. But it was a huge success. I think most of the books we brought were sold.”

  While Peter was talking, Graham looked around trying to locate Margaret, but he could only see Jen and Mandy behind the counter, both smiling at clients.

  “Are you listening?” Peter tugged on his arm.

  Graham looked down at him. “Frankly, no. I’ve had it. Go home, Peter. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Peter opened his mouth but Graham literally helped him out of the door. “Tomorrow,” he said firmly and turned back.

  “Where’s Margaret?” he asked Jen.

  She looked worried. “You know, when you told me she was tipsy, I thought you were crazy. But I think you’re right.”

  “She was so nervous, I think she thought it might calm her nerves,” Mandy said. “She’s sleeping. I’ll take her home in a little while.”

  But Graham was already striding down the corridor toward Margaret’s office. “I’ll take her. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have...”

  Graham stopped speaking, stopped thinking, stopped breathing. Margaret was sleeping on a couch, her knees bent, her hands tucked under one cheek. She was simply beautiful.

  He walked closer and bent to pick her up. And smiled. She was snoring softly. When he lifted her, her arms circled his neck. As she pressed her head against his shoulder, a sigh escaped.

  Something inside him moved and he gathered her closer. He looked up to see Mandy and Jen staring at him, open-mouthed.

  “Did she have a bag with her? What about keys? Could you—?”

  “I’ll take my car, you can follow me. I’ll help,” Mandy said. She’d finally closed her mouth and picked up Margaret’s handbag. Graham ignored the questioning looks from the two women. How could he describe why he was taking Margaret home if he wasn’t sure about the reasons himself? All he knew was he wanted to, needed to take care of the woman in his arms.

  With Jen’s help, he managed to put Margaret in the back seat of his car. She didn’t wake up, just moaned faintly. He followed Mandy to Margaret’s home, while he kept checking over his shoulder to see if she was okay.

  The concern he was feeling surprised him. He couldn’t remember ever wanting to take care of someone, wanting to comfort, wanting... He swore. How and when had this happened? He didn’t have time for someone like Margaret. She had happy-ever-after written all over her. Hell, it was even announced on the front of her shop. He should run as fast and as far away from her as he could possibly get. And he would, once he knew she was safely tucked in for the night.

  He didn’t need this kind of complication in his life. He’d had a wife once and had mistakenly thought the emotion that had drawn him to her was love. Now, at this point in his life, it was clear to him forever was not possible. Love was just a literary invention, something you could write about in a fantasy or a romance. But it wasn’t real, it didn’t last.

  He looked around at Margaret and swore again. This feeling that had knotted up his insides was just lust, pure and simple. If he kept out of her way, it would disappear.

  Mandy stopped in front of a double-story house. He got out and breathed in the air. The ocean was just across the road and the roar of the waves was almost deafening. Carefully, he picked Margaret up and her arms went around his neck again. She nestled her face in his shoulder and her breasts pressed against him. He swallowed and swore under his breath. This was so not the time to get
aroused, damn it: the woman had had too much to drink.

  Mandy had opened the front door and was waiting for them.

  “I’ll stay with her tonight—” she began, but Graham was already moving past her.

  “No, it’s my fault she’s in this state. I’ll stay.” He thought of his earlier resolve to leave as quickly as possible, and grimaced. He wasn’t going anywhere. This was where he wanted to be. Close to Margaret. He’d worry about the why at a later stage.

  Mandy looked up at him but didn’t say anything. She led the way up the stairs to a room he immediately knew had to be Margaret’s. It smelled like her and reflected her romantic nature, her softness, her femininity. A bay window overlooked the sea. This was where she would sit and write. He could picture her staring out of the window. A white table, with a laptop and printer on it, was pushed close to the window.

  Graham put Margaret down on the double bed. His fingers brushed against crisp white linen.

  “I’ll help her into bed,” Mandy said and Graham left quickly.

  Just the thought of Margaret without clothes was enough to get his pulse racing. He stormed down the stairs and was still pacing when Mandy came down a few minutes later.

  “She’ll be fine. Are you sure you want to stay? Because I don’t mind.”

  “No, I’ll sleep here,” he said, and pointed toward a large couch in the lounge.

  “There is a guest room upstairs. I could make a bed for you.”

  “No, this will do. I should be able to hear her.” He’d rather not add the farther he was away from Margaret, the better.

  ***

  Margaret gingerly opened her eyes. Tiny men with sharp chisels were pounding away inside her head. She groaned and tried to sit up. The pounding worsened and she slid down, moaning softly. From somewhere else came a louder sound. Putting a hand up to her eyes, she moaned again. Then there was the sound again. She peered through one eye toward the door. Why was there so much light?

  Graham stood there, his hair mussed, his eyes bleary. He had a glass in his hand and came closer to the bed. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better.”

  Confusing questions rushed through Margaret’s head. Why did she feel so horrible? Why was Graham in her room? How did she get into bed? She quickly lifted the sheet and relaxed a little bit. At least she was wearing something. But who had undressed her? The pounding increased and she groaned again, closing her eyes.

  Graham sat down next to her. “Come on, drink up,” he coaxed, and she opened one eye again.

  She tried to sit up, but fell back. Graham bent forward and lifted her head gently, holding the glass against her lips. “Come now, close your eyes and swallow.”

  “What is it?”

  He smiled. “Trust me, you don’t want to know. But I can promise you in an hour’s time, you’ll feel like a different person.”

  “I just want to feel like me again,” she whispered. He lifted her slightly higher. She closed her eyes and swallowed.

  “Urgh.” she shuddered and fell back.

  “I know, I know.” His voice soothed her. “Sleep now. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

  ***

  Margaret walked sleepily down the stairs. She’d woken up again about half an hour before, feeling much better. She also had time to remember exactly how many glasses of champagne she’d drunk the previous night. That would explain the headache earlier. She was still not sure whether Graham had been in her room before or whether she had just dreamt it. And who had put her to bed? Who had undressed her?

  She could smell coffee and... bacon? She peered around the kitchen door. Graham was standing in front of the stove, whistling off-key. He turned around and saw her. His hair was combed, but it was clear he hadn’t shaved. Not that she had ever seen him completely clean-shaven. He looked scruffy and so sexy, her mouth watered. She inhaled deeply.

  “Good morning. Feeling better?” Graham turned back to the stove.

  She sat down on the nearest chair. Her legs weren’t quite steady. “Yes, thank you. I...I...” She swallowed and tried again. “What happened last night? Who undr...put on my pajamas? Why are you here?”

  Graham turned around unhurriedly and wiped his hands. “You had too much to drink last night. You passed out. I brought you home and Mandy undressed you. I offered to stay because I felt it was my fault you were drunk. Any more questions?”

  Margaret jumped up. “I was not drunk. I—”

  “Had too much to drink, same thing.” He turned back to the stove.

  “You didn’t have to stay. You don’t owe me anything.”

  Graham threw down the kitchen towel he had in one hand and turned toward her. “I know. I thought it was the least I could do.” He smiled. “I didn’t realize a simple book launch would drive you to drink.”

  “There is nothing simple about hosting a book launch for Graham Connelly’s latest book.” Margaret realized her voice was rising. The tiny men began pounding their chisels again. She put a hand up to the throbbing. “Look, thank you. Thank you for staying with me, for not undressing me...” She inhaled sharply. Had she just said that out loud?

  Graham just looked at her. “Sit down, Margaret.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Sit down. I’ve made breakfast.”

  She sat down, unable to utter a word. He put two plates on the table and gestured to a platter of eggs and bacon.

  “Eat something. You’ll feel better. Less grumpy.”

  “I’m never grumpy.”

  Graham just lifted an eyebrow.

  Margaret looked at her plate. Okay, she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything the previous night. Trying her best to ignore Graham, she ate in silence for a few minutes. How did one understand a man like this? One minute he was scowling and shouting and the next he was cooking breakfast.

  He glanced up at her and his hand froze. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  Margaret couldn’t look away. “Like what?”

  “Like I’m some kind of hero. I’m not. Eat.”

  Margaret looked down and frantically thought of something to say. “How did it go last night? I’m sorry about what happened.”

  “It went quite well. Peter was smiling when he left.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. He complained all of yesterday afternoon.”

  “He was worried nobody would find their way to your bookshop. You should also be smiling. You will also benefit from the sales and you most probably sold a few other books as well.”

  Embarrassed, Margaret looked up. “I don’t know. It will be extremely good news for my bookkeeper. I’ll check with Jen. Are you satisfied?”

  Graham looked up quickly. His eyes darkened. “No, Margaret, I’m not satisfied.”

  “But why? If Peter is happy—”

  “Let’s change the subject,” he said abruptly, then got up and walked toward the window. “You literally live next to the ocean.”

  Margaret wasn’t sure what to make of Graham’s sudden change of topic. But something had flared in his eyes, something both frightening and exciting.

  “Yes, my grandmother left me this house. My parents died in a car crash when I was about fifteen and Josh was twelve. Grandmother raised us.”

  “Must have been tough, growing up without parents?”

  “We missed them terribly, but Grandma was wonderful. It couldn’t have been easy for her taking in two kids at her age, but somehow she made it look normal, easy. Josh missed our dad.” Margaret shifted uncomfortably. “He was with me in the elevator the other night. I don’t know if you remember.”

  “I remember everything from that night,” Graham said.

  Margaret looked up quickly but he was eating. He was clearly ignoring the remark and so could she. She took a deep breath. “She died three years ago. This used to be her beach house. I renovated it a bit and moved in a few months later. And about six months ago, I opened the shop. I’ve always loved the sea and this,” she gestured toward the sea, “this is a
s close to heaven one can get on earth. This little piece of paradise is in fact only threatened by the occasional fire.”

  Graham nodded. “Fires are always a problem wherever you are in the Cape during the dry summer.”

  “And we’ve been lucky so far this summer; there haven’t been any major ones around here.”

  “But at least now I know why I haven’t seen the bookshop before. I love to surf here, but have been away for the last six months and before that I had a deadline to meet. I haven’t been here in close to eighteen months, come to think of it.”

  “When did you start surfing?”

  Graham walked back to the table and sat down. “I think I surfed before I could walk.”

  Margaret listened and watched while he talked. She had never seen him like this before. He wasn’t shouting or scowling but was actually talking to her. And he was funny, in an offbeat kind of way.

  “Stellenbosch is a truly lovely town,” she said when he told her about his farm.

  “I grew up there, but my mom and I moved away when my dad died. I had fond memories of the place and when I heard the farm was on the market, well, I couldn’t resist. I’m no farmer of course, but I have a good friend who manages it for me. He and his wife also live on the farm. I can write there. It’s quiet, no other people.”

  “Is your mother still alive?” Margaret asked.

  His face shut down and he bent to drink his coffee. “No, she died.” It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it. Change of subject.

  Margaret looked at him hesitatingly. “Do you mind if I ask you about your writing? I know not all authors—”

  “Ask away. I love to talk about what I do.”

  “Why science fiction?”

  He laughed. “I could ask you, why romance? We’d have the same answer. I’ve always read strange stories, as my mother used to call them. I think some of the essays I wrote at school made many of my teachers extremely anxious. But William Gibson’s cyberpunk novel Neuromancer probably clinched my fate. After I’d read it, I just knew that was what I wanted to write. I’ve wanted to try to understand the world through speculation and storytelling. And I haven’t been able to stop. Now with all the new technologies, there are just so many more stories to tell, more possibilities to unravel.”