Truly, Madly, Deeply

by Romantic Novelist's Association

  A long-serving wife, and a mother of two outspoken children, Laura is constantly amazed by the question, ‘Are there any plans for tea?’

  Living in and enjoying the inspirational county of Dorset, Laura is a graduate of the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Scheme, a member of her local writing group, Off The Cuff, and one ninth of The Romaniacs.

  Her debut novel Truth or Dare? is published by award-winning Choc Lit.

  For further information, go to:

  www.lauraejames.co.uk

  Bitter Sweet

  Gabriel Stone kept his cocoa-brown eyes on the elegant red-head browsing the exhibits in his chilly workshop.

  The slender, stylish woman had been in every week for the last month, never speaking, only smiling at each item of Gabriel’s work, paying particular attention to the life-sized piece to the rear of the building, the piece covered in silver voile.

  Today, she was studying the hand-carved animals –an elephant and a bear –each wrinkle of skin and every fibre of fur delicately fashioned from the darkest chocolate and laced with wisps of white.

  She pulled her coat together, buttoned it and raised her collar. The sculptor watched her warm breath condense into a small halo inches away from her mouth. He was used to the cold; he’d worked this way for ten years with only fingerless gloves and a woolly hat for extra warmth.

  Using the flat of a knife and the tips of his fingers, he smoothed and caressed his latest work of art, a full-scale sculpture, entitled Venus in Dark Chocolate. His eyes flicked to a reference photograph on the wall, as he made subtle adjustments to the slope of the statue’s nose.

  He could see the redhead in his peripheral vision. She was crouching, examining the gold-leaf chessboard and dark and white chocolate playing pieces.

  ‘How do you stop them from melting?’ Her voice was soft, like caramel, fluid. Soothing. It stopped him dead. The last person to have that effect was his wife, Violet.

  Gabriel straightened up his wiry frame and swallowed, oiling his throat before speaking. ‘It’s just science,’ he said. ‘And refrigerated display counters.’

  As the woman’s head turned, she lost her balance and toppled over. Gabriel threw down his knife, ran across the concrete floor and proffered his hands. She laughed and allowed him to raise her up.

  ‘Your hands are warm,’ she said, still holding them.

  ‘And yours are frozen.’ He saw her cream skin rippled red with cold. These were the first hands he’d held since Violet’s. It made for a peculiar mixture of emotions; he could taste the sour citrus of betrayal folded with the sweet syrup of desire. On the back of his tongue, separated, was the bitter almond of guilt.

  He and the woman stood like two exhibits, staring intently at one another.

  Gabriel spoke first. ‘Drink?’ He let her hands down, led the way to his small office and poured milk from his battered fridge into an old pan. He ignited a single-ringed camping stove seated on the worktop, placed the pan on the heat and reached for the crumpled packet of sugar slumped against the kettle. ‘Would you pass that, please?’ He pointed to an opened bar of chocolate on the compact, square table. The woman obliged and he placed it next to the hob. ‘Please, sit.’

  She pulled her coat straight and took the only seat. ‘So you’re Gabe Stone, the Chocolate Sculptor?’ She stared at him.

  Only Violet called him Gabe. The rawness of the cold air stung his eyes and he blinked to dilute the pain. ‘Gabriel,’ he corrected, and through his misted vision he saw the woman nod.

  ‘Gabriel. I’m Rose.’ She held out her graceful hand and this time Gabriel shook it and released it, immediately turning his attention to the sugar in his other hand. He poured it into the hot milk and stirred with a wooden spoon he’d pulled from a drawer, and although his back was turned, he knew Rose was watching. Violet always did. He returned the sugar to its resting place, left the spoon in the pan and picked up the bar of chocolate, breaking it into small chunks and dropping them into the frothing mass.

  ‘Damn!’ He screwed up the empty foil and aimed it at the sink. ‘It’s sugar last.’ He clenched his jaw. Towards the end of Violet’s life, this was the only way she could take chocolate and Gabriel’s mistake was proof he should not be making the drink for another woman. He heard Rose scrape her chair back and felt the air around him move. She took the spoon and began stirring.

  ‘It smells amazing,’ she said.

  Gabriel let out a long, deep breath, turned around and leaned against the sink. ‘It’ll taste like carob.’ He shook his head and then stared at the floor. How had he allowed himself to be distracted by Rose? He pulled off his hat, ran a hand through his salty dark hair and looked into the pan. ‘It’s done.’ He watched as Rose dispensed the drink into two mugs.

  Before she became ill, Violet liked to pour. ‘Let me do that,’ she had said. ‘Let me look after you.’

  ‘I’ve tasted filthy carob, Gabriel, and it was nothing like this,’ Rose said.

  Her words cut across Gabriel’s thoughts. He raised his eyes in surprise and his lips twitched into a tiny smile. ‘You think carob’s vile too?’

  She quickly swallowed. ‘Vile? It’s sinful. Seventy percent is as low as I like my cocoa solids.’ She winked. ‘But this? This is heavenly. Who taught you to make it?’ She took another sip.

  He was moved by the pleasure in Rose’s voice and exhilarated by the way her words discharged like popping candy. Before he could check himself he replied, ‘My wife, Violet. She was a master chocolatier.’ He stopped. He had spoken Violet’s name and he had spoken it to another woman. What was the punishment for betrayal? Divine retribution? He scrunched up his face, closed his eyes and waited. He winced as a hot hand touched his arm.

  ‘Gabriel? Are you OK? You’re marble white.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He eased open his eyes.

  Rose placed her mug on the sink and guided him to the chair. ‘You have an exceptional talent.’

  Gabriel scratched his head. ‘For making a fool of myself?’ When his question was met with silence, he looked at Rose. The concern in her eyes at once gladdened and saddened him.

  ‘Tell me about your wife.’

  Her syrupy tone delivered brittle words and Gabriel’s stomach churned as it siphoned the blood from his face. There was no chocolate on the planet as white as he felt. ‘I can’t.’

  Rose perched on the edge of the table and picked up Gabriel’s hat. ‘Do you never feel the cold?’

  There was a question. He felt the cold every night in the frostiness of the empty house and the chill of the cotton bed-sheets. Winter and summer, January winds blasted through his mind, leaving a trail of icy dreams and frozen memories. ‘Not when I’m working,’ he said eventually.

  He surveyed Rose as she handed over his hat and flicked back her red hair. With that glorious head of fire he would be engulfed in flames. His nights would hold warmth once more.

  She pushed off from the table and walked to the door. ‘Show me your favourite piece, Gabriel.’

  Thrown by the sudden change in pace, he faltered. ‘I…have a few.’

  Rose swirled round, her green eyes glistening like Christmas frosting. ‘I only want to see one. The one. The one that makes your heart swell, the one that steals your breath. The one you love.’

  Gabriel shivered. She wanted to see Violet.

  Rose knelt before him and touched his fingertips. ‘Please, Gabriel. Show me. Then I’ll go.’

  He looked into her crystallised Key lime eyes, at once sweet and sour; she was an angelic, wicked living contradiction, who brought hope and damnation.

  ‘Gabriel. You need to see her.’

  Her words, textured with silk, floated through his mind. He hadn’t looked upon his wife in five years.

  His hands were lifted and his body followed. This woman could lead him anywhere. They drifted through the workshop to the covered statue, where they stood hand in hand.

  The voile wasn’t dense enough to entire
ly conceal the sculpture, but it obscured its finer features. Reminiscent of their wedding day, Gabriel gently removed the veil, revealing a flawless, single-breasted female. He heard Rose draw a breath. ‘This is Violet,’ he whispered.

  ‘Oh, Gabriel. She’s beautiful.’

  ‘She is.’ He gazed upon the sculpture just as he’d gazed upon Violet in life. He loved every inch of her –her long black hair, her liquorice eyes, two breasts, one breast –it made no difference. He turned to Rose. ‘We loved chocolate, we ate it, we drank it, we even bathed in it, but it couldn’t save her. We thought the antioxidants would fight the disease.’ He focused his attention on the statue once more.

  ‘Chocolate heals,’ Rose said. ‘You still believe that.’

  He acceded: his faith had never cracked.

  ‘Then let Violet fix you.’

  Compelled to comply, Gabriel touched Violet’s bronzed face and searched her truffle eyes for answers.

  But Violet wasn’t looking at him.

  He followed her line of sight to his hand. The hand entwined in Rose’s. His healing had begun. He glanced back at the statue. Had he sculpted that smile?

  One Night

  Mandy Baggot

  Mandy Baggot

  MANDY BAGGOT writes strong contemporary romance and feel-good fiction. Previously self-published, she became a full member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association in 2012.

  In November 2012 she won the coveted Innovation in Romantic Fiction award at the UK’s Festival of Romance. Her novel, Strings Attached, was also shortlisted for Best Author-Published Read.

  In June 2013 she signed with HarperCollins’ romance imprint, Harper Impulse.

  Dedicated to supporting other authors and book bloggers, Mandy also writes articles for online magazines and blogs.

  Mandy is a self-confessed social media addict. She has auditioned for X Factor, appeared on ITV1’s Who Dares Sings and longs to duet with Bryan Adams. She also has a fondness for white wine, mashed potato, country music and World’s Strongest Man.

  Mandy lives near Salisbury in Wiltshire, UK, with her husband, two daughters and two cats called Kravitz and Springsteen.

  Find out more on Mandy’s website

  http://mandybaggot.com

  One Night

  He was a show-off. He loved the sound of his own voice. Here he was again, bragging about his latest triumph on the pool table. Yadda, yadda, yadda, boring, boring, boring. Why didn’t he ever get fed up of telling everyone how marvellous he was? And the repetition! Everyone knew at least half a dozen times over that he’d once played a round of golf with Justin Rose. The whole pub also knew he used to be an amateur boxing champion and that he was a black belt in karaoke –yes, pun intended, he even thought he was Jason Manford.

  I hated the way he ran his thick fingers through his hair every five seconds, as if trying to highlight the fact he still had some. He had to be almost forty and he was still rocking the Jon Bon Jovi look like it was en vogue. It might have been in the late eighties/early nineties, but not now and definitely not in rural Wiltshire.

  His checked shirt, the lumberjack kind, clung to his broad chest and the sleeves, as always, were rolled up to show off his arms. He had pecs that were taut and tanned from outdoor work –not really impressive –and his jeans were one size too tight, showing he had legs that worked out –so what?

  His eyes were blue, I thought, not that I cared, and he was laughing again. Clown. What was so funny all the time? He obviously loved the sound of his own laugh almost as much as the sound of his own voice. Show-off. Big, fat, stuck in the eighties, show-off.

  He raised his pint glass and looked my way. Yes, his eyes were blue and I didn’t like the way they were scrutinising me right now. They weren’t just looking at me, they were looking into me and it made me feel uncomfortable. But I couldn’t look away. Why couldn’t I look away? I hated him. He was so annoying. A know-it-all, a Jack the Lad –if the stories were to be believed –someone who loved them and left them and bragged about it. Not that I had ever heard him brag about it. But that’s what he was like, it must be. He bore all the hallmarks and then some.

  I clutched my wine glass and tried to draw my eyes away from his. I couldn’t do it. Come on, Lizzie, move your eyes away from the blonde-haired, broad-chested replica of a member of Van Halen –you can do it! You don’t want to look at him. What could possibly be fascinating about him? None of his clothes fitted properly, he started belching before pint number five, and thought it was hilarious, he was uncouth, ill-mannered and…hot as hell.

  What?! Where had that thought come from? Lizzie Dawson you need therapy! Ricky Western is not a romantic possibility. He is not someone to lust after, daydream about or kid yourself that one day he might look your way for longer than it takes to order another round. No. No way, no thank you, non merci, nein, not on your Nellie.

  I swallowed a large boulder that had somehow taken up residence in my throat, pushing it back down into my chest cavity before inhaling another mouthful of wine.

  He was laughing again now, not looking at me, splitting his sides with his group of equally awful friends including one Darren Martin.

  Darren had been mine once upon a time. It felt like another lifetime ago. He’d taken me in, told me I was beautiful, said he loved me, and I was stupid enough to believe him. That’s what you did when you didn’t know any better. Most normal people didn’t tell lies, most people were honest and most people didn’t ask you to marry them and then conduct an affair with your best friend when they were supposed to be choosing the design of the wedding invitations.

  Clones. The whole group of men hanging around the pool table, thinking they were God’s gift to women, were all clones of Darren Martin: liars, users, abusers, men not to be trusted. I had someone special now. I had Adrian and I was happy.

  Adrian understood me. Adrian listened when I talked. Adrian had never told me I looked beautiful but I knew he thought it. Sometimes you don’t need things to be said to know they’re meant. Adrian’s my world and I don’t need anyone else in it thank you very much. Especially not Ricky Western.

  He started to come towards the bar and I panicked. Where is he going? The toilets aren’t this way and he still has half a pint left in his glass. Hide. I couldn’t hide, I was sat on a bar stool. Leave. No, this was the first night I’d had out in ages. Ignore him. He meant nothing to me anyway.

  ‘Hello, Lizzie.’

  God, that voice. It was awful. Deep and gravelly –it grated on you. What to say?

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  He sat down on the bar stool next to me. His knee touched mine and I flinched, electric sparks shooting down the length of my back; obviously static from his polyester shirt or his hair products.

  ‘No thank you, I’m not staying long.’

  Aren’t I? I had intended to stay as long as it took to get completely pissed, before picking up a Chinese takeaway and going home to see if Adrian was awake.

  ‘How are things? I haven’t seen you in a while.’

  What was this? Concern? We’d never been friends, just passing acquaintances really, people who mumbled a greeting in the street, not even close on Facebook. He was a friend of Darren’s and that meant he wasn’t a friend of mine. It had to be that way.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I almost spat the words from my mouth. Was that venom in my tone? You don’t feel anything for him, Lizzie. Remember?

  ‘And Adrian?’

  The mention of his name brought a smile to my lips I couldn’t stop forming. Adrian was so different to anyone else I’d met and he was going to make me a better person.

  Ricky put his strong hand over mine and squeezed my fingers in his palm. His touch was hot, reassuring, comforting, sensual. I couldn’t move my hand from his. I didn’t want to.

  ‘I know,’ he whispered, leaning forward on his seat.

  I felt his words touch my cheeks as the air left his mouth. His eyes met mine and involunt
ary tears slipped down my cheeks.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I tried, but I knew it was too late.

  ‘Let me in,’ he continued.

  Let him in? What did he mean by that? I’d let him in, a year ago. I’d let him into my house, I’d let him into parts of me that hadn’t been touched since Darren. I still remembered every detail and had replayed it over and over in my mind. I’d undressed him, I’d taken off a green shirt, unbuttoned his fly, inched down his Calvin Kleins and let him touch every inch of me. I closed my eyes now and took a deep breath, recalling his lips on my skin, his hands wrapped in mine, both of us clutching the bedding and calling out.

  ‘I love you, Lizzie.’

  Stop. Don’t say that. You don’t mean that and I don’t want you to mean that. I don’t even like you, I hate you. You slept with me and you said you’d call and you did call and you called and called and called and I didn’t answer because I wouldn’t put myself in that position again. You’re just the same as Darren, Darren who hurt me, Darren your friend.

  I took my hand from his, letting his fingers drop to the bar and placed both hands over my ears. I looked stupid but I couldn’t listen to anything else he said. It was all pretence; this was just about Adrian, because I was happy now. Now I was happy he wanted to spoil it. Well, I couldn’t let him spoil it.

  ‘This isn’t about Adrian, this is about us.’

  No. There was no ‘us’, never was, never will be, it was one night, one stupid mistake, I blame it on the brandy and coke.

  ‘Speak to me, Lizzie.’

  The tone of his voice made me look up, made me meet those piercing blue eyes with mine. Ricky Western, sat with me in the pub, talking about a relationship. Wasn’t that what I had dreamt about for so long even though I shouldn’t have? Hadn’t I always wanted him because he was different, because he was out of the ordinary, confident, unashamedly retro.