Harper Bliss

Lesbian fiction

PREVIEW: The Duet

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The Duet by Harper Bliss

The Duet will be out on 4 May 2022.

You can pre-order the ebook here >>

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

The Duet
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE
LANA

To do any of this without Joan by my side is like doing it with a limb cut off, or worse, a torn vocal cord. I only feel like half a person. Like the better part of me is still missing. Our new single is called “The Better Part of Me” for a reason.

“I’m so stoked,” Billie says. “Let’s do this.”

The Lady Kings recruited Billie as Joan’s replacement almost a year ago. I should be used to her by now. I am in some ways, but in many others, she will never be Joan. The best guitarist to ever walk this earth, in my ultra-biased opinion, with the nimblest of fingers—and I should know.

What distance remains between Billie and me will soon be obliterated by the tour we’re about to embark on. A two-month cross-country journey will do that to you. All boundaries are about to be shattered. But first, we’re checking out our support band, The Other Women, and the show they’ll be opening with every night. They’d better bring it. I haven’t come to watch a rehearsal. The Lady Kings are here to experience a proper performance.

Our tour manager, Andy, greets us at the entrance of the Hollywood Bowl. The first concert of The Lady Kings reunion tour—if you want to call it that—will be a home game. I can’t even remember how many times we’ve played this venue. For The Other Women, I think it might be the first. I try to remember my first time on this particular stage, but it’s too long ago. Too many years have passed and too many things have happened since. Like our guitarist dying.

Most of the crew are here. Some have been with us for decades; some I will get better acquainted with soon enough.

We’ve only settled into our seats when there is movement on the stage. They don’t want to keep us waiting. Good. My expectations are high and low at the same time. I wouldn’t have picked The Other Women as our opening act myself, but according to everyone at our record company, it makes perfect sense. Truth be told, I don’t even know why we need an opening act at all. We’re The Lady Kings, for crying out loud. When I come on, the crowd goes from cold to hot in a split second. I’ve always known how to light up an audience. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. But times change and The Lady Kings haven’t toured for over ten years.

So, here we are. Poised for The Other Women. We’re not coming into this cold. We’ve watched their clips on YouTube. We’ve had their songs on repeat on Spotify. We’ve pored over their pictures and bios.

Roy, our manager since we started out in the early nineties, said, “Fact is, you may need them more than they need you.”

“We’ll see about that,” Deb, our drummer, replied.

“I’m feeling my age.” Sam, our bass player, is looking at the stage as The Other Women take their places. “How old are these kids again?”

“Twenty-something,” Billie says. “With an enormous fan base.”

“Evening,” the lead singer says into the mic, only to be met with an ear-piercing wave of reverb. She steps back and waits until she gets a thumbs-up from one of the sound techs. “Let’s try that again.” If she’s intimidated by having all current members of The Lady Kings and their entourage staring at her from the front row of an otherwise empty Hollywood Bowl, she hides it well. “It’s an honor to play for such rock royalty tonight. Thank you for taking us on tour with you. We promise not to let you down.”

“Polite as well,” Sam mumbles in my ear. “I didn’t know they still made young people like that.”

“Certainly politer than we were at their age,” Deb says.

I let them talk and keep my gaze trained on Cleo Palmer, lead singer of The Other Women. We look nothing alike, yet she reminds me of myself many moons ago, when The Lady Kings took the music world by storm. When audiences couldn’t get enough of us. When security guards had to form a human shield around us after every show so we could get from the stage door onto the tour bus without being grabbed by delirious fans. Long bygone days.

Our fans have aged with us and, so I’ve been told, these days, meet and greets with the band are official add-ons when you buy a ticket for the show. I’ll be curious to see how that goes once the tour starts.

“You may know this first song,” Cleo says. “It’s called ‘Like No One Else.’”

“No fucking way,” Sam says.

“The nerve of these kids,” Deb adds.

“They reel you in with their seemingly polite ways,” Billie says.

I have to laugh at their brazenness. “Like No One Else” is only The Lady Kings’ most iconic song. Our biggest hit. And our support act are starting their set with a cover version. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended.

“This better be good,” someone from the crew shouts.

The Other Women respond by playing the first chords of our song.

“Are they even all women?” I hear someone say behind me. “That bass player doesn’t look like a woman to me. Come to think of it, that drummer…”

A female voice shushes them—even when you’re in an all-female band, the men around you still need to be told to shut up sometimes.

I barely notice the bassist or the drummer, or The Other Women’s guitarist, who lays down a mean riff Joan would have approved of. My eyes are glued exactly where they’re supposed to be. I’m getting confirmation of what I’ve known since I was introduced to The Other Women. Cleo Palmer was born for the stage. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. Her presence, the way she uses her voice, how her body writhes against the microphone stand, the dramatically held high note at the end of the chorus. It’s all there and it commands all my attention.

There’s no denying it. Cleo Palmer is a star. Maybe Roy was right. Maybe we’re the lucky ones getting to tour with them and not the other way around.

By the time the song ends, they’ve already won over every person in tonight’s small audience.

“Fuck. They’re good,” Billie says.

“They are,” I confirm, as an idea sprouts in my head. If we’re going to be touring with The Other Women, with someone like Cleo Palmer, we might as well make good use of them.

 

CHAPTER TWO
CLEO

Opening our show with The Lady Kings’ biggest hit was a bold move. But I didn’t get into this business to be a good girl and only do what is expected of me. On the contrary. And boy, was it a thrill to look into Lana Lynch’s face as I sang the hell out of that song. I’ve had years of practice. When we formed our band, it was the first song we taught ourselves to play—although this is the first time we’ve played it in front of an audience. I hope Lana was impressed.

I cast her one last glance as I let the final note of our set die in my throat. We’re no longer used to playing for such a tiny audience, but they make up for it by giving us a massive applause. Lana holds her hands above her head as she claps for us. Did she just give me a nod of approval? I’m about to find out.

“Thank you. It was such a pleasure. Can’t wait to play here again in a few days.” I tap two fingers to my forehead in a salute and head off the stage.

Backstage, I’m joined by my bandmates.

“That was so tight,” Daphne says. “You smashed it.” I exchange a high-five with our guitarist. Tim and Jess follow hot on her heels.

“Do you think we impressed them?” Judging by the smirk on Tim’s face, it’s not a question.

“Fuck, yeah.”

“Cleo?” I turn around. “Lana would like a word,” Roy, The Lady Kings’ manager, says. “Whenever you have a minute.”

“The King wants to see you,” Daphne says. “Best not keep her waiting.”

“Argh,” Jess groans. She’s had a crush on Lana Lynch forever.

“Come with me,” I offer.

Jess huffs out some air. “We’re going on tour with them. I’m sure I’ll get my moment with Lana.”

“Go,” Tim says. “You must have dazzled the fuck out of her.”

I follow Roy to the front stage where Lana is surrounded by the other members of her band. This won’t be a solo audience then.

“Way to go,” The Lady Kings’ new guitarist, Billie, says, and gives me a thumbs-up.

“Can I steal you for a minute?” Even when she speaks, Lana’s voice is low and gravelly.

“Of course.”

“How daring.” We walk up a few steps. “To kick off with ‘Like No One Else.’”

“It’s a tribute, of course.” When I’m talking to Lana Lynch, I don’t care if I sound like the ultimate fangirl—all of us in the band would cite The Lady Kings as one of our defining influences.

“You did it justice, and it gave me an idea.” Lana leans against a bench.

“Thanks.” It’s still surreal that we’ll be touring with our idols. We were gearing up for a headline tour with our own support act, but we happily gave up on that for a chance to tour with the Kings. All four of us, unanimously, in a heartbeat.

“You might have heard of this duet I’ve done with Isabel Adler,” Lana says.

“Your long-awaited comeback single.” I’m trying to keep my cool. I’ve only had ‘I Should Have Kissed You’ on repeat since it was released—not something I would ever have expected of a song featuring Isabel Adler. “I love it.”

“Yeah, so… on the tour, how about you and I sing it together?” Lana fixes her dark gaze on me.

“For real?”

“Yeah.” She bats her lashes once.

“Sure, I mean, if you think that I’m up to that.” There’s not a lot left of my earlier bravado.

“Good.” She plunges her hands into her pockets. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think you were up to it.”

“Okay. Thanks. Yes, let’s do it.”

“We should get some serious rehearsal time in. The tour kicks off in three days. I need to talk to the band, but I was thinking we could add it as the last encore. Send people home with some good vibes.”

Some good lesbian vibes, I almost say, but catch myself. Although I don’t know why. Surely, I could say something like that to Lana. But I don’t know her all that well—yet.

“Sure,” I say, instead of all the things I’m thinking. I can hardly blame myself for this starstruck moment. Lana Lynch and The Lady Kings are rock legends and my band are not only going to be opening the show for them; I’m actually going to be on stage with Lana.

“Can you come to my house tomorrow?” If Lana’s excited by this at all, she’s not letting on. Then again, she’s known for being cool as a cucumber under the hottest circumstances. “We’ll do a few run-throughs without the band first. See how our voices match.” Sounds as though Lana’s got this all figured out without talking to the other members of The Lady Kings.

“Of course. Just let me know when and I’ll be there.” Never mind that I have a million little things to take care of before we leave town for two months. I’ll just do them in less time. Even if I didn’t want to get off on the best possible foot with Lana, I’d still cancel everything for a chance to spend a few hours singing with her.

“Roy will give you all the details. Thanks, kid.”

Kid. Jesus. So much for me beginning to think of us as equals.

“You’ve got the right stuff. Any fool can see that.”

Oh, fuck. There’s the blush. Damn you, pale Irish skin. The last thing I wanted was to blush in front of Lana Lynch. Luckily, it’s completely dark, and where we’re standing is not well lit.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

Lana just nods, then walks off.

Even though I take a few deep breaths, I’m still beside myself when I join my bandmates. I tell them what Lana asked.

“No freaking way,” Jess says. “Why can’t I sing like you, darn it.” Jess has always refused to swear with us.

“Fuck. You’re going to be on stage with them.” Tim is practically jumping up and down.

“It’s not a done deal yet,” I say. “Going over to Lana’s tomorrow is more like an audition than anything else.”

“Give yourself a break, Cleo,” Daphne says. “Lana knows what you can do with your voice. You must have impressed her tonight. That’s why she asked you. Besides, they’d be crazy not to put that song on their set list. It’s been at the top of the charts for months. It’s probably the reason they’re touring again.”

“We’ll see.” Heat glows within me. I can’t wait for tomorrow. “Drinks are on me tonight. Come on.”

We head to our favorite Silver Lake hangout spot, where I try to calm my nerves with way too many shots.

<<End of preview>>

The Duet will be available on Wednesday 4 May 2022 from all retailers.
The audio, narrated by Abby Craden, will follow later this year.

PREVIEW: That Woman Next Door

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That Woman Next Door will be out on 23 September 2021.

You can pre-order the ebook here >>

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

That Woman Next Door
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE
MARIE

I kill the engine and stare at the house. It looks so desolate in the middle of winter. Maybe depressing is a better way to describe it. After all, there’s a reason we call it a summer house. Why couldn’t my family have bought a place in Provence, I wonder for the umpteenth time since I started the drive down from Brussels this morning. Along grey road after grey road, with no prospect of any new growth, for months to come. But I didn’t come here for fun. I came to cold, wet, rural Brittany on the first day of the new year with the single purpose of punishing myself. Of looking inside myself to find out if I still have it in me to continue doing what I do after what happened.

I suck in a deep breath and get out of the car. As I lift my suitcase out of the boot, a gust of wind whips up my hair, which I had cut a few days ago to look my best for my self-inflicted exile. To what end? There’s no one here to see me. My mother warned me the internet might be too spotty for a successful Skype connection, after she asked me, again, whether I, a purebred city person, was absolutely certain I wanted to sequester myself in Brittany.

I could have escaped to an exotic beach. Or ventured on a coast-to-coast road trip through the United States. Or embarked on a Scottish castle tour. But I chose wintery Brittany because, for the first time in my life, I’m not choosing excitement. I have to say no to anything thrilling. I have to create the time and space I need to evaluate what has occurred. I need to find out how it could have happened and if it will again.

I know myself. Put me anywhere amongst a group of people and I will pick out the most attractive woman and have her in my bed in no time. Or maybe I’ve lost that skill as well.

It doesn’t matter here. There are no people around. Our house is the only one on this road, although, through the barren trees, I can spot another house around the corner, about a hundred metres away. Distant enough to not have to see or hear the people living there, if anyone lives there at all at this time of year.

I unlock the door and am greeted by a cold blast almost as harsh as the temperature outside. I quickly close the door behind me. At least it looks the way I like—renovated to today’s standards, at my insistence.

I think of my warm, gorgeous apartment overlooking the Ixelles Ponds in Brussels. The light that streams in through the large windows even in winter. I shiver. Up until a few years ago, this house’s only means of heating was a fireplace, which may sound romantic, but is anything but when you run out of logs in the middle of the night. Or when you wake up in the morning and your buttocks nearly freeze to the toilet seat.

But I couldn’t do the kind of penance I’m after in Brussels, surrounded by the luxury of my daily life and the convenience of a city. Something had to be stripped away. Something major had to give. The house in Brittany was the first place that came to mind and here I am, trembling inside my coat, on the dreariest winter day. For some reason, I felt like I needed to arrive on the first day of the new year. As though it matters. As though I have to start an actual prison sentence mandated by the courts instead of this self-inflicted punishment I have chosen.

I switch on the thermostat but keep my coat on. It will take a while before it’s warm enough for me to relax. I transfer the rest of my stuff from the car into the house and unload the groceries I brought. I’ll have oceans of time to dedicate to cooking because there are no food delivery services to the middle of nowhere.

After I’ve dragged my suitcase upstairs and unpacked most of my clothes, I stand in front of the bedroom window. When there are no leaves on the trees, the house around the corner is visible from here. Because I’m already starting to feel like the only person left on the planet, even though I’ve only just arrived, I desperately search for a sign of life inside the house. I don’t see any lights glowing behind the windows, but there’s smoke coming from the chimney. Even though I’ve been coming to Brittany on and off for decades, I have no idea who lives in that house.

I’ve always considered my family’s holiday home a house without neighbours. In summer, it kind of is. When the days are long and the nights warm, and you can sit outside in the lush garden until well after dark, neighbours are of no importance. And I’ve never come here on my own. It’s always been with either family or a short-term love interest—the longer-term kind has never interested me until…

I take a moment to remember the last woman I was with. It was the night before the day everything went wrong. I shake off the memory of Véronique—again—although I know I will have to deal with it at some point. After the investigation into what happened in the operating theatre cleared me, the hospital administrator advised me to see someone to help me process the incident. I chose to take a leave of absence instead. I don’t want anyone’s help. I want to solve this crisis of conscience—and confidence—that’s waging a filthy war inside me by myself. It didn’t feel fair to accept any kind of assistance because for the woman who died on my operating table, there is no more help. For her, it’s all over forever. So why should I deserve any kind of help in dealing with what I did?

The lights in the cottage beyond the trees flickers on. For an instant, I consider switching the bedroom lamp on and off to signal my presence. Instead, I think I might take a walk over there tomorrow.

 

CHAPTER TWO
OLIVIA

My feet hit the treadmill in such a satisfying way today. This is why I run, I think, while my fists pump the air in a rhythmic motion. To feel like I’m flying. To feel strong. To feel like I can do anything. I increase the speed so I can go a little faster, so I can empty my tank. Even though I’ve already run more than seven kilometres, my feet can still easily keep up.

My treadmill sits in front of a window with a view out over the fields at the back of my house. I only ever see animals. Mostly birds and cows. Or my cats, who like to wait for me to open the door for them instead of squeezing through the cat flap—they’re princesses like that.

What the—? Something much larger than Deneuve and Huppert’s furry bodies darkens the window. My already elevated heart rate shoots up a notch. What the hell is happening? I press the red emergency button on the treadmill to make it stop. Who on earth is this person with the audacity to trespass on my property and walk around my house? I’m not expecting any deliveries today. I prefer to group them as much as I can and have them delivered to the supermarket in town, where I can pick them up at my own convenience instead of having my day disturbed by someone showing up at my door.

A woman wrapped in one of those long puffy coats stares at me through the window. She waves as though I’m supposed to know her. I don’t recognise her from the village and I’m certain I’m not related to her—not that any member of my family would show up at my house in the middle of any given Wednesday afternoon.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I feel cornered. My first instinct is to leave the room and hide upstairs. She doesn’t look like she’s in distress, although I guess her car could have broken down, her mobile phone might have died, and my house might have been the first one she came across. Maybe she does need help. I take a deep, shuddering breath to pull myself together.

The woman tilts her head. She’s probably wondering why I haven’t opened the door yet. I suppose I no longer have a choice—as if I ever had one. I drape a towel over my shoulders because I’m dripping with sweat. That’s an excellent run ruined. I’m supposed to be in the delightful throes of runner’s high right about now, but thanks to this intruder, I’ve been robbed of the highlight of my day.

I open the door and greet her with an unwelcoming glare. I’m not the type to give strangers a hearty welcome. A fact that’s been held against me many times, yet I haven’t changed.

“Bonjour,” she says. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your run.” She hardly comes across as very apologetic. She looks Parisian with her expensive haircut and cashmere pashmina, but her accent is different. “I arrived at the house around the corner yesterday and I noticed signs of life here.”

“Yes?” This is not making any sense to me at all. The only other house in a five-kilometre radius is a holiday home owned by some rich Belgians who visit a few times over the summer. I’ve never had any dealings with them and none of them have previously bothered me before.

“I just wanted to introduce myself.” The woman extends her hand. “Marie Dievart. Enchantée.”

“Hello.” I give her hand the quickest shake I can. My palms are still sweaty. My body is cooling off too quickly standing in the door like this. None of this is ideal. Least of all this woman who wants something from me that I’m unable to figure out. “Olivia.” As I wipe my sweaty hand on my leggings, a visible shiver runs up my spine. I pull the towel around my shoulders ostentatiously.

“You’ll catch a cold if you don’t cover up,” Marie Dievart says matter-of-factly.

Duh! All I want is to close the door in her face. Wait? Is she expecting me to invite her inside my house?

“Don’t worry. I’m a doctor,” she says, as if that makes any difference.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I need to shower.”

“Oh, okay.” She studies me with an unnerving intensity. “Would you like to come round to my house later for coffee or a glass of wine?”

“What?” Why would she even think that’s what I want? “Who are you again and what are you doing here?”

“I’m so sorry, Olivia.” She has a very personable manner. She looks like she wants to grab my hand again but has decided against it last-minute—thank goodness. “I’ll be staying at my family’s holiday home for a few months, so I figured that would make us neighbours. I thought it only polite to introduce myself formally.”

“A few months? In the middle of winter?” I shiver again. My sweat-drenched top is ice cold against my skin.

Marie nods. “I need the time away from… my life,” she says.

“Okay, well, have a good stay.” I attempt to close the door hoping she’ll get the hint.

“You don’t want to have that glass of wine? I have an amazing Nuits-Saint-Georges waiting to be uncorked.”

A wine snob on top of an abrasive trespasser. I shake my head. “No, but thanks for asking.”

I’m about to close the door on this woman entirely, but she regards me so intently, it’s as though she wants to undo my wish to shut her out just by looking at me. Her eyes are a peculiar kind of green. Her cheekbones are alpine. Oh, I get it. She’s one of those women who is so attractive they’re used to always getting exactly what they want. She probably can’t fathom that I’m not interested in sharing a posh bottle of wine with her.

“I’d hate to have to drink it alone.” Her voice is sweet as honey.

“Shouldn’t have come here on your own then.” I feel something furry rub against my legs. Huppert slips outside and then just sits there, attracting attention—her favourite activity apart from sleeping.

“What a cutie.” Marie crouches down to make Huppert’s acquaintance.

If only Deneuve had decided to come to my rescue. She wouldn’t have any of this. She probably would have swatted Marie Dievart’s perfectly manicured hand away if she’d tried to pet her. But not Huppert, who can’t get enough of the attention. She’s purring, for heaven’s sake. “What’s your name then?” the woman asks my cat, as though she can reply to that question with anything other than a meow.

I need to cut this short. If I stay exposed much longer, I’ll be out with a cold for days, or even worse, bronchitis. Heaven forbid I need to see a doctor. I wouldn’t want to have to call on my new neighbour, while she was the one who made me sick in the first place. That would be too ironic.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” I say, trying to add a polite smile. I can’t help but, very briefly, wonder what I look like to this stranger, with my sweat-drenched clothes and my hair matted against my head. She must be very lonely to be inviting the likes of me to her place.

“Okay. Sure.” She looks like she’s about to admit defeat. She turns to walk away, but before I can close the door properly, she turns to me, and asks, “Is this how everyone here is? Is it a Breton thing, this unwelcoming attitude? Just so I know what to expect for the rest of my stay.”

“You’re asking the wrong person.” As I say it, I’m aware of how utterly rude I’m sounding—and being.

“Clearly.” She does walk away now.

I guess that, once again, I failed to make a new friend. I couldn’t care less.

<<End of preview>>

That Woman Next Door will be available on Thursday 23 September 2021 from all retailers. (The audio, narrated by Abby Craden, will follow later this year.)

 

PREVIEW: About That Kiss

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About That Kiss will be out on 27 July 2021.

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

About That Kiss
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE
FAYE

“Tell me again why I’m doing this, darling?” I ask Brandon.

He flicks his long hair behind his shoulder and looks me straight in the eye. “You’re doing it for me, Faye.”

Why this man isn’t an A-list actor yet, I have no idea. He delivers the line with the authenticity of the best in the business.

“That’s right. It’s all for you.” I paint on a smile, which flees my face as the car comes to an abrupt halt.

Brandon waves it off with a flick of his wrist. “Los Angeles traffic.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It must be Leslie. She promised she’d call me on the way to the table read. I wonder which of her two top clients she called first—me or Ida Burton?

“Hi, Faye, you’re going to kill it in the read-through. I know it.”

“Thanks, Leslie.”

“I just got off the phone with Ida.” That answers my question then. “She’s looking forward to it a lot.”

“Is she?” Even if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have told the agent we share. She’s probably as nervous as I am. Three Best Actor Oscars on my mantel don’t make any difference to my trepidation on the way to the very first table read, especially for a movie like this one. It doesn’t help that my co-star, Ida Burton, has four golden statuettes to her name.

“Of course, she is. Everyone’s excited about this. The whole of Hollywood is buzzing.”

“Christ, Leslie. What did you have for breakfast this morning?”

“My usual three espressos,” she says with a level tone.

“Okay.” I could barely stomach the nut-and-berry mix Brandon prepares for me every morning. “Good to know.”

“Call me if you need anything,” Leslie says. “I’m always here for you.”

Because there isn’t that much else to say, we end the conversation. I glance at Brandon for comfort. He isn’t just my personal assistant, but also one of the most entertaining people I know, which says a lot when you work in Hollywood. He’s very good at giving pep talks when I need them, but he also, instinctively, knows when it’s best to shut up.

He leans toward me and puts his hand on my knee. “Playing gay is all the rage these days. And the script is hilarious. For once, it’s not one of those bleak movies where the lesbians stomp through their lives looking like they’re never getting any.” He sends me a smile. “Hollywood has finally realized that lesbians can have a sense of humor too.” He follows up with a chuckle.

“It’s not playing a lesbian that’s got me so wound up. It’s playing one opposite Ida Burton.” In the first half of the movie, my character, Mindy, is straight as an arrow.

“Ida Burton hasn’t been in a hit movie in over a decade. If anything, she should be worried about starring in a movie with you.” He shrugs. “She’s practically B-list now.” He brings a hand in front of his mouth, as though suddenly realizing his utter sacrilege.

“We both know Ida Burton will never come close to being B-list, no matter how little her movies gross.”

“You never know,” Brandon says. “This town can be cruel.”

The car comes to a complete stop. We’ve arrived at the hotel where the A New Day table read is taking place. The driver opens the door for us. I take a deep breath and get out. A member of the production staff is waiting for me. I follow her inside, Brandon hot on my heels.

The first person I recognize is Charlie, who’s basically to blame for all of this. Not only did she co-write the script, but me being her wife’s maid of honor at their wedding last year would have made me look like a stone-cold hypocrite if I’d refused to take this part because it’s a lesbian movie.

Charlie’s basically jumping out of her skin with excitement. She hugs me tightly and the nervous tension shimmers in her muscles.

“You look like a million bucks, Faye,” she says.

Before I can thank her, the energy in the room changes. That can only mean one thing. The great Ida Burton has arrived. I turn around and am met with her famously blinding smile. Even I, not exactly a B-lister myself, am momentarily dazed by it. What is it with this woman and her smile?

Admittedly, in one of my lesser moments, I once tried to emulate it in front of the mirror, but a smile of such radiance and assurance is not something that can be taught, nor practiced. Ida Burton was born with it and she’s made a damn good career out of it. Add to that a luxurious mass of copper-colored curly hair, brown Bambi eyes, and a voice to melt the sturdiest of glaciers, and you have the marvelous Ida Burton. It’s hard not to feel as though I’m standing in her shadow.

After saying a few quick hellos, she walks straight toward me.

“Faye. Hiiii!” Ida sounds as though seeing me is the highlight of her year.

“Ida.” We exchange two featherlight cheek kisses. “I’ve been looking forward to this.” It’s not a lie. I have. Maybe not the feeling of having to play second fiddle to Ida, but working on this hot-as-hell movie.

“So have I.” She flashes me that smile again. How can her skin look so impossibly smooth? We’re about the same age, but Ida makes me feel like I’m at least ten years her senior.

“Ladies.” Tamara, the director, has joined us. “It’s so good to see you again. I’m raring to go. You have no idea.” She points at two chairs next to each other. “Those are your seats. We’ll start in fifteen minutes. Refreshments are over there.” She nods in the direction of the buffet. “I’m here if you have any questions.” She takes a step back. “I’ll let you acclimatize first.”

Behind me, Brandon is whispering with Ida’s assistant, Mark, whom he has told me all about because they had a thing once. Brandon likes to keep me apprised of his love life. Maybe he thinks it somehow makes up for the lack of romance I have in my own life.

For the past twenty years, I’ve always been the biggest star in the room at a table read, and it has fallen upon me to put my co-stars at ease. Today, I’m not sure this task is up to me.

“I’m a little nervous.” Ida surprises me. “I think this could be a great movie, but… well, I’ve seen things go horribly wrong before, no matter how promising the screenplay.”

She’s wearing a beige top that accentuates the fiery color of her hair. Even though she’s dressed quite casually in slacks and said top, a glow seems to emanate from her. An effortless star quality. 

“This seems like the kind of project the studio would want to keep a tight grip on.”

“We can only do what’s required of us,” Ida says.

“Play gay,” I lamely joke.

Ida shuffles her weight around. “Correct.” She pins her gaze on me. “I was really thrilled to hear you were on board. Even though it really shouldn’t be, it’s still a risk to play a part like this. Especially for someone like you.”

“Not just me.” I emit a nervous chuckle. “For you as well, no doubt.”

“For both of us then,” she confirms and quirks up the corner of her mouth. “We should have dinner. Discuss our characters and their emotional arcs.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. We should.”

“I’ll have my guy call your guy.” She eyes our PAs. “I assume you know they have history?”

I nod. “In the greatest detail.” My smile, though wide and generous, feels lacking compared to hers.

“Oh, God. Does he tell you everything as well? Mark does too. The latest is that he’s ready to settle down. Maybe he and his new man will start a family and he won’t have time to be my assistant anymore.”

The things we worry about, I think, although I recognize her attachment to her assistant. I’ve worked with Brandon for almost ten years, which is a lifetime in assistant years. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if he left, even though I would be the first to urge him to try for greater things than being at my beck and call.

“His life—” I say.

“I really—” she starts at the same time.

“You go first.” Despite all the glamour that surrounds her, Ida is refreshingly down-to-earth.

“I really enjoyed your performance in Day Break,” she says. “I see another Oscar in your future.”

I wave her off because that’s what you’re meant to do, even though ever since that movie premiered, all I’ve heard is chatter about winning an Oscar for it. If I could get an actual man called Oscar for it, that would be a million times better than another statue in my living room. A statue doesn’t give me affection, nor does it reply when I address it.

“What was it like working with Silke Meisner?”

“Amazing.” That’s Hollywood-speak for grueling but just rewarding enough in the end. I’m sure Ida has been through the same and if there’s one person in this room who will catch my drift, it’s her.

She nods thoughtfully. “Tell me all about it when you come to dinner.”

“Sure.”

She cocks her head. “Things are going to get quite intimate between us on set.” Her voice does a funny thing.

“Just a bit of mild kissing.” I try to sound casual. Apart from a girl I pecked on the lips decades ago, I have zero experience kissing women, although I can’t imagine it being much different from kissing a male co-star. But the first woman I’m ever going to kiss properly, albeit for the sake of make-believe, is Ida Burton.

She erupts into a chuckle. “Good to know you’re cool with that.”

“I wouldn’t be doing this movie if I weren’t.” And I would be a flaming homophobe, my friend Ava told me in no uncertain terms.

“Ladies,” the director approaches us again. “Ready when you are.”

 

CHAPTER TWO
IDA

Does anyone notice how I’m dying on the inside? How I’m regretting taking this part? How my dubious ulterior motive is already catching up with me big time?

Faye Fleming sits beside me in all her girl-next-door glory, although she’s hardly a girl anymore. Still, as she has aged, she’s managed to maintain the image of the all-American, wholesome, funny-but-serious-when-needed girl/woman. I guess of all the people gathered here, she and I might become the closest. How long will it take her to figure out my secret?

“Ida,” Tamara says, “would you like to give us your thoughts on your character? Or do you want to launch straight into the read?”

Ah, my character. An out-and-proud lesbian. If only I could express my true feelings about Veronica to the room.

“Sure.” I’ve prepared for this. I know exactly what to say so as not to cast any suspicion on myself. “I see Veronica as a successful but, ultimately, lonely woman who is starved of love.” At times, while I was reading the script, I wondered if the writers had been able to glimpse right into the center of my own lonesome heart. “Her brother’s fourth wedding sparks this unbridled rage in her, as though all the love in her family, and the world even, is reserved for him, just because he’s straight.” I pause. “She’s so consumed by anger and jealousy that she doesn’t even notice that her own chance at love is staring her right in the face. She needs to get over that, and some other things, of course. Crack a few jokes along the way.” I insert a chuckle. My inadequate synopsis does not do justice to the script, which is, apart from being a lesbian romantic comedy, also a sharply funny critique on the institution of marriage.

“Charlie? Liz?” Tamara says. “Does that sound about right to you?”

“Perfect,” a blond woman with huge round eyes says. The one sitting next to her, who was all over the news five years ago when she started an affair with Ava Castaneda, nods and sends me a nervous smile. I should be the one smiling timidly at her. For all my money, she has something I’ve never been able to afford.

“Great,” Tamara says. “We’ll come back to this later, if needed. Faye, shall we move on to your character?”

“My character doesn’t have a clue,” Faye says, eliciting her first and surely not her last round of easy laughs. Why Faye is playing the more uptight character in this movie, I have no idea. That’s why it’s called acting, I suppose.

* * *

The read-through of the first act is easy enough. Faye and I play off each other with a comfort I’ve rarely experienced this quickly, as if we’ve starred together countless times before.

During the break before we run through the second act, Tamara walks up to me.

“The chemistry between you and Faye is off the charts already,” she says, “and we haven’t even gotten to the good bits yet.”

There’s a moment in the second act that I’ve been dreading. My character, Veronica, needs to look Faye’s character in the eye and realize something significant that alters the course of events. It’s not something I would usually have an issue with conveying, nor is it required that I display all of that complex emotion at a table read, but still. It all hits a little too close to home. Today, I’ll be able to muddle through, but I don’t know how I’m going to approach it at rehearsals. But that’s exactly what rehearsals are for, I comfort myself. To figure out that kind of stuff.

“Thanks.” I take the opportunity to get a good look at Tamara. No doubt she’s one of the hottest directors I’ve worked with, what with ninety percent of the ones I’ve previously collaborated with having been male. But it’s not because the bar is low that Tamara isn’t, objectively speaking, highly attractive. On top of that, just like my character, she’s out and proud like nobody’s business. These days, that can get you a top job behind the camera in Hollywood. How things have changed.

Someone calls for her and as she walks away, I make a mental note to ask Mark whether Tamara’s love life is happier than my character’s—or mine.

When I sit next to Faye again, with her long dark hair and pale complexion, her eyes as blue as the midday sky outside, I try to center myself and remember the reasons why I said yes to this project. 

There are many and I list them in my head. This movie is being touted as next summer’s big blockbuster and I haven’t been part of one of those in a long time. My name next to Faye Fleming’s should add up to more than the sum of its parts. Maybe, by playing an out character, I can finally force myself out of the closet. Maybe I won’t even have to. Maybe the buzz surrounding the movie will create some sort of magic momentum that will naturally propel me out and make it so that it has always just been plain obvious.

Fat chance of that.

I make quick work of having to look Faye in the eye—just a swift glance will have to do. Today isn’t about looks and gestures and emotions. It’s about making sure the words sound right as they come out of our mouths.

I already know Faye is an accomplished actor, but even more than that, she’s a calming presence by my side. She comes across as self-confident and easy-going and I have no way of knowing whether she’s acting or not, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. The overall vibe is that she will be easy to work with. No diva allures whatsoever. It must be the girl-next-door thing. Maybe she’s made it part of her real-life persona as well as her image. Imagine if Faye Fleming had to bust out of the closet. The thought appears to be too much for my brain.

“Sparks are flying,” Tamara says after we’ve finished. “Can’t wait for the actual shoot.”

* * *

“How was it?” Derek, my best friend and ex-husband asks when I call him on the way home.

“Good.” I sink into the leather car seat. “Although I forgot how utterly exhausting table reads are.”

“You go through the emotions of the entire movie in one day,” he says. “It’s to be expected.”

I asked Derek to read the script before I said yes to the movie.

“How was Faye Fleming?” he asks.

“Lovely, also as to be expected.” So far, I can’t say a bad word about my co-star. She was gracious and wonderful to be around all day long, even during the final exhausting hours. “I’ll have her over for dinner soon, so we can get to know each other better before we start rehearsals.”

“Before you kiss her, you mean,” my ex-husband says.

Derek is one of the only people on this planet who knows my secret. As I was once the only person who knew his.

“Very funny.”

“I’m just teasing, although you could have worse prospects.” He’s not one to let things go easily.

“The director’s quite hot, actually.” Derek’s the only person I can talk to about these things.

“Tell me more.” Although Derek and I were never in love, we have a deep fondness for one another and I know that what he wants for me more than anything else is to find true love the way he has with his boyfriend, Ben.

“I haven’t done my research yet and, well, you know…”

“I know this movie has the potential to change your life. What’s this director’s name again? I’ll do a quick search for you.”

“Tamara Williams, but no need. I’m perfectly capable of googling the details of her personal life myself.”

“But it’s more fun when I do it.” There’s a short pause, before Derek speaks again. “It says here she’s married. Sorry, sweetie.”

“Oh well, perhaps it’s for the best.”

“I see that differently, but we all need the time we need…”

We say our goodbyes and as my car glides up Mulholland, I vividly remember the statement I put out after Derek came out of the closet.

I wish Derek all the luck and love in the world. We had a wonderful marriage and we remain the best of friends. I know this new path he has chosen in life will make him very happy.

I got a lot of flak at the time for using the phrase ‘the new path he has chosen in life’, as though I meant to say that him being gay was a choice. If only it were—then I wouldn’t have had to hide in the corner of a stifling closet for the better part of my life.

What I meant was that he had chosen to end our marriage and no longer pretend he was straight. And no longer care about the repercussions on his career. The hoops I had to jump through to explain that. Yes, my choice of words was poor, and no, I did not mean all the things that the wave of social media outrage claimed I did.

Perhaps I should have taken the opportunity to come out there and then, but I didn’t. Because, unlike Derek, I do care about the effect it would have on my career—at least I used to. Seeing Derek blossom into the proud and confident man he is today with Ben by his side has made me aware of the possible error of my ways. How could it not while I’m the one who remains single in my golden cage of a Hollywood Hills mansion?

When this car drops me off, no one will be waiting for me. Mark has gone home for the day. In my absence, my house will have been scrubbed clean and my lawn will have been cut and my pool will have been cleaned, and for what? 

That’s why I’ve chosen to do this movie. That’s why I’ve chosen to play an out character, hoping that it will become one of those cases of life imitating art.

This is Hollywood and far stranger things have happened.

<<End of preview>>

About That Kiss will be available on Tuesday 27 July 2021 from all retailers. (The audio, narrated by Abby Craden, will follow later this year.)

 

PREVIEW: At Your Most Beautiful

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At Your Most Beautiful will be out on 6 April 2021.

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

At Your Most Beautiful
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE

A drop of sweat slid down Maya’s neck. Then another. She pushed a strand of hair away from her face and expelled a deep sigh, but there was no one around to hear it. She could sigh as deeply and dramatically as she wanted, without Tommy responding with an exaggerated eye roll.

All was quiet in the garden. The surface of the pool was as unwrinkled as an untouched bed sheet. Only last weekend, Tommy and two of his friends had been splashing about loudly as eighteen-year-old boys do—bold and brash as though there’s no other way to be at that age.

Two days ago, Maya had driven her son to LaGuardia Airport, where he’d boarded a plane for Paris. He would spend two weeks in Provence with his father and Heidi, followed by five weeks of backpacking through Europe. Seven long weeks without seeing her son. And that was only the beginning of her time without him—her time of no longer being a full-time mother.

Maya had spent plenty of weekends on her own since the divorce, but time alone when Tommy was due to return three days later was very different from time alone when he had just embarked on a seven-week trip, before leaving home for good.

Was this what the infamous empty nest felt like? Had she gone from one cliché—divorcée—to another—empty nester—as seamlessly as the decades had passed by and left her alone in this too-big suburban house at the age of forty-five?

She could only reply with another deep sigh. Maybe it was time to add another cliché to all the others she seemed to have become without noticing. Maybe it was time to open that bottle of pinot gris. She squinted at the sun. It was still pretty high in the sky. Wine o’clock would have to wait until the sun had dipped a fraction lower. Maya had some standards left.

A rustle drew her attention back to the garden. She wasn’t expecting any company, so it probably came from next door. Maya’s neighbor, Brooke, would probably be up for sharing a glass of pinot later, when the time was more appropriate. The rustle sounded closer. Maya sat up and wiped the sweat from her brow.

“I hope you’re wearing sunscreen,” a female voice that was not Brooke Hathaway’s came from the garden next door.

Only then Maya remembered that the Hathaways had gone to their cabin in the Catskills for the weekend. She sat up straighter in order to see over the hedge that separated her property from the Hathaways’.

“Quinn?” Maya asked. Who else could it be but the Hathaways’ daughter?

“The one and only.” Quinn stepped into view. “Hi, Mrs. Mercer. Didn’t you get the memo? Sunbathing is so last century, it’s not even funny.”

The girl next door was still as forward as ever, then. “I truly appreciate your concern for my skin, but I don’t leave the house without a full coat of SPF 50.”

Quinn shot her a bright smile. As far as Maya could see, she wasn’t wearing much more than a pair of flip-flops and an oversized tank top.

“I haven’t seen you in such a long time.” Maya walked over to the hedge. “How have you been?”

“I’m in-between apartments, so I’m staying here for a few weeks while I get my bearings.” She pulled her top away from her skin. “The city’s too hot right now, anyway.” Had she just cast a longing gaze at Maya’s pool? “I hear Little Tommy has flown the nest.”

Tommy used to hate it when Quinn called him ‘Little’. Maya nodded. “He’s in Europe. Starting Stanford in the fall.”

“No surprise there. I always knew Tommy would go to one of the big schools.”

There are good schools on this coast as well, Maya thought. “What are you up to now?” Maya wanted to deflect the attention away from Tommy. He’d only been gone a few days. His bedroom looked as though he was still in high school and he’d be coming back any day. Although it had been a long time coming and Maya had had ample time to prepare emotionally for her son’s departure, it all felt surprisingly raw and unnatural.

“This and that,” Quinn said, just as her mother did whenever Maya inquired after Quinn’s job. “Mainly photography these days, but, um, yeah…” She ran a hand through her curly hair. “The temperature might be more bearable here than in the city, but it’s still damn hot.”

Maya was getting the message loud and clear. Years ago, when Quinn still lived at home, and another brutal summer day had descended on Milbury, she would stand exactly where she was standing now, and cast longing gazes at the pool. Usually, Tommy was quick to invite her over for a swim, but Tommy wasn’t here any longer.

“Come on.” Maya nodded in the direction of the pool. “I can’t bear to see you sweat like that any longer.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Mercer.”

“I think you’re a little too old to still be calling me that. It’s Maya.”

Quinn deftly wriggled her body through the bushes, which were much denser now than when Quinn had last made her way through.

“You have my infinite gratitude, Maya.” Quinn was already stripping off her tank top. Underneath, she wore the skimpiest bikini Maya had ever laid eyes on. “Seeing as my main career of late has been tending bar, I can make you a mean cocktail later to thank you.” Quinn tossed her tank top to the side of the pool and shook off her flip-flops. Before diving in, she looked back and treated Maya to a glittering, sun-drenched smile.

Maya went back to her chair and watched Quinn swim a few slow laps. The mere fact of having someone to share her pool with, even if it was only for a short time, offered a potent distraction from her loneliness. The promise of that ‘mean cocktail’ was helping as well.

Maya tried to remember the latest news Brooke had given her about Quinn. No Ivy League for the neighbors’ daughter, she knew that much. She’d also known Quinn was gay as she’d always been out. How old was Quinn now? Truth be told, Maya hadn’t given Quinn Hathaway much thought at all. The girl barely came home. Brooke complained about it often enough, while Bill said she was just finding her way because she was still so young and what were we like at that age?

Now Quinn was swimming in her pool. If Maya partly closed her eyes and squinted, she could pretend it was her son enjoying himself in the cool water.

“Aren’t you hot?” Quinn had swum to the side of the pool closest to Maya, and rested her elbows on the ledge. Drops of water pearled on the skin of her arms.

“I’m fine. I’ll go for a dip later.”

“How are you holding up now that Tommy’s gone?”

“Fine.” It was nice of her to ask.

“It must be hard, though.” Quinn tilted her head. “Tommy’s always been such a mommy’s boy.” She grinned broadly.

“I don’t think that’s correct.” If anything, Tommy was able to appreciate qualities in his father that Maya had never known the man possessed.

“That’s because you can’t see it. Because you’re his mom.” Still grinning, Quinn winked at Maya before her head disappeared under the water again.

Maya followed her with her gaze. She came up for air at the other side of the pool, where she leaned her head back and smoothed the water out of her hair with her hands. If Tommy was a mommy’s boy, Quinn Hathaway was definitely a daddy’s girl.

“Do you still have your dance school?” Quinn pushed herself out of the water effortlessly and sat on the edge, looking at Maya.

“I do.” Thank goodness for that, Maya thought.

“Pity you didn’t have it when I was younger. I regret not being able to dance properly.” Did she just give Maya a once-over with that piercing blue gaze of hers?

“It’s never too late to learn. I teach a seniors class, ages sixty-five and up.”

“It must work wonders for your figure. You look amazing for a woman your a—” Quinn paused, and briefly drew her lips into a half-smile. “You really look amazing, Mrs.—um, Maya.”

Heat rose to Maya’s cheeks, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t caused by the sun. “Thank you,” she mumbled. When was Quinn going to mix her that ‘mean cocktail’?

Quinn stood and walked to the sitting area, leaving a trail of water behind her.

“Here. Use this.” Maya tossed her the towel that was hanging off the chair next to her.

Quinn toweled off her hair, then wrapped the towel around her waist. For some reason, it drew Maya’s gaze to her chest—maybe by way of her naked belly. As soon as she realized what she was staring at, Maya averted her gaze.

“Are you sure I’m not interrupting anything?” Quinn sat next to Maya. “With Mom and Dad gone, I was getting bored at the house. It’s so quiet here. It’s uncanny.”

Maya didn’t think it was quiet at all. There were birds. There was the dog from two houses down that yapped at the smallest noise. There was the hum of cars in the distance. But she guessed that compared to New York City, Milbury was very quiet. “Truth be told, I’m happy with some company.”

Quinn nodded as though she fully understood what Maya was going through. She folded her hands behind her neck and let her head fall back, her chest jutting out so the sight of it captured Maya’s attention again. If Maya didn’t know any better, she’d think Quinn was doing it on purpose. On second thought, what did she know about Quinn? Not nearly enough to know if she was toying with her.

“When are you going back to the city?” Maya was suddenly very keen to know all about Quinn’s life.

“End of the month.” Quinn played with her wet hair. “I’m moving in with a friend.” She shook her head. “Rent in NYC is murder.”

“Where did you live before?”

Quinn expelled a deep breath of air. A shadow crossed her face. “With my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend now. She kicked me out.” She paused to paint on a wry smile. “Thank goodness for hotel Hathaway in good old Milbury.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Well, it was her place, so…” She ruffled her hair and a few drops of water fell onto her shoulders.

“Were you and…” For the life of her, Maya couldn’t remember Brooke mentioning Quinn’s girlfriend’s name—or that they had recently split up. “Were you together a long time?”

“Coming up to a year.”

Quinn had been with her girlfriend for almost a year and Brooke had never even brought it up in conversation with Maya, even though they had shared plenty of bottles of wine in that time.

“Did you ever bring her home?”

With her bottom lip jutted out, Quinn shook her head slowly. “Mom, um, didn’t really approve of the relationship. Rach was older than me. She was my photography teacher. Too many red flags for Brooke to deal with.” She shrugged. “Anyway, it’s over now, so Mom doesn’t have to worry about inviting her over for Thanksgiving.”

“How much older?” It made sense now that Brooke hadn’t mentioned Quinn’s girlfriend.

“Rach is in her fifties. Big deal.” Quinn pulled her feet up onto the chair. “She’s also the fucking hottest woman I’ve ever met.”

Maya bit her tongue to avoid telling Quinn off for swearing, and frantically tried to remember how old Quinn was. When had she graduated high school? She couldn’t pinpoint the year, but surely Quinn was no older than twenty-five. Maya fully sympathized with Brooke on this, although this was not the time to let that be known. 

“Did she break your heart?”

Quinn gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. We spent the last two months in this draining cycle of endless fighting and make up sex. I’m honestly glad it’s over so I can focus my energy on something else.”

Maya didn’t know what to say to that. She was curious about this Rach, though. She was probably around the same age as Brooke, hence her disapproval of the relationship.

“It wasn’t the age difference that caused the break-up?” Maya was probably pushing it, but she was curious.

“When the woman you love is thirty years older than you, it’s going to have some consequences, I guess.”

Maya tried to imagine Tommy bringing home a woman thirty years older than him—a woman older than Maya. Purely on instinct, the thought was almost unbearable. She didn’t just understand Brooke’s reluctance to acknowledge Quinn’s former relationship; she fully agreed with it.

“Hey, it will only hurt for a while.” Above all else, Maya was a mother herself and soothing words came naturally to her. “It may not feel like that right now, but it’s reality.” Young people hardly ever took older and wiser people’s word for it. It was impossible. Some experiences had to be lived through before they could be accepted, let alone believed. “You’re still so young. How old are you now?”

“Twenty-four,” Quinn said. She dropped her legs, squared her shoulders, and took a deep breath. “My problem is that I just really, really, really like older women.” She looked straight into Maya’s eyes.

Again, Maya was at a loss for words. Not only because there simply was no quick response to this particular utterance from Quinn, but even more so because of the look Quinn was giving her.

Quinn chuckled. Maya wondered why she didn’t find her more obnoxious, but she didn’t. Even though Quinn made her feel a little uncomfortable, she didn’t mind. At least she was feeling something other than the self-pity she’d been about to drown in before Quinn had caught her attention.

“How about that cocktail I promised you?” Quinn jumped out of her chair. “May I invite you to the Hathaway house?” She pointed to the bush she’d earlier made her way through. “Unless you want it pool-side. Then I’ll just get the ingredients and I’ll be right back.”

“That would be nice.” Something held Maya back from following Quinn to her house. “I shall wait here with growing anticipation.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

Quinn carefully placed the cocktail in front of Maya. Even though the glass was filled to the brim she managed not to spill a drop. It surprised her because Mrs. Mercer—Maya—was a real fox. How had she never noticed this before? It was also fairly easy to make her blush, although this drink would also help with that.

“Enjoy your paloma, milady,” Quinn said. “It was all the rage at my previous place of employ.”

“Looks delicious.” Maya leaned forward to take a sip from the glass on the table and, while doing so, exposed a touch more of her cleavage. Quinn had to stop herself from ogling. She didn’t want to embarrass Maya too much. Quinn would be out of here soon enough, but her parents would still be Maya’s neighbors. She would still come back here every few weeks, or months, probably depending on who she ended up with next and whether her mother approved or not. “Hm. Yum.” The guttural sound Maya produced pleased Quinn.

She sat and sipped from her own cocktail. It was damn good. And maybe it would help simmer down the restlessness in her blood. But this time of year, mid-July, when the days were hot and the nights hardly cooler, had always made Quinn frisky. Everyone, foxy neighbors included, dressed in barely-there clothes and showed off so much silky-smooth skin. The sun was everywhere and Quinn could still smell it on her skin when she lay in bed at night, too warm to sleep. And she no longer had Rachel to take care of things for her. She had herself, though. She knew what she would be getting up to after she had finished this cocktail. But not before she’d teased Maya a bit more.

Maya had flinched when Quinn had revealed Rachel’s age. A lot of people had the same reaction—even some of the women Quinn hit on. But not the one who had just booted her out of her apartment.

“Glad you like it,” Quinn said. “Because I sure would like another dip in your pool.” When she put her mind to it, Quinn could make everything sound at least a little dirty.

“Any time.” Maya looked relaxed as she leaned back against her chair.

“You might regret saying that.”

“It’s just me here. I told you, I’m glad of the company.”

“When did you and Mr. Mercer get divorced?” Her mom must have told her, but Quinn had long forgotten. All she knew was that when she had left home for a failed stint in college six years ago, Drew Mercer still lived next door.

“About five years ago.” Quinn couldn’t detect any bitterness in Maya’s tone.

“Was it a mutual decision?”

“Sure.” Maya’s voice was flat as could be.

Quinn chuckled in response. “Okay. You don’t want to talk about it. That’s fine.”

“What are we doing talking about our exes on such a lovely summer day, anyway?” Maya took another sip. “Over such a delicious cocktail.”

“You’re right.” Quinn relaxed in her seat. “To hell with them.” She couldn’t help but wonder what Rachel was up to now. Before she had started rustling around in the bushes, hustling for a swim, she’d been scrolling through Rachel’s Facebook profile, an unfulfilling habit she’d developed since arriving home. Unperturbed by her age, Rachel would be out clubbing tonight. It was a given. Quinn made a mental note to avoid Rachel’s social media tomorrow—as if she’d even remember when the time came.

“What’s it like living in the city?” Maya asked.

“Expensive,” Quinn said, because, apart from Rachel, money had been preoccupying her the most.

“I bet.”

“But fun. I love the energy. The possibility. As if anything can happen with every corner you turn.”

“You’re not too bored spending time in good old Milbury?” Maya grabbed her cocktail and held it just above her chest. A drop of condensation fell onto the swell of her breast. This time, Quinn couldn’t look away.

“It’s good to take a breather once in a while.” Quinn took another sip to lubricate the dryness in her throat more than anything.

“Gosh, to be twenty-four again,” Maya mused, apparently impervious to Quinn’s locked gaze on her chest.

“Weren’t you a hot-shot dancer in your twenties?”

“Oh, yes. And I loved every second of it.” Maya’s voice grew more powerful, as though the memory stirred something in her. “Despite all the hours of training, all the sacrifice… to go out on the dance floor was always just pure ecstasy.”

“Do you still dance?” Because that had also been the thing about Rachel, and the thought of her out in the clubs tonight, being watched by a myriad of other women stirred jealousy within Quinn. Rachel always had the smoothest moves, the coolest sway to her hips. She might be the oldest, but that never stopped her from being the hippest person in any joint she entered—baby dyke parties included. Quinn had loved to watch Rachel dance.

“Of course. I will only stop when I lose the use of my legs.”

“Did you teach Tommy how to dance?” Quinn’s gaze had traveled back up to Maya’s face. The late afternoon light caught in her eyes, making them glitter.

“Of course. He might end up an accountant like his father, but at least he’ll be an accountant who knows how to waltz.”

“I’d love to see you dance,” Quinn blurted out. It was true. Even when she simply reached for her cocktail, there was such elegance to the stretch of Maya’s arm. But it might not be the best thing to say to her neighbor with whom she was having a chill and lovely time.

“Come to the studio some time. I’ll teach you some moves.”

Quinn hadn’t expected that. “All right. I’ll be there.”

Over the rim of her glass, Maya eyed her. “What did you put in this, anyway?”

“Grapefruit juice, soda water, and some syrup. And a healthy dose of tequila, of course.”

“It tastes deceptively light, but I can definitely feel it after only a few sips.” Maya put her cocktail down, as though to make a statement.

“It’s how we make them in New York City.” Quinn couldn’t stop a grin from spreading on her lips.

“So… why do you prefer being with older women? What’s wrong with girls your age? I know it’s none of my business, but blame this.” She pointed at the contents of her glass.

Quinn chuckled. “I don’t know. Maybe I have mommy issues, but I don’t have the money to pay for therapy to find out.”

Maya’s eyes widened a fraction. “Before Rach, did you also date older women?”

“Before Rach, I didn’t really have a clue about anything. I dated but… I don’t know. It was different. It all seems so meaningless now.”

“Are you okay, Quinn?” The sudden worry in Maya’s tone made Quinn feel even hotter. “Did she hurt you really badly?” Maya canted her body toward her.

Quinn huffed out some air. “The situation wasn’t ideal, but neither was breaking up. I guess these things always hurt. Although, according to Mom, it’s all for the best and, in the long run, I’ll be all the happier for it.”

“And according to yourself?”

“I’ll be fine. I just need some time.” Quinn had always much preferred some light flirting to baring her soul.

“What is it that you’d like to do with your life? What’s your passion?”

“Photography,” Quinn said on a sigh. “In between bartending at night and waitressing during the day, I took a photography course. Guess who my teacher was?”

Maya shot her a warm smile. “Does their name start with an R?”

Quinn nodded. “As a result, when I’m lining up a shot, I still hear Rachel’s voice in my head. I’m waiting for the day when I no longer associate taking pictures with being with her. That’s what makes it so damn annoying. It’s like the two are inextricably linked or something.”

“Look at it this way, though. It’s good that you have a passion. So many people never find the one thing they can’t live without. Like I will never be without dance. I hope you will never be without a camera.” Maya reached for her cocktail and took a sip. “In a few months, you’ll be back at it, and you won’t give Rachel a second thought.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you know how many dance partners I’ve had in my life?”

Quinn shook her head.

“Neither do I, that’s how many. I’ve lost count. Save a few, people will come and go in your life. But what’s in here.” She put a hand on her stomach. “The thing you love, that will stay with you forever and guide you through the ups and downs of your life.”

“Wow. I wasn’t expecting a swim and life lessons today.” Quinn’s gaze was drawn to where Maya’s hand rested on her stomach. She wore a see-through cotton dress over her swimsuit and seeing her hand pressed against her belly did something funny to Quinn’s own stomach.

“Well, there you go. Sometimes life hands you something utterly unexpected. All you have to do is enjoy it.”

“I will.” Quinn figured that Maya most likely had no idea what life was offering her right now. “I am enjoying it.” Quinn watched how Maya moved her hand from her belly to her hair, which she brushed away from her face with such gracefulness, it made Quinn a little more audacious. “I do have a more specific answer to your earlier question.”

Maya responded with a slight lift of her eyebrows.

“Women in their forties and fifties, to me, are at their most beautiful.” She tried to lock her gaze on Maya’s. It was only hard for a fraction of a second. She needed eye contact for what she was going to say next. “Like you are, tonight.”

The slightest puff of air emanated from Maya’s lips, as though she was a touch perplexed but didn’t want to show it. “I was going to ask you whether Rach had seduced you, but I think I know the answer to that question already.”

“She was my teacher. Making the first move wasn’t really an option for her, although she had little trouble with the second move.” Quinn knew she sounded a touch conceited, but it was all part of the game. And wasn’t that what this had turned into now? A flirting game with her neighbor? Quinn didn’t have anything to lose. Maya hadn’t chased her from her garden just yet.

Maya chuckled. “How did you go about it?” She reached for her cocktail again. Before knocking back the last of it, she peered deep into Quinn’s eyes.

“Lingering after class. Asking some photography questions, followed by some non-photography questions. Inviting her for a drink with the group, then without the group. Things like that.”

Maya nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything. With a soft thud, she deposited her empty glass on the table.

“Can I fix you another?” Quinn asked.

“I think I’ve had enough.” Maya looked as though she was thinking very deeply about what to say next. “But thank you.”

“My absolute pleasure.”

Maya blinked slowly, then gave the slightest shake of the head. “I’m going to get started on dinner. Feel free to have another swim before you go.”

Before you go? Ouch. But what had Quinn expected? A dinner invitation? “Thank you for having me over, Maya. It was really lovely to get to know you all over again.”

“It’s been enlightening to say the least.” Maya pushed her chair back. “See you around.”

“I sure hope so.”

Maya collected the glasses from the table and, without looking back, headed inside the house.

Quinn stared at the open door. There was always tomorrow. It was only Friday. Her parents wouldn’t be back until late on Sunday. Quinn had all weekend for another dip in Maya’s pool.

<<End of preview>>

At Your Most Beautiful will be available on Tuesday 6 April 2021 from all retailers.

PREVIEW: At First Sight (Pink Bean 10)

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At First Sight

At First Sight (Pink Bean 10) will be out next week on 15 December 2020. The audiobook (narrated by Angela Dawe) will follow on 9 February 2021.

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

At First Sight (Pink Bean 10)
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE

Jill took a deep breath and opened the door. It had been a while since she’d welcomed a new client. Despite decades of experience, a ripple of nerves coursed through her.

There were two women in the waiting area, but she recognized the blonde as one of Patrick’s clients. The one with the long dark hair would be for her then. Both women glanced at her. 

“Amelia?” Jill said.

The dark-haired woman drew her lips into a smile and rose. Without saying anything, she followed Jill into the office.

“Please, sit down,” Jill said. “Make yourself comfortable.” She pointed at the chair opposite her own.

While Amelia settled in, Jill grabbed a notepad and pen from her desk, giving her new client some time to acclimate to her new surroundings.

A reassuring smile on her lips, Jill turned and sat. “Because this is your first session, I’ll be making more notes than I usually would. Please don’t be put off by that, it’s mostly for admin reasons. Or if you’d rather I didn’t, I’ll try to exercise my memory and make the notes after you leave.” She broadened her smile and took the opportunity to let her gaze linger on her new client’s eyes. Deep-brown and rather captivating. Jill found it hard to look away from them. 

“That’s fine,” Amelia said. These were the first words she’d spoken and if her eyes were arresting, her voice was even more so. Husky and low, like a soft and soothing bass note. 

A tingle of heat crept up Jill’s neck. This was not a normal reaction to a first session with a new client. Jill forced herself to look down at her notepad. 

“Do you want to tell me a little about yourself or would you like me to go first?” she asked. “Either is fine.” She looked back up at Amelia.

“You go first.” Amelia’s face was all tightness. She was probably nervous. In all her years as a psychiatrist, Jill had never encountered a new client who wasn’t a bundle of nerves during their first session. Seeking therapy was a big step for most people. One they’d often already put off for a long time.

“Sure.” Jill rested the pen and the notepad on her knees. “I’m Jill.” Way to state the obvious. “I’m here to help you with whatever it is you want or need to discuss. Absolutely nothing is taboo in this office. This is your safe space. Nothing you say will shock me. I’ve been doing this for a very long time and helping people through a difficult time in their life is my passion. It’s what I do. Apart from a couple of obvious exceptions, there is complete confidentiality between us. I can tell you about those exceptions if you wish.”

Amelia shook her head.

“But otherwise, nothing you say will ever leave this room.” Jill followed up with another smile. This was the moment to make the client feel a touch more comfortable. She discreetly glanced over Amelia’s body to see if any tension was leaving her muscles. Apparently not just yet. Some clients needed to unload before they could relax. “I’m here for you, Amelia. I have your GP’s referral, but I’d like to hear your reasons for coming to see me in your own words.” Jill caught herself being a bit too eager to hear Amelia’s voice again. She waited with increased anticipation.

“I—uh,” Amelia started. “I had a burnout.” She swallowed. “Very ‘of the times’, I know. I’m usually never up with the latest trends, yet here I am.”

A rather dark and self-deprecating sense of humor, Jill thought, but didn’t write down. She wanted Amelia to talk freely before she took any formal notes. Jill sent her another encouraging smile.

“About a month ago, I had a massive panic attack at work. I thought it would pass after some rest. I took a few days off. But as soon as I got stuck in again, the panic returned.” Amelia put a hand over her sternum. “Since then, I’ve had this continuous agitated sensation right here. I just… I can’t shake it. I can’t relax any longer. I have no energy. I had to drag myself over here. It’s been… utterly grueling because I hardly recognize myself.”

“What do you do for work?”

“I’m a biochemical researcher for a pharmaceutical company. My team and I develop new drugs.” She scoffed. “But as far as I know, no drug has been invented to change the way I feel.”

“Is it a very high-pressure environment?” Jill asked.

“You could say that.” Amelia sighed. “I know I need to talk about my work but even thinking about it makes me feel exhausted.”

“It’s all right. We don’t have to talk about your work right now.” Jill positioned the notepad in front of her. “Is it okay if I take a few notes now?” She waited for Amelia’s nod. “What else do you do beside work? Do you have a partner? A family?”

“I’m single.” It seemed Amelia’s voice had dropped into an even lower register.

Jill hoped to figure out later if that meant anything. For now, she just listened and jotted down some short sentences. 

“I was a cliché: the employee who turns the lights on in the morning and switches them off in the evening. I used to be utterly obsessed with my job. I actually loved it because I felt as though what I did mattered, but, along the way, I seem to have lost that conviction and now I feel like just another cog in the wheel of Big Pharma.”

“What changed?” Jill asked.

For the first time, a small smile played on Amelia’s lips. However tiny it was, Jill still thought it a beautiful sight to behold. She shoved that unprofessional thought away. She had just promised Amelia that she would be there for her and that she would help her. Being entranced by a hint of a smile was not going to further that goal. She’d need to give herself a stern talking-to later.

“Here I am, talking about work regardless,” Amelia said.

“Considering you suffered a burnout, I’d say that’s why you’re here.” 

The side of Amelia’s lips tilted into a crooked grin, the sight of which sparked a new tingle of heat to ignite in Jill’s chest.

Oh, good gracious god.  Jill wondered if she should ask for a moment to gather herself. What was happening? Who was this woman? She was a new client with a burnout. She was someone who needed Jill’s help, for crying out loud. So why was Jill getting so worked up about the degree at which her lips slanted when she half-smiled? She should make a note to discuss this with her own therapist tomorrow. Vic would surely give her an earful.

“To answer your earlier question.” Amelia’s low voice pulled Jill back to earth. “I don’t have a family. I don’t have the best relationship track record. It’s just not something I’ve ever been overly interested in.” She just shrugged as though her relationship status was the least of her worries. It probably was. “Meanwhile, I think my biological clock has ticked past my eggs’ use-by date.”

Jill uttered the tiniest of chuckles while she looked at her notepad. She’d copied the information she’d gotten in the GP’s referral. Amelia Shaw was forty-five. She was one of those women who looked neither young nor old. Maybe she just looked her age. Either way, there was something about her that had Jill much more intrigued than she’d been with any of her clients in a long time. She didn’t consider this a good thing at all.

“No wish for a child?” Jill inquired.

Amelia just shrugged again. 

Jill looked forward to finding out if this was her genuine attitude toward relationships and children, two of the key factors in most people’s lives. Amelia was either very good at pretending, or had adopted this apathetic stance subconsciously over time for another reason. That was also the thing with a new client: there was still so much to discover. Jill’s interest was piqued. Professional curiosity. The challenge of figuring out a brand-new-to-her person. The intricate puzzle of their personality and how it first presented itself. A woman like Amelia was one of the reasons Jill loved her job so much. Although in Amelia’s case, it seemed it wasn’t just Jill’s professional interest that was piqued.

“I don’t have any children,” Jill said, which was true, although it didn’t mean she had never tried to have them.

Amelia simply nodded. She didn’t appear to be one of those clients who liked asking questions. She was here for herself. She hadn’t come to deflect the attention away from her which was a technique many a new client tried. Jill was very skilled at gently diverting personal questions right back at reluctant clients.

“Do you have any hobbies?” Jill asked. “Something that takes your mind off work?”

“I’m the goalkeeper for the Darlinghurst Darlings.” It was the first time Jill detected some genuine animation in Amelia’s voice.

“Soccer?” Although Jill had lived in Sydney for more than ten years, most of them in Darlinghurst, she had never heard of the Darlinghurst Darlings.

“Yep. I take immense pride in keeping a clean sheet.”

Jill arched up an eyebrow.

“Not letting the other team score,” Amelia clarified. “Although my spot on the team is in danger, now that I’m in my forties. I’m the oldest player on the team—even, I think, in the league. You could say I’m holding on to something that I should let go of. You know, give someone younger a chance, but it’s hard for me… That team is like my family, even though most of the women I started out playing with have long stopped. And I will admit it’s not always easy keeping up with the younger ones.” She puffed up her cheeks and blew out some air. “Then again, as the goalkeeper, I don’t have to run that much during a game.”

Amelia’s precarious spot on the team might have contributed to her work burnout. Jill jotted another note.

“Sounds like a fun hobby.”

“I love it… I’ve been thinking about starting a league for 40+ women, but the pickings are slim. Turns out women in their forties have other things to do in their spare time than play soccer.” She narrowed her eyes. “How old are you, if I may ask?”

Jill burst out into a chuckle, although, these days, she didn’t particularly enjoy being asked about her age. “Forty-nine.”

“Do you play any sport?” Amelia sure was passionate about this topic.

“I’m, um, more of an art aficionado,” Jill heard herself say. Could she sound any more pretentious?

“Oh, well, I guess I shouldn’t consider you for my mature players’ league then.” Amelia’s lips stretched into the most glorious smile Jill had witnessed for as long as she could remember. The thought that she’d be willing to try soccer for Amelia flashed through her mind but she managed to extinguish it as soon as she identified it as utterly foolish.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Ever since her first panic attack, whenever Amelia felt stressed or anxious, she focused her thoughts on soccer. Because for as long as she could remember, the pitch had been her happy place. Talking about soccer with her new therapist helped to alleviate that crushing feeling in her chest and was easier than talking about the real cause for her burnout. 

Although, perhaps, she shouldn’t have tried to recruit her therapist for the 40+ league that didn’t even exist yet. She could have also guessed that Jill wasn’t one for rowdy sport, although you just never knew. Some of the women she played with were unrecognizable to Amelia when they were dressed in office attire.

“I wouldn’t be much of an asset,” Jill said. She was smiling again. “I’ve never kicked a ball in my life.”

This was Amelia’s first experience with a therapist and she hadn’t expected her to smile so much. Maybe she just wanted to put Amelia at ease. It was kind of working, although Amelia was still pretty nervous. 

“If you know anyone in our age group from the neighborhood who would be interested…” Amelia inwardly scolded herself for not letting this go. On the other hand, Jill must have heard people say far worse things. Especially first-timers who didn’t really know where to begin.

“Sure.” The skin around Jill’s eyes crinkled. She surely had one thing going for her as a therapist: the woman oozed kindness. It was etched into her face somehow. Or maybe that’s what happens when it’s your job to listen to people’s worries all day long. Your face adapts. That soothing expression becomes permanent. Amelia wondered if any studies had been done about that. She made a mental note to go on Google Scholar later… Argh, no. No looking up any academic research. Amelia was on leave. But it was hard to totally switch off her scientific brain.

“It, um,” Amelia started again. She’d beaten around the bush long enough. “It seems I have a very difficult time relaxing.” She chuckled nervously. “Even on the pitch I’m always doing some sort of calculation to try and predict where the ball will go next.” She shook her head. “I know it sounds a little nuts. Obsessive even.” Another chuckle. “I guess that’s why I’m here.”

“Is it possible to make such a prediction? I thought soccer was mostly a game of chance?”

Amelia frowned. “Whoever told you that doesn’t know the first thing about soccer. I mean, sure, chance and luck have a great deal to do with it, but I would say definitely no more than 50% of the game is down to chance. Technique is very important as is physical condition and of course so is the composition of the team. I wouldn’t say—” Amelia caught herself. She was waffling on, trying to drive home a point that had no importance in this conversation. Although on this particular subject she knew for certain that a scientific study had been done. She’d pored over it with great interest.

“It’s mainly me who doesn’t know the first thing about soccer.” Jill wrote something down again. 

Amelia shuffled in her chair. It was a slightly disconcerting thing to witness—someone making notes about her.

“Whenever I have a pressing question about it in the future, I’ll know who to call from now on.” Jill grinned at her.

“I’m sorry. I get quite passionate about the whole thing. My life used to totally revolve around work, but now it seems that soccer has taken its place. I’m on sick leave, which I utterly despise. I want to work, but… I can’t. It makes me feel so powerless.”

“It’s completely normal to feel this way, Amelia.” Jill paused. “In a way, it’s good that you have soccer to turn to.”

“Due to my low energy levels, I’ve missed more than a few practices and let’s just say it’s not that difficult to replace me on the team.”

“Would it be fair to say that you’re currently feeling like everything’s slipping away from you?”

“I think that would be a pretty accurate assessment.” Now that she was a good while into her first session, the burst of adrenaline that had brought her there seeped from her body. Against her will, she heaved a big sigh. “I’m sorry.” Her voice broke a little. “I’m such a mess. I don’t even know where to begin to fix this.”

“You’ve already begun,” Jill said. “You’re here. Coming to me was the hard part. I’ve got your back now.”

Amelia summoned every ounce of willpower she could to hold back the tears gathering behind her eyes. She wasn’t the crying type—at least not until she’d crashed at work with her first panic attack. Oh, the shame of going through that mortifying ordeal in front of her co-workers. At first, she believed she was having a heart attack, despite all the scientific evidence pointing to the contrary. She’d had blood work done only a few weeks prior and her physical health was optimal for her age. There were no indications for any cardiovascular disease in her body, no matter the hours she worked. There had only been one conclusion to draw: what Amelia was going through wasn’t physical. It was mental. It was all in her head.

Then Jill did that thing Amelia had seen every single therapist on television do. She pushed a box of tissues toward her client. Toward Amelia. For heaven’s sake. She wasn’t even crying yet. Or was she? The tiniest amount of moisture had pooled in the corner of her eye. Amelia guessed Jill could read the signs like no other. Pushing the tissues in her direction was her wordless way of saying that Amelia could cry all she wanted. Better here than anywhere else, Amelia thought, and, with a sharp flick of her wrist, pulled a tissue from the box. 

“Do you live around here?” Jill’s voice was soft.

Amelia nodded. She pressed the tissue to the underside of her nose, just to do something with it. She wasn’t ready to admit that she was close to tears. She wasn’t one to surrender so easily, which was part of the reason she was sitting in this very chair—she knew that much.

“Have you heard of Glow? The yoga studio down the street from here?”

“I’ve walked past it.” Amelia took a deep breath. Jill was giving her time to regroup.

“Have you considered yoga or meditation?”

“Who hasn’t in this day and age?”

Jill just shot her a smile.

“I’m a soccer player,” Amelia said. “I’m not the kind of person to fold myself into various impossible positions in the company of a bunch of housewives on mats. It doesn’t align with how I think of myself.”

“Everything’s a scientific analysis with you, isn’t it?” Did something in Jill’s blue eyes sparkle? Amelia noticed for the first time the darker color of Jill’s eyebrows didn’t match her blonde hair.

“I’m a soccer player and a scientist.” Amelia raised a shoulder.

“What else are you?” Jill quipped—at least it felt like a quip. “What other nouns apply to you?”

Amelia couldn’t immediately think of anything else. Sure, she was a lesbian, but she hardly felt like one these days. She hadn’t practiced the art of lesbianism in a good long while. She simply hadn’t had the energy, despite a new girl on the team showing unmistakable interest in her.

“You’re someone’s daughter, perhaps?” Jill tried.

“That I am, but my parents live on the Gold Coast and we’re not really that close. It’s mostly a proximity thing.”

“A sibling?”

“That, too, but my only brother lives in London.”

“A friend?”

Amelia nodded. “Although a lousy one these past few months.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure your friends have had their own ups and downs over the years you’ve known them.”

Amelia nodded. What other nouns could she attribute to herself? Her mind was drawing a huge blank. That was what she mainly was these days: someone who drew blanks when asked a direct question. As though her brain was just so tired. As if, after all these years, it had finally had its fill of science, when it had only got energized by it before. The sight of an equation used to light Amelia up like a Christmas tree. Now it made her queasy.

“Do you like to read? Watch TV? Go to the theater? Dine out? Go to the movies?”

“I used to read all the time, but ever since my first panic attack, I can’t seem to focus on the words long enough. It’s as if the sentences are swimming in front of my eyes.”

Jill wrote something down again.

“I do like some fine dining,” Amelia admitted. “I’m a restaurant snob, in case you’d like to write that down.”

“Do you like art?” Jill asked, seemingly suppressing a grin.

“Good question. I don’t really know. There’s been a real boom of art galleries in the area the past few years and sometimes I walk past a window and I really like a painting or a sculpture, but I can never really explain why I like it or why it might be good, which really bugs me.”

“Does everything need to be explicable?” Jill tilted her head sideways.

“Well, yes.” Duh.

“Yet not everything is.”

“I tend to stay away from inexplicable events or experiences.”

“Okay.” With a neutral expression on her face, Jill made a note.

Amelia wished she could get a look at that notepad, but she knew that was not how it worked.

“For the record,” Amelia said. “As a scientist, I’m hyperaware of the many events that science can’t yet explain. As a biochemical researcher, I know very well that how our brain works is still very much a mystery. But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t an explanation. It only means we need more time to explain it.”

“Have you ever wanted to be anything else other than a scientist?”

“No.”

“But would you now say that you’ve fallen out of love with the sciences somewhat?”

“No.” Amelia shook her head vehemently. “My problem is not with science. It’s with what the company I work for, and all the other pharma companies, use science for. As though all it takes is to invent a pill for every ailment. Or worse, an ailment for every medicine we can invent. I’ve grown so disillusioned by the whole thing. By the financial side of it all.” She sighed again. “Maybe by capitalism in general. By the whole notion that money, and nothing else, makes the world go round.”

“There’s a lot to unpack there.” Jill rested her calm gaze on Amelia.

Don’t I know it. At least paying someone to listen to all the issues Amelia had acquired over the past forty-five years had the potential of being money well spent. At least Big Pharma had paid her well, and she might as well use the money for something to make her feel better—to counterbalance what earning that money had taken out of her.

<<End of preview>>

At First Sight will be available as ebook and paperback on 15 December 2020

PREVIEW: A Breathless Place

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A Breathless Place

A Breathless Place will be out next week, on 24 September 2020.

You can already pre-order the ebook on Amazon or via my web shop here >>

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

A Breathless Place
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE

I’ll be dead in six months. In 183 days to be exact. I can’t wait. But for now, the prospect alone brings me adequate comfort.

I stare at my computer screen. The cursor blinks mockingly on the white background of the Word document. It’s supposed to be the first of many. If this is the speed I’m going to be working at, I might have to add a few days to my very last calendar. I don’t want to do that. I’ve chosen the date carefully—as carefully as these things can be chosen.

One day after my sixtieth birthday, I will say my final goodbye. It turns out, if you want to die, there’s a lot you need to take care of. And I want every last thing to be taken care of. My perfectionist streak will continue until my very last breath. The only problem is I’m not used to sorting out every little thing myself. I have people for that. My personal assistant Daisy handles all my administration. My chef Rian cooks most of my meals. Harry takes care of my home here in New York. My manager Ira has made sure every single one of my needs has been met for the past thirty-five years. But I haven’t told him my greatest need yet.

How do you tell someone something like that? If there is an acceptable way, I haven’t found it yet. And I’ve had years to think this through. It’s been nearly a decade since the thought first crossed my mind. Furtively at first, as though it was afraid to become a full-grown idea, the inkling of such a possibility would creep up on me in unguarded moments. It took months before it dared to linger for more than a fleeting second. Before I dared to grasp it and examine it further. It took years until I became certain it was what I wanted. But my own certainty is just that. My own. It’s not something I can easily inflict upon others. That’s what I’m trying to explain in this letter—the first of many.

Dearest Ira, I type. Before I continue this letter, I need to decide whether I will tell him beforehand or not. It will determine what I write. I’ve been going back and forth on this. If I tell him ahead of the time, I don’t need to write him a letter. But he will try to talk me out of it. Oh, how he will try. Ira might know me best of all, but he will still try, with all his might, with all the power he has over me, to change my mind. That’s not a conversation I want to have. So I need to write this letter. But I guess I don’t need to write it today. Although that’s what I told myself yesterday as well. And the day before. I can’t keep on postponing it.

I click out of the Word document and check the list I made of people who need to receive a letter on March 19, 2021. With the life I have lived, I figured there would be more, but there are only a few names on my list.

Maybe I should start by writing one joint letter to all of them. I can add personal touches later on, once I’ve gotten down the gist of what I want to say.

My phone rings. It’s my private number. The one only a handful people have—the number Daisy doesn’t screen for me. Speak of the devil. It’s Ira.

“Izzy.” He sounds out of breath. “I just got word Bruce fell off his horse.”

“What?” Bruce is the biographer I’ve been working with for the past two years on my final project—although, of course, Bruce doesn’t know it is my very last professional endeavor.

“It’s bad. He’s in a coma.”

“Oh no.” On a really bad day, I would have considered Bruce a lucky son of a bitch. “Is he going to be all right?”

“I don’t know. It’s too soon to tell. But…” I know Ira. The cogs in his brain are ever-turning. Business always comes first. That’s why I pay him his fifteen percent. “I spoke to the publisher. They have a replacement in mind already.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“The book was as good as done, Izzy. All the source material is there.”

I huff out some air, making sure Ira hears my exasperated sigh on his end of the line. “Who are they suggesting?”

“Leila Zadeh.” He sounds as though that name should impress me.

I rack my brain. I’ve heard the name before, but that’s the only bell it rings.

“She writes a lot for The Metropolitan,” Ira says.

“Bruce really can’t be replaced. Not this late in the day.”

“I know. You’re right.” The last one is Ira’s favorite sentence. “But just meet with her. See how you get along. No pressure.”

No pressure? Yeah right. “I don’t know, Ira.” I was never totally on board with the whole biography thing, anyway. To have someone delve deep into my life like that. I only went along with it because of my own secret plan. Because by the time my biography is released into the world, I will be long gone. Ira sold me on the idea of leaving a different kind of legacy.

But Bruce was such a likable man. Easy to talk to. Unassuming. Never pushy, although his hands-off approach seemed to work in the end. Poor Bruce. “Which hospital is Bruce in? Is he getting the best care possible?”

“Of course.” Ira’s voice is calm. “We can go see him as soon as it’s allowed.”

“Send me a dossier on this…. What’s her name again? Then I’ll decide.”

“Coming your way right now.” A silence falls. “Are you okay, Izzy?” Ira asks after a while.

“All the time I spent with Bruce and I never knew he rode horses.”

“Hm.” I can hear Ira swallow. “It was his job to find out everything about you. Not the other way around.”

A minute after we’ve rung off, I get a reminder on my cell phone for my workout. It’s hot instructor time in my virtual gym. Ramona’s the only reason I still show up every day. Ramona and the addictive blend of endorphins and arousal she elicits from me.

After the news about Bruce, I need the distraction. On my computer screen, I get a notice I’ve received a new email. It’s from Ira and the subject reads Leila Zadeh.

That will have to wait until after Ramona has made me sweat and forget.

<<End of preview>>

A Breathless Place will be available on Thursday 24 September 2020 from all retailers.

You can pre-order the ebook here:
– Direct from me
– Amazon US
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– Amazon CA
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– Amazon DE

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