The Price Of Success (Fighting For Fireworks)

by Lee, Corri

  "Merry Christmas!" I grumbled at Bethany's cheery sentiment and held my phone between my ear and shoulder as I trawled through the many drawers and cupboards in the house. "What in the name of gold, frankincense and myrrh are you doing?"

  "Looking for the first part of the novel I wrote at Cornelia's," I huffed. I must have searched everywhere five times and it still hadn't been located. "I don't have the faintest clue where it could be, and it's the only thing I'm missing."

  "Can't you just write it again?"

  "Yes, but it's the principle. If I don't find it, it'll bother me."

  She yawned down the phone at me and shouted something derogatory to her annoying little shit of a brother who made every Christmas a circus, and not in a good way. "Well, what does it look like and when did you last have it?"

  "Yellow paper, rolled up and secured with bobby pins. I rolled it up by the pool, everything went in the boot of the Chrysler, Nathaniel brought everything into the house..."

  "But he only had your dress and a hat box."

  "Hat box!" I thrust a victorious fist into the air and charged up to my room to recover the hat box from the top of my armoire. "I swear, Bethy, if you were here, I'd kiss you."

  "Oh well," she giggled breathily, "I'll be home in two days. Is it there?"

  "Hang on." I put my phone down on my bed and turned on the speaker phone function, and then pulled off the lid of the box to find the base of the ornate top hat crammed with various items. "Shoes, kid gloves, bra- don't ask, ah, yes! It's in here."

  "You can thank me with alcohol."

  "I'm always bloody thanking you fo-..." My voice trailed off as something caught my eye in the hat, something metallic and something flat. "Hang on, Bethy."

  I dug my hand in and retrieved the two objects, which turned out to be tied together. The first was a Polaroid picture of Nathaniel standing in my room with the hat box, dressed in the cherry red tie he'd worn the night of the Cherry Vine escapade. On its back was a note written in that fine masculine script I'd seen on so many gifts and bouquets.

  Never stop being predictable.

  N x

  (dated 22nd September)

  "Cici? What is it?"

  I followed the long string that attached to the Polaroid and pulled the glinting object that had caught my eye from the hat. What fell into my hand was a tether, a binding- a symbol of what I'd been given, thrown away, lost and now found again. "Divine intervention," I whispered, pushing the claddagh ring back onto its rightful place on my right hand. Whether our bond remained or not was irrelevant, because just by having that ring, I was reconnected to the part of me that I'd lost.

  He had known all along that I would lose my way, even before I had done so. His cryptic statement crept back into my mind- I've done my part, why don't you just finish that novel and see what divine intervention pulls out of the hat. He had certainly set the groundwork, and for once, I wasn't riled over his manipulative actions.

  "Bethy, I need your help. Isaac's too. I need to get into the publishing house."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  And that's where I am now, sitting in that grand, empty office awaiting my judgment from the man with the power to make or break me. Another thirty-six chapter novel and another piece of myself laid out for scrutiny.

  Isaac smuggled me in on Boxing Day, having swiped the keys to the building from Nathaniel's loft, and here I have been for five days. It's New Year’s Eve, and I'm hoping that my prolonged attendance here is symptomatic of him reading attentively and not a harsh rejection.

  The deal is that if I'm still sat here alone at midnight on New Year’s Day, Aiden and Bethany will come and collect me and we'll catch an earlier flight to Hollywood, putting this era behind me for good and starting life afresh as a jaded cynic. I should be dolling myself up for a night out with Bethany right now, but instead I've locked myself in an office and lined myself up against the wall to be shot down. I must be stupid.

  Bethany has been bringing me meals and snacks three times a day since she got back from Shropshire. I quite often look over the email she sent to Nathaniel on my behalf.

  Mr Alexander,

  I am awfully sorry to disturb you during the holiday season, but I have laid hands on a manuscript that I believe that you may find appealing. The author is a young, already successful woman who you may have heard of, and she has quite a way with words. I found myself reading with great fascination, though I do entirely disagree with the use of the phrase ''she likes to pretend that she's high end fashion and Cristal but really she’s eBay bargains and Carlsberg'.

  I believe that this particular autobiographical piece will appeal to even the most refined narcissist- though the ending does need some work. There seem to be some loose ends that need tying- you may find the tools to do just that waiting in your office until, I don't know, January 2nd? If you so please, of course.

  Happy holidays

  Bethany Marshall, Commissioning Editor

  That girl does make me laugh.

  I've been slowly updating this chapter to recount any significant events that happen while I'm sat down here. It’s... not been exciting, to say the least. The highlight was when Isaac arrived and looked downright disappointed that Bethany wasn't with me.

  "You like her," I teased, "the beast is tamed."

  "Is not," he scoffed, stealing a handful of Kettle Chips from the pack in my hand. "She's just hot is all."

  "Bullshit!" I laughed, "You and your brother get the same glossy look," I waved my hand in front of my eyes, "like really sickening puppy love. Just because I haven't set a particularly good precedent for relationships doesn't mean that they don't work or that they should be avoided."

  "I'm not the relationship type." Duh.

  "I know that, and neither is Bethany. You two would drive each other stark raving mad and have some blazing rows, but that's because you're very similar. Learn from your brother's mistakes," I leaned over and slapped his leg playfully, "try before you buy."

  And the news that reached me later was that he had indeed gone immediately to my house and swept Bethany off her feet. I've been warned that there may have been noise complaints filed, I presume from the excessive volume of Mickey Avalon.

  I get a certain degree of satisfaction from knowing that I have somewhat successfully paired off two of the three Alexander siblings, but the ever extending period of my isolation is eating away at my hopes of performing a hat trick. It’s New Year’s Eve, why am I kidding myself? Why would he be reading the story he already knows when everyone else is partying hard to greet the new year? He should be out there with them, just like I should be. But somehow I just can't face the thought of a life outside, like I'm trapped in a cycle of wanting to drag out the inevitable.

  I'm having a hard time not allowing myself to get too comfortable in this office- the immaculate domain of an inherently neat billionaire is probably not the best place for a habitually messy woman such as myself. I make a conscious effort to pack all of my food wrappers and drinks bottles into bags for Bethany to take away, and my waiting time has been uncharacteristically dry and devoid of alcohol. It's quite possibly the longest time for which I've been sober, and its disconcerting to think that the effort might all be for nothing. I'm not the sort of person who exercises self-improvement, and I am aware that I may be extending the gesture to a man who won't arrive.

  And yet I still sit here, packing his travel kettle away every time I use it and washing my hair over the small sink in his bathroom. I hadn't really planned for an extended stay, and I'm not really sure what reaction to expect if he does arrive and finds my shampoo and make-up bag sitting pride of place next to a toothbrush. Actually, that might be quite embarrassing...

  All I have for company between Bethany and Isaac's brief visits is my laptop with a mobile Internet dongle and my mp3 player. I did finally come to a point of actually changing my social networking privacy settings, but thought better of it and publicly signed myself in at 'where dreams go t
o die' in an attempt to be funny and satire my way through my situation.

  Bethany and Isaac never stay long, they don't want to be here 'when' Nathaniel arrives, which they assure me he will. 'Oh ye of little faith' I'm frequently told, but I should say that in my position, I'm permitted to be a little pessimistic.

  I don't really think twice about answering phone calls at the moment, they are invariably Bethany taking dinner requests. Aiden calls on occasion to ask if I'm still alive- I'm unspeakably bowled over by his empathy, naturally. He's promised that if I'm knocked back, he'll hand back his Chrysler keys and stick firmly by my side through everything, even though he knows that we'll never be more than friends. His loyalties lie with me, and for that reason alone, Bethany has lost her hostility towards him and the animosity is gone.

  It amazes me how much more functional all of my friends, old and new, have become while I've fallen to pieces. I wonder if I've inadvertently sacrificed myself to fuel their happiness. If I have, I don't mind, as long as I can disappear without being forced to watch them grow every day, slowly resenting them more and more. I have seen so many of their sentiments mirrored in opposition, but ultimately, every single one of them has pulled together to root for my happy ending.

  I've been sleeping a lot in the absence of entertainment, and now that I'm running out of words, that's where I go now. To sleep, on that chaise longue, which still evokes images of Nathaniel screwing me blind while my legs are thrown over its back. Happy days...

  My phone rings and wakes me. It's not until it's at my ear that I realise that the ringtone was Make Me Wanna Die and it's still playing. I figure I must have rolled onto my mp3 player, so I feel around for it aimlessly with my face still pressed down into the soft red velvet. I sigh with relief- I would much rather avoid the 'break up' phone call and just leave his office without a word, and not deal with the rejection at all.

  But the mp3 player is nowhere to be found, and I remember that I left it on the desk after I spent an hour playing Spider Solitaire. Which poses the question, how is music playing, and why? Is this office subject to intermittent poltergeist activity? Have I been sleep-walking? Had I put the music on before I'd gone to sleep and just forgotten?

  "Why can you sleep through my snoring but wake at the first sound of music?"

  "You learn to zone it out when you live with Bethany." I croak my reply, but then instantly lift my head in the fear that I may have just insulted Bethany to her face.

  But I haven't- what I see before me is a sight that renders me speechless. The physical embodiment of everything I didn't want but now have, with a large stack of paper in his hand.

  "Interesting story you tell here, Cecelia, but you've made a few vital mistakes." He sweeps over towards the desk and throws the stack down on its surface, running a hand through his hair while he quite blatantly examines my figure slumped over his chaise longue. "Number one, you should have delivered this in person. I would have ripped it to shreds while you sat and paid close attention like you did when you thought you were my student." He reaches towards me to brush away the hair that obscures my view of perfection. His eyes are heavy, like he’d read tirelessly with no break for sleep, but intensely warm and welcoming. There he is, Nathaniel Alexander, the man that stole my heart and soul.

  "Number two, you doubted yourself too often. For a woman who claims to settle for nothing less than perfection, you'd think she'd know it when it looked at her in the mirror. Get up." I do as I told, not wanting to put a foot wrong in this moment. I'm back in that place where I felt unworthy of him, like touching him will kill an angel or strip her of her wings.

  "Number three, you doubted me." His hands wrap around mine and pull me over the throne of his desk, where even in his absence over my five days in that office, I have never once dared to sit. "I told you I would wait for you and I told you that every move I make is methodical. I didn't cut you off, Cecelia- I put the control into your hands. I told you that I would do whatever it takes."

  "So you've manipulated me horribly and put me through hell to make a point?" My brow arches at him and he smoulders at me with a smile that makes every inch of my body stand on high alert.

  "Do you care?" Of course I don't care! Like he even has to ask. Declare me that marionette and let him pull at my strings to make me dance a happy jig, damn it. He leans over me to load this chapter and lowers his lips to my ear. "Write, Cecelia, if you think that this is the only way I learn."

  So I'm writing, and he's watching. Which means he can see how much I hate him for being away from me for over thirteen painful weeks. And now that I'm writing, I notice that the cocky bastard has put that bloody platinum wishbone ring on my finger again and will no doubt make threats to have it surgically implanted into my skin should I ever remove it again. Now you have both of my hands, Nathaniel, like you promised that you would, and I am truly afflicted with Stockholm Syndrome, loving you, my captor. I admire you and your belief- your unfailing reverence of romance. Now, it's eleven o'clock, so take me home and light me up with our fireworks, that will be much more magnificent than those that shoot from the London Eye and envy that they do not shine as bright as us.

  "Ok," he tells me, "but first, your ending still needs work. May I?" "Be my guest."

  He types three single words and pulls me up from the desk, dipping me straight into a Hollywood kiss. "There, now it's perfect."

  And it is.

  Happily ever after.

  My name is Cecelia, I am twenty-five years old, and I am addicted to fireworks.

  Last year I met a man who set me in spin- he propelled me to fame and broke my heart to just to piece it back together again. I nearly died for him at the hands of a friend- a friend who he nearly killed as retribution.

  He is my husband, Nathaniel Alexander- proud, prolific and obscenely rich and successful- and as flawed and as power hungry as he is, he is perfection personified.

  But me? I am a little more broken. I don’t handle the hindrance on my independence well, and when Hollywood turn my book- ‘The Price of Success’ into a cinematic miracle, I don’t know that he shares my blind conviction over the owner of the amber eyes that meet mine across Trafalgar Square.

  My friends are falling to pieces around me and I’m doing all I can to support them from my side of the world and in the midst of my own quandaries. Nathaniel wants a house in the hills, a dog, white picket fences and a horde of children- I don’t, and I’ll do almost anything to avoid it.

  My career is on the line, as is my marriage. But where Riley Thomas is involved, I can’t be sure that they aren’t sacrifices I’d be willing to make.

  Follow Cecelia in her sequel ‘The Cost Of Failure’ in 2013.

  A note from the author

  When I embark on writing a novel, I never really take into consideration how much it will consume my life. I feel a great sense of loss when a story is told and spend my time wondering how my own characters will evolve afterwards.

  I have to pay some serious kudos to the people who have listened to me prattle on about my ideas- I doubt that they’ll ever need to read the books- KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) for enabling me to get my work out into the public eye, the friends who have spurned me on, and my family, who deal with me zoning off into Lalaland when inspiration strikes. Most of all, I have to thank my children, Alice and James, for being wonderfully patient and listening to me repeatedly proof read aloud. Hopefully they will grow up with extensive vocabularies, but not pick up on my excessive use of expletives.

  I would be nothing if not for the wonderful group of women who proof-read my books before I put them out to the public. These are the women I write for- the romance hungry housewives and mothers who revel in a little drama and kink- and their enthusiasm is what drives me to keep kicking out these novels.

  Of course, I wouldn’t have started writing if not for E.L. James and her Fifty Shades trilogy. Those books are what spurned me on to put my words down into print. And then Sylvia Day, brought Gideon Cro
ss into my life and bowled me over with her fearless and frank approach to verbalising the more intimate parts of a relationship. These two women showed me that the men in my life are far better off being imaginary, as they’re always as handsome and rich as you like and always do as they’re told. They also opened up the ‘mummy porn’ door, which makes it much more ‘normal’ to vent my penchant for smut through fiction.

  Special thanks go to Eleanor Hayes, who gave me some great insight into the inner workings of a publishing house, Shona Morgan and Lobke Cornelissen who donated their names when inspiration failed me, and the loyal members of the Facebook group ‘Sweet Pea Club’, who are always a dependable source of pseudonyms for genitals. I’m not even joking.

  Please follow me, if you will, at

  www.facebook.com/corrilee.author

  www.twitter.com/corrileelit

  www.goodreads.com/corrilee

  or email at corrileelit@gmail.com

  Look out for new works of mine on the Amazon Kindle Store!

  Publisher code A3SZ2VFAUJ6K0Q

  Noted quotes

  ‘Don’t spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it into a door.’ – Coco Chanel

  ‘But I don’t want to go among mad people.’- Alice In Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

  ‘Two great talkers will not travel far together’- George Borrow