Enough was enough.
I took a deep breath and walked into the bathroom.
Looking in the mirror I could see the courage and defiance slowly returning to a face that had been scarred by sadness these past few weeks.
My lips started to say the words I needed to hear.
“You deserve better than this.”
I held my phone up, fingers quickly scrolling through the contacts, and did what I should have done ages ago.
Every trace of you deleted.
Any chance of your return blocked.
The dead weight that had been holding my life back—finally cut loose.
I saw the smile slowly return to my lips in the mirror.
My body overwhelmed by a rush of sheer joy.
I felt like a hot-air balloon.
Soaring upward into a beautiful blue sky.
Waiting for Love
Love can often be like waiting for a train to arrive and then suddenly realizing you’re standing on the wrong platform.
Passing Years
The years will pass,
sometimes slowly
other times
in a blink of an eye,
but please, my love,
never fear
their passing,
for we will always
have each other,
and our love
will never age.
Smoke & Mirrors
She loved to eat strawberry jam on toast.
This gorgeous girl in a white dressing gown, gliding across the black and white checkered kitchen floor like a ballerina on roller skates. Her blond hair tied in a ponytail and just a hint of pale pink lipstick glistening on those sweet lips.
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons rising up from the speakers of a 1980s Bang & Olufsen stereo that could still spin the dusty vinyl with perfect precision.
I could feel the gentle warmth of the morning sunshine on my unshaven cheek as it streamed in through the windows, sending dancing shadows across my coffee cup. My well-worn copy of Alice in Wonderland open on the white marble benchtop.
Justine sat down next to me, picked up my cup, and took a sip.
“Don’t you ever get bored of reading that book?” she asked, head peering over my shoulder.
“No, never. I love the absurdity and nonsense. I think of it as a pleasant escape from the dreary headlines in the morning papers. Did you check on the fire? Has it died out yet?”
We had spent the previous night in the little courtyard garden, wrapped in blankets, poking the glowing embers of a fire with sticks, readying the flames for the next article of clothing to be
plucked from a green garbage bag. The final remains of James laid to rest.
“It’s still smoldering. Well, it was when I last looked earlier. I’ll rake the ashes after breakfast and hose it down just to make doubly sure,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it,” I replied, taking her hand and gently kissing the back of it.
—
I’d always known Justine as Justine. Even back in the days as uni students when we used to skip our lectures and go surf a curling left-hand break at Rocky Bay. Both of us sporting identical crew cuts, munching down on hotdogs, sitting on the sand, and laughing about our career prospects.
Somehow we managed to scrape enough marks together to graduate. Justine moved away to New York to take a job as an intern in a law firm. I stayed behind to start a design company, my arts degree framed and hung on the wall of my bedroom.
As the years passed, I had gotten married and divorced, sold my design business, and eventually landed a job as an art director for a top New York advertising agency.
At some point during that time, Justine and I also lost touch with each other.
Until one spring afternoon, while I was eating a hotdog in Central Park, a familiar voice jolted me out of my daydream.
“What are you doing here, you loser?”
I spun around and almost fell off the park bench with surprise. Standing behind me was this gorgeous woman, dressed in a chic navy blue pinstriped jacket and matching skirt. Her long blond hair caught by the wind and a black briefcase held in her hand. I knew who it was in an instant and felt a wave of joy sweep over my body.
We hugged and talked nonstop until the sun went down. Catching up on each other’s news.
Justine was now a partner at a Midtown law firm and had inherited a brownstone on the Upper West Side from a wealthy aunt. I mentioned I was staying in a hotel while hunting for a new rental apartment. She was having none of that and insisted I stay at her place.
One week turned into a month and the rest as they say is history.
—
“Hello, is anyone at home?” Justine waved her hand in front of my face, snapping me out of my daydream.
I reached for my coffee cup and realized it was empty.
“My bad,” Justine giggled. “But you were just staring into space and I couldn’t help myself. I’ll put another pot on.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll go check on the fire while you do that.”
One of the nicest things about a Sunday morning was that feeling of inner peace. Knowing you didn’t have to rush and do anything in particular.
I unbolted the twin glass doors that led into the courtyard, which was a patch of grass with a border of white rose bushes and a green wrought iron outdoor table with two chairs sitting in the middle.
The blackened charred remains of the fire had made a mess of the lawn. Wisps of gray smoke tainting the fresh scent of autumn air. I uncoiled the hose, turned on the squeaky brass tap, and dampened the area with a burst of water. My mind racing back to Saturday morning.
—
We had found the old battered suitcase while cleaning out the attic. One of the many “must-do” tasks we had put off doing for over a year. It had been filled with junk stored by Justine’s deceased aunt, covered in cobwebs and home to a dead rat that we found laying next to a pile of old Vogue magazines.
How the suitcase had ended up in the attic was a mystery to Justine. She thought she had thrown it out long ago but her aunt must have hung on to it.
When I opened it, a shocked expression washed over Justine’s face, like she had come face-to-face with a ghost. Inside were clothes, his clothes, the ones she used to wear when she first arrived in New York and work colleagues knew her as James.
I could see the sadness in Justine’s eyes as she picked through the folded trousers, business shirts, ties, socks, and underwear. It was like we had dug up a time capsule filled with all the memories she had wanted to forget.
Transporting her back to that brief period when living a lie seemed preferable to being true to herself. Before she found the courage to finally become the woman she always was.
I put my arms around Justine and held her tight while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still felt a pang of guilt for not being there for her while she was going through the transformation, the gender realignment therapy and surgery. But like she told me, it was a journey she wanted to do alone and that’s why she had decided to cut off all ties to her previous life. Including me.
We emptied the contents of the suitcase into a large garbage bag and decided to light a fire. We spent the night burning all the clothes while swigging whiskey from a bottle and sharing stories about our old uni days.
I remembered the very first time she told me her big secret. It was at a summer beach party and we had been introduced to each other by a friend of mine. Right from the start, we just clicked.
We ended up smoking a joint in the dunes, watching the waves break. Chatting about surfing, gaming, and other stuff. And then mid-conversation the words suddenly spilled out.
“Have you any idea what it feels like to be a w
oman trapped in the body of a man?”
At first I wasn’t sure how to react. I think I made some kind of stupid joke about how it was just my luck to meet a girl at a party who dressed like a dude. We both laughed and from that point onward I accepted James as Justine and our friendship grew.
But the truth was, I had no idea how it felt to be her; how could I?
—
Justine came out to the courtyard holding a cup of freshly brewed coffee.
A lock of blond hair falling down her forehead, the strands glowing in the sunlight.
“Here you go,” she said handing me the white china cup. Her eyes suddenly spotting the tears rolling down my cheeks. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She took the cup back from my hands and placed it down on the table.
“I’m so sorry.”
I felt her arms wrap around my waist as she pulled me tightly into a warm embrace.
“I’m so sorry, Justine,” I repeated. “I never should have let you go. I should have been there for you, stayed with you, protected you.”
“Stop. Look at me,” she said, cupping my face in the palms of her hands. Her eyes welling up with tears. “You were always there for me and the only thing that matters is that you’re here with me now. It was my decision to leave but it was fate that brought us back together. God, I never thought I would ever get to know what happiness feels like. Never believed for a second I would find true love in this cold and callous world. But I did. We did. I love you. I love you more than life itself.”
—
Her lips pressed against mine and we kissed like never before. A new fire lit, but this time, deep within our hearts.
Both of us tumbling down a rabbit hole where Wonderland waited.
Far away from a past that no longer haunted us.
To this beautiful place.
Where smoke and mirrors ceased to exist.
Thank You
I wrote this book alone, but we have traveled through its pages together.
And although it is time to part ways, I have a feeling we shall meet again.
Maybe back at the beginning of Smoke & Mirrors.
After all, it was written to be read more than once—on glorious sunshine mornings or during those dark stormy nights when sleep seems impossible.
Hopefully our paths will cross in my other books too.
Dirty Pretty Things and Bitter Sweet Love.
Until then, please stay in touch and feel free to share your thoughts and photographs on my Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram pages.
I cannot thank you enough for your kind support.
Much appreciated.
I believe in you.
—Michael xo
Acknowledgments
To my extraordinary literary agent, Al Zuckerman, I cannot thank you enough. You are always there for me when it truly matters and I am in a far better place because of you. Thank you also to Samantha Wekstein and the rest of the team at Writers House, New York.
Thank you so much, Kirsty Melville, Patty Rice, and everyone at Andrews McMeel for your wonderful support and hard work. Smoke & Mirrors is our third book together and I’m delighted
to have you as a partner and traveling companion on yet another exciting journey.
Tinca Veerman, once again your gorgeous artwork is on the cover of my book. I am so grateful for your generosity and incredible talent. Thank you for being you.
To Oliver, my brilliant son who keeps growing taller with every book I write. I love you more than all the hours, minutes, and seconds you spend playing Overwatch.
Mum and Dad, thank you for always keeping the front door open for me, a stunning Swan Valley bottle of red on standby, and a delicious spaghetti bolognese bubbling away on the stove top.
To my grandmother, Doris, who is heading toward 100 years old, I think about you all the time.
To Genevieve, my amazing sister, thanks for your unwavering support and laughter. Ryder, keep writing those strange stories and never let a teacher tell you otherwise.
Thank you to all my friends who keep my wine glass constantly topped up.
And another big thank-you to all my lovely readers.
About the Author
Michael Faudet is the author of the international bestsellers Dirty Pretty Things and Bitter Sweet Love. His whimsical and often erotic writing has captured the hearts and minds of readers from everywhere. Both of his books have been nominated in the Goodreads Choice Awards for Best Poetry. Dirty Pretty Things was selected by Sylvia Whitman, the owner of the iconic Shakespeare and Company bookstore in Paris, as one of her favorite books of 2016.
Before turning his hand to writing books, Michael enjoyed a successful career in advertising as an award-winning executive creative director, managing creative departments in cities around the world.
Michael is represented by Writers House, New York.
He currently lives in New Zealand in a little house by the sea with girlfriend and author Lang Leav.
Index
Introduction
A Beautiful Conundrum
A Beautiful Deception
A Dangerous Sea
All of Me
All the Things
A Long-Distance Relationship
A Memory Captured
A Morning in Paris
A Muse
Anticipation
A Perfect Day
A Rainy Afternoon
A Winter’s Day
Before
Believe
Betrayal
Black and White
Black Stockings
Careless Words
Casablanca
Chance Meeting
Clarity
Cold Comfort
Cry for Me
Damaged Goods
Death
Depression
Destined to Be Yours
Dreaming
Empty Space
Faith
Fame
Far Away
Freedom
Goodbye
Her Voice
Hide-and-Seek
How Can I Move On?
I Dreamt of You
In Your Arms
It Was Over
I Wish
Just Friends
Just Hold Me Tight
Last Summer
Letting Go
Listen to Your Heart
Lonely
Lost Time
Love
Love Yourself
My Fault
My Flower
Never Forget
Nia
Nobody’s Fool
Norwegian Wood
On Any Other Day
One Kiss
One More Touch
Passing Seconds
Passing Years
Pathways
Perspective
Poetry
Pretty Wrists
Rena
Roller Coasters
Romance
Run Away
Sandcastles
Second Best
She Ran
Smoke & Mirrors
Stay Strong
Stay Together
Swept Away
Thank You
The Bedroom
The Curse
The Hanging Tree
The Hunger
The Kitty Club
The Love We Share
The Love You Give
The Meaning of Life
The Missing Sock
The Party
The Words You Say
The Words You Spoke
True Love Waits
We Wandered
Why Clouds Cry
You Lived for Books
Smoke & Mirrors
copyright © 2017 by Michael Faudet. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.
Andrews McMeel Publishing
a division of Andrews McMeel Universal
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106
www.andrewsmcmeel.com
www.michaelfaudet.com
ISBN: 978-1-4494-9006-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017951775
The Fell Types are digitally reproduced by Igino Marini.
www.iginomarini.com
Cover art by Tinca Veerman
www.tincaveerman.com
Editor: Patty Rice
Art Director, Designer: Julie Barnes
Production Editor: David Shaw
Production Manager: Cliff Koehler
Digital Production: Kristen Minter
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