Harper Bliss

Lesbian fiction

PREVIEW: Two Hearts Alone (Two Hearts Trilogy – Book One)

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Two Hearts Alone

Two Hearts Alone (Two Hearts Trilogy – Book One) will be out on 13 February 2020.

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

Two Hearts Alone
(Two Hearts Trilogy – Book One)
© Harper Bliss

 

Chapter 1
ANNA

Hemingway doesn’t care that it’s snowing outside. He sits by the front door, waiting for me. I’ve tried ignoring him for ten minutes, but even when I don’t see him, I can still sort of see him. That sad, disappointed face with the dramatically droopy eyes, which he only ever puts on when I don’t snap on his leash at 10 a.m. sharp.

But the mid-January cold seems to have seeped into my bones and the prospect of going outside fills me with more dread than usual.

“Remind me again why I got you?” I ask Hemingway.

He turns his face toward me and turns up the drama in his eyes, his snout pointing wistfully toward the door.

As soon as I grab my coat, Hemingway perks up. He wags his tail in anticipation.

“You and I,” I mumble, “we’re not the same. I wonder how we can even live together.” I’m reminded of a podcast I listened to the other week, in which someone claimed that dogs used to walk themselves. But walking Hemingway is one of the reasons I got him in the first place. If I didn’t have to take him out twice daily, I’d never leave my house most days. He’s my connection to the outside world.

Hemingway gives an excited bark as I put on his leash. I find my warmest hat and gloves, and head into the snow.

The cold hits me hard in the face, but Hemingway is pulling on his leash, and I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. He tugs me forward along our usual route. I half-walk half-jog behind him, keeping my face down. Because Donovan Grove is the kind of town where people keep their driveways clear, it’s not that hard to make my way along the sidewalk, but I do have to ask Hemingway to moderate his tempo for fear of slipping on the snow. It wouldn’t be the first time. When I got him two years ago, in the middle of winter, I let his enthusiasm get the best of me a few times and paid for it by ending up face-down in the snow.

What I like most about Hemingway is that he’s so utterly predictable. Every single day, he does his business on the same street corner—and I dispose of it in the doggy waste bin that was put there especially for Hemingway’s needs by the Donovan Grove council. I would never have requested a waste bin myself, but for some reason my mother felt it necessary. So, there it is.

“Good boy, Hem.” I give him a scratch behind the ear and, in return, he gives me a look filled with such love it almost makes me forget about the cold.

We continue our walk. The streets are quiet, even Main Street where usually a few shoppers dwell. I follow Hemingway’s paw prints on the thin layer of snow that has fallen since the sidewalk was last shoveled. Then I slowly get used to the cold and I lift my head up a little higher. This is how it goes every single day in winter. Getting out of the house is the hardest part, but once I’m out, I try to enjoy the walk as much as Hemingway does.

The familiarity of my surroundings soothes me. The window displays in the stores change as we cycle through every season, but that’s about it. When we reach the end of Main Street, I do notice something different. Bookends, the bookstore that’s been empty for months, has a light on inside.

And not just that, but a big heart’s been spray-painted onto the window.

“Oh no,” I mumble, making Hemingway stop in his tracks. “Don’t tell me the old bookstore will be turning into some cheesy gift shop.”

I peer through the window and I can hardly believe my eyes. Granted, it’s been a while since I actually looked through the window, since the place has been boarded up for months, but still, the transformation from derelict bookstore to whatever this is, is impressive.

The old, dark bookshelves have been painted with bright colors and stacks of books are waiting to find their place. My heart does a little jump at the prospect of the bookstore reopening, but then my gaze is drawn to the big heart on the window again. Inside it, also spray-painted, someone—presumably the new owner—has written: Valentine’s Day is coming!

I only got rid of my Christmas tree last week—always a bit of a sad event. Not only because I love the coziness of Christmas, but also because soon enough, and the evidence is already glaring straight at me, I’ll be reminded of how society believes it’s awful and pitiful that I’m single. It’s bad enough already that my mother thinks so, although she has gotten a bit better at hiding her dismay.

“Can you believe this?” I mutter under my breath, my words visible in the small cloud that emanates from my mouth. But Hemingway doesn’t care. He just wants to get on with his walk.

“We’ll go in a second,” I reassure him, not that he understands. I look past the ridiculous drawing and words on the window and try to see more of the store inside. Mrs. Fincher, who ran the bookstore until she retired last summer, always had a recommendation for me whenever I came in—and I did often. The closing of the old Bookends left a gaping hole in my schedule for a long time. But Mrs. Fincher, especially after Mr. Fincher passed away, hated Valentine’s Day as much as I do, and she would never have disgraced her store window with a ludicrous drawing of a heart. In fact, I’d wager, if she were to walk past right now and notice it, she might have a heart attack, just like her husband did.

“This is basically a health hazard,” I say, but Hemingway still doesn’t care. He has calmed down now and sits quietly by my side, glancing around.

I see some movement in the shop. A young woman—she can’t be older than Jaden, my nephew—is hauling a big box.

The sight of another human is enough to make me back away from the window and continue my walk swiftly.

 

Chapter 2
ZOE

“Someone weird was just looking inside,” Brooklyn says. “They hurried off as soon as they saw me though.”

“A future satisfied customer, no doubt.” I have to keep my own spirits up as well as my daughter’s.

“There isn’t much else in this town, so sure, Mom.” At least Brooklyn’s trying today, as opposed to yesterday, when I could barely get her out of bed. The move from Queens to upstate New York is much harder on her, especially because it’s happening in the middle of the school year. Things have not gone down the way either of us had planned.

“It will take some time, sweetie,” I repeat. It seems to have become my mantra. Things will change for you as soon as you start school again, I add in my head. If I were to say it out loud, it wouldn’t go down well. The changing of schools is still a very sore subject—which I do understand.

Brooklyn looks around the store, which is a mess. We only removed the shutters last night. The first thing I did this morning was paint an obnoxiously big heart on the window. I refuse to let my lonely heart make me cynical—or I can at least pretend that it doesn’t.

“That you gave up your cushy Amazon job for this,” Brooklyn says on a sigh.

“Come here, mija.” I hold out my hand to her. She just stares at it. I bridge the distance between us and take her hand in mine. “I know this is hard. It’s the middle of winter, Mama just left, and we’re in this brand-new town where we don’t know anyone, but…” I pull her a little closer. “You have me. Your mom. And we’re going to make the best of it; that’s what we Perez women do. And you know what? In the end, it will be amazing.”

“If you say so.” She hugs me back a little, which is the most I can expect from my fifteen-year-old under the circumstances.

“Once the store is open, we’ll meet lots of people.” Which is why I want to get it ready for opening as quickly as possible. I had hoped to be able to open for business in a few days, but with how things are looking right now, it might actually take a couple of weeks.

“God knows what they’ll be like.” Brooklyn grumbles it more than she says it.

Her hand is still in mine as I lead her to the window. “Look at it,” I say. “Isn’t it picture-perfect?”

Brooklyn just shrugs. Maybe I did ask too much of her. Maybe I should have stuck it out in Queens, and everything it came to stand for, until she finished high school.

I look out the window, taking in Donovan Grove’s Main Street. There’s the diner across the street, where we will go for lunch later, after we’ve unpacked a few more boxes. There’s the hardware store and the mini-mart and the bakery, all filled with people we’ve yet to meet. A happy mother will always make for a happier child, I repeat in my head.

A man and a woman walk past the window and briefly stop. The woman gives a quick wave, then they’re back on their way through the snow that keeps on falling. Bernard, who owns the candy store next door, was quick to tell me that not clearing the sidewalk in front of your dwelling could result in grumbling neighbors, of which, I got the impression he surely would be one if I didn’t get my shovel out quickly. So I’ve tasked Brooklyn with keeping the sidewalk as clear as possible. If this snow keeps up, she’ll have to go out again soon.

“Do you want to call Marsha and Juan?” I ask, referring to our friends back in Queens, the ones that were hardest to leave behind.

Brooklyn’s body releases some tension. “That’s okay, Mom,” she says. “We have shit to get done.” She wriggles her hand loose from my grasp and opens a box. She sighs the sort of sigh only a teenager can get away with. “Where do you want these?” She holds up a pack of bright-red Valentine’s Day cards.

“We need to put the rack together first. I’m not sure it’s a job for two women on their own.” I hold my smile.

“Oh yes, it is. There’s not a job in this place the two of us can’t get done.” The sullenness in her voice has been replaced by feistiness. “Where is it?”

I point at a box close to the door. As my gaze sweeps around the store, I am briefly reminded of what Brooklyn called ‘my cushy Amazon job’. It might have paid well, but it was far from cushy or comfortable. This store might be a mess, but as Brooklyn just said, it’s nothing we can’t handle. It will take some elbow grease and a lot of energy, but this is the beginning of our new life together, in a brand-new town—Donovan Grove, where there happened to be a bookstore for sale just as I started looking for one. Just as I started to gently contemplate a different life for us. So here we are.

Brooklyn’s tearing open the box. “Just because I’m putting together this rack,” she says, “doesn’t mean I approve of you selling this sappy, capitalist crap.”

“We give people what they want,” I counter. “So we can make a living.”

“This is not what people want, Mom. Maybe when you were young they did, but Valentine’s Day is simply not woke.”

“Ouch, girl.”

“I bet you that no one of my age will buy one of those cards.”

“Oh really?”

“Just retired people. And men who have something to make up for with their wives,” she says.

“So young, yet so cynical.” I flatten the cardboard box she just tore open.

“I guess that’s what happens when your other mother decides to no longer give a f—” She stops herself before I can chastise her for swearing. “To not care about you any longer.”

“Eve does care, baby. She loves you.” I have to say these things, even though I could have strangled Eve when she told us that she was moving abroad months earlier than planned. The moving abroad alone was enough of a punch in the gut for Brooklyn, but making her change her plans—making her move out here with me much earlier than anticipated—was like pulling the rug from underneath her feet entirely.

Brooklyn rolls her eyes. “Let’s not do this again. If she really cared, she wouldn’t be where she is right now.”

“I know, baby. I know.” I look at the rack we’re trying to assemble, hoping to distract her.

“It’s just for a year,” Eve said, when she first told us she was moving to Shanghai.

“A year is still twelve months of your daughter’s life that you’ll miss,” I said.

Because Eve was going to be away for a year, we agreed that Brooklyn would stay with her in the city, while I got settled in Donovan Grove. That way, Brooklyn could make the move in the summer and she’d get to spend some extra quality time with her other parent. Now, she’s had to move out here with hardly any notice, while her other mother lives the high life in Asia. It’s hardly fair on Brooklyn, but it’s how it is.

“I can do this on my own.” Brooklyn squats down.

“But you don’t have to.” I crouch down next to her and give her a hand.

<<End of preview>>

Two Hearts Alone (Two Hearts Trilogy – Book One) will be available on Thursday 13 February 2020 from all retailers.

PREVIEW (+ PRE-SALE!): Next in Line For Love

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Next in Line For Love

Next in Line For Love will be out on 17 December 2019, but you can now get it in pre-sale, exclusively from my web shop here >>

As of 17 December it will only be available on Amazon.

Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

Next in Line For Love
© Harper Bliss

Chapter 1
ALI

I always get a faint whiff of stale beer when I enter the Lennox Breweries offices, even though the actual brewing doesn’t happen in this building. I shake off the imagined scent and head toward the elevator bank. The lobby feels empty—too empty. What was I expecting? A welcoming committee? That would have been nice, actually.

I make my way to the top floor unescorted, briefly wondering if I got the date wrong. But how could I possibly have gotten it wrong? This is the day I start my journey to becoming Chief Executive Officer of one of the country’s oldest breweries.

When the elevator opens to the executive floor, I’m greeted by my brother Sebastian—the last person I want to see.

“Hey, Sis,” he says. The smile on his face is already annoying me. “Ready for the big league?” I know the question isn’t one born from genuine concern. Sebastian’s just here to taunt me. We’re both in our thirties, yet insulting each other is still what we do most of when we are together.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, taking his bait.

“I’m here for you, of course.” He brings a hand to my shoulder, making me believe, just for a split second, that he can be a nice guy if he really wants to be. “On your big day.” He flashes me a smile again—it’s only a fraction less annoying this time. “Someone has to make sure you don’t fuck up straight away.”

“I’m touched.” My voice drips with sarcasm. As we progress toward my father’s office suite, a few people look up; some even give me a nod or quick wave.

“You’d think the old man would be in an extraordinary mood today, what with his favorite daughter reporting for duty, but he’s just as cranky as ever,” Sebastian says. “Trust me. It’s good that I’m here.”

Our father, Jeffrey Lennox, is the kind of man who can strike the fear of God into you with a single, withering look. A man who has gotten used to taking exactly what he wants. And now I’m here to take over his biggest prize.

“If you say so.” We approach the glass box that makes up my father’s office. He’s standing by the window, gazing out over the Los Angeles skyline.

Sebastian looks at his watch. “I do have a meeting that can’t be pushed back—not even for your arrival, Ali.” He gives a curt, ridiculous bow. “You’re on your own.” So much for my brother being there for me on my big day.

You’d think it wasn’t my own father I’m about to greet, what with the way my heart is stomping in my chest. This is ridiculous. And all Sebastian has done is make me more nervous, which was probably his intention.

“Hey, Ali. Right on time.” A voice comes from behind me. “Shall we go in?”

“Jill.” I nod at the woman who has been Lennox Breweries’ Chief Operating Officer for as long as I can remember, although there must have been a time when it wasn’t her. My father makes the decisions, Jill Gold implements them.

Unlike the rest of the SoCal population, Jill’s not the sort of woman to greet you with a hug. She raps her knuckles against the glass door, opens it, and ushers me into my father’s office.

“Alexandra.” My father turns to me and opens his arms wide—as though I’ve just flown in from somewhere far away, instead of seeing him at the house two days ago. Maybe’s he’s putting on a show for Jill, but why would he? If not for Jill, then for me, perhaps? Where’s the crankiness Sebastian was talking about?

“Hi, Dad.” I walk toward him but not too close.

He keeps his arms spread, but it’s more a showy gesture than any actual desire to give me a proper hug.

“The day has finally come. You’ve come to take the crown,” he says.

“Hardly.” I can just about keep from rolling my eyes. “I still need to get my training wheels on.”

“Yes, well.” He heads behind his large desk. “You know what I mean.” He waves for Jill to come closer.

“It makes sense to take you under my wing, Ali,” Jill says. “I know everything that happens at this company. Stick with me for a while, and you’ll be ready in no time.”

“She’ll be your boss in no time,” my father says, his voice gruff.

Jill shrugs off his comment as though she won’t mind working for someone much younger than herself—as though she never considered herself for the part of CEO. But she’s not a Lennox. It was always going to be either me or Sebastian.

“The first thing we need to do,” Jill says, “is make you a viable proposition for the board.” She gives a quick shake of the head. “They’ll be expecting Sebastian.”

“That’s what you get when the board’s mostly made up of old men,” I say. If I’m going to be CEO, I shouldn’t mince my words.

“Very true,” Jill says before my father can make a comment.

“I haven’t exactly been sitting on my ass the past ten years,” I say. “You can order Lennox beer in more than a hundred countries around the world these days.”

While this is true—I’ve been working in the family business for a decade now—even I expected Sebastian to be the one to follow in Dad’s footsteps, despite him being an entitled, obnoxious douchebag.

But times have changed and suddenly share prices can plummet, even when the most logical successor is announced. When they present me as the next CEO instead of my brother, the share price should stay pretty steady. At least, that’s what my father told me when he gauged my interest in the position. It was a heart-warming way to sell me on the whole premise.

“Once we’ve got the board… on board,” Jill says, not a hint of a smile on her face, “we’ll take it from there. But that’s the first objective. We need to create the idea of stable leadership. Someone who won’t rock the boat, but is fresh at the same time.”

“No pressure.” I glance at Jill. Even though we’re in Southern California, she’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater.

“Don’t worry, Ali. I’ve got your back.” There’s something sincere—and therefore very unusual—about her, so I believe her when she says it, although I can’t completely shake off the skepticism I was raised with.

The least I can do is give her a warm smile in response.

A knock comes on the door. It’s Evelyn, my father’s personal assistant. “Dr. Barnes is here,” she says.

My father rolls his eyes and sinks into his leather chair.

“Just follow Jill around.” He as good as waves us out of the door.

Jill holds the door open for me. I’m at least five inches taller than her.

“I managed to convince him to have his blood pressure monitored twice a day. He doesn’t like it, as you can imagine,” she whispers, “but needs must.”

I follow her to her office. She points to the wall behind her desk. “We’ve set you up next door, close to all the action.”

“Thanks.” I glance around. Jill’s office is a smaller replica of my father’s. Perhaps mine will be exactly the same as well, but a little smaller still, to represent the current pecking order.

“How is he really doing? In the day-to-day?”

“He’s an old man.” Jill says it very matter-of-factly. It’s good to know she doesn’t mince her words either. “He should have stepped down years ago, but he’s more stubborn than he’s old, so…”

“Tell me about it,” I say as though I know all about it. I’ve only been back in L.A. a few weeks.

“I have some calls to make.” Jill looks at her watch. “But how about lunch together?”

“Oh, uh.” I slant my head. “I already have plans for lunch.”

“With Sebastian?” she inquires. “He can tag along.” She grins at me. “If he must.”

“Um, no. With my friend Madison. I didn’t think today was going to be, like, a whole thing.”

“A whole thing?” Jill creases her features into an expression I can only interpret as extreme disapproval. “Why do I get the impression you’re not taking this very seriously? You’re going to be CEO of Lennox Breweries, Ali. This ‘whole thing’ is going to take up a lot of your time, if not all of it. I hope you’re aware of that.”

“I’m well aware. It’s just that today’s the first day. I have the rest of my life to be serious about it.” I reach for my cellphone in the side pocket of my blazer. “But if it’s so important, I’ll have lunch with you instead.”

Jill’s phone starts ringing. She shoots me one last glance—is that some mild disdain I detect?—and turns to pick it up.

I slink out of her office, in search of my own. Maybe it’s good that we’ll have lunch, so I can manage Jill’s expectations of me. We already seem to have different ideas of what it means to become the big boss.

 

Chapter 2
JILL

“I hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot earlier.” I’m not sure why I’m being so nice to Ali—probably because she’s the boss’s daughter. And it’s my job to train her to become my next boss.

The sushi I ordered sits untouched between us on the conference table in my office.

“I’m the one who should apologize.” Ali doesn’t really sound as though she means it. For someone who has been out of the state—and out of the country—for so long, she sounds like a quintessential spoiled brat from Beverly Hills, irritating inflections in her voice included. “Tell me honestly, Jill. Am I nothing more than a figurehead here? Because that’s what I’ve been led to believe. Both by my brother and my father. They need me for the optics and that’s about it.” She glares at the food on the table, making no move to actually eat any of it. Maybe it’s not up to her standards.

I’ve been dealing with Jeffrey Lennox’s children since I started my career at Lennox Breweries—although I haven’t seen Ali in a very long time. I’ve often lamented that if Jeffrey wanted his children to succeed him, he should have raised them a little differently, but he was always too busy building his business to put much thought into his offspring.

“Lennox needs you. All of you,” I say, with feeling. “Not just your pretty face, Ali.” I want her to have a chance. She might have spent the past decade living the high life in various European and Asian cities, pretending to be export manager for the company, but if I have my way, Alexandra Lennox will become the next CEO of this company. I’d much rather have her at the helm than her brother, whose privilege has only been increased by the fact he was born male.

“That’s the first I’ve heard of that.”

“Look.” I open a bottle of overpriced Fiji water. “We have a chance here to usher this company into a new era. The only reason we even have this opportunity is because your brother screwed up one time too many. Because he thinks he can get away with anything. Well, he can’t anymore. This is a golden opportunity for us, for you and me, Ali. We can run this company together, if we want.”

I hope I’ve read Ali correctly and that she dislikes her brother as much as I do. I’ve never seen any evidence to the contrary, but years abroad can change a person.

“And let Sebastian know he cannot run things behind the scenes?” Her face lights up.

“Exactly.”

“Maybe we can even push him out in the process,” Ali says. “Shouldn’t he be in jail or something, anyway?”

“He went to rehab.” Lennoxes don’t go to jail, I add in my head.

“Fat load of good that did him.” She wrinkles up her nose. “Pity there are no rehabilitation centers for first-class douchebags…”

“I take it there have been no grand reconciliations since you’ve returned?”

Ali’s very different from her brother. I can actually have a conversation with her where things are articulated instead of insinuated. I can get to know a few things through her.

“Sebastian wants to drink my blood.” Ali leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “He won’t come out and say it, but he absolutely loathes that Dad has chosen me over him. Even though it’s his own stupid fault.”

“It’s not something he’ll get over any time soon. You’ll need to watch your back.”

“I thought you had my back.” Ali draws her lips into a smile.

“I do.” I pluck a piece of salmon sashimi from the plate in front of me. “Do you have mine?” The slice of salmon hovers in front of my mouth as I wait for Ali to reply.

“Are we forging some kind of sisterly pact over sushi?”

“We can.” I chuckle to make light of it, but it’s exactly what I want. If I can get Ali accepted by the board, I can have virtual control of this company once Jeffrey steps down. Our first move, after Senior is out of the door, will be to get rid of Sebastian. All I need is Ali Lennox on my side.

“Okay.” Ali doesn’t dismiss the idea. “I’ve always liked you, Jill. You’ve obviously steered this company through some rough patches, but… I’m not as young and naive as I used to be. And I don’t really know you. So I guess your other very important and urgent job is to make me trust you.”

“Of course.” Perhaps I underestimated Ali a little. I had my guy do some research on her, because I haven’t seen much of her while she was gallivanting around the globe. From what I’ve heard, she likes to party just as much as her brother does, but the substances she uses are always legal, which already makes her a fair bit smarter than Sebastian. “Challenge accepted.” I have quite a few years on Ali, and a whole lot more experience in business in general, and this company specifically. Getting her to trust me shouldn’t be too hard—as long as I don’t make the mistake of underestimating her. She’s still a Lennox. After their mother died, Jeffrey might have allowed Alexandra and Sebastian to do anything they wanted while he escaped into work, but they were both born with Lennox smarts. It runs in their blood.

Ali nods at me sternly, as if I’m her subordinate already.

“Now tell me, how have you been, Ali?” It’s time to lighten the mood, and to get to know her all over again. The last time I saw Jeffrey’s daughter was at her twin sister’s funeral ten years ago.

“Singapore was a hoot,” she says. “I wouldn’t have minded staying longer. They just really get extravagance there. Having a shit ton of money is, like, so normal in some countries.”

She sounds a lot like Sebastian right now. They are siblings, after all. But I decide to focus on the other parts of her—and to unearth at least one positive trait I can work with.

“How are you?” she asks, much against my expectations. Sebastian never deigns to ask me how I am. No one on this floor does. “Are you married with a couple of brats?” She squints. “Don’t tell me you’re a grandma already. I won’t believe you.”

I chuckle. She couldn’t be further from the truth. There’s a reason why nobody here asks me how I’m doing. I’ve taught everyone that it’s a pointless question. I don’t discuss my private life at work, mostly because I don’t have one.

“None of that. I’ve always been married to the job, which I know is a terrible cliché.”

Ali examines my face, then nods as though she has suddenly understood something about me. I’m not sure why my palms suddenly feel moist.

“Your dedication to my family’s brews is touching,” Ali says with a grin on her face. Then she finally picks up a pair of chopsticks and starts to eat.

<< End of preview >>

Next in Line For Love will be available from Amazon on 17 December 2019.
You can now get it on pre-sale from my web shop >>

PREVIEW: A Lesson in Love

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A Lesson in Love

A Lesson in Love will be out in less than 3 weeks! Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

A Lesson in Love
(A Village Romance Novel)
© Harper Bliss

 

Chapter 1
HELEN

I have ten minutes before my next appointment and I instinctively reach for my phone. My finger hovers over my trusty dictation app, but I catch myself. Not here.

With a sigh, I put my phone back. When I arrived this morning, I was in the middle of dictating a climactic scene. But it would have seemed too odd to sit talking to myself in my car in the car park so I stopped—although, these days, so many of us look like we’re talking to ourselves all the time.

These are my university hours and I can’t allow my two schedules to get confused, even though my office door is closed and no one would see me.

Instead, I grab the sheet of paper I printed out earlier from my desk. Victoria Carlisle. Sounds posh. But I’ve taught myself not to judge—if that’s even possible. This is Oxford. There’s no shortage of posh people here. I’ve seen many students come and go over the years, from all backgrounds, but the majority have always been more posh than not.

I glance at Victoria Carlisle’s picture. The department makes it compulsory to have your picture on its website. Could she be the very last student I supervise?

“You very well might be, Victoria Carlisle,” I say to her printed image. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Wide, full lips. She must have been in one of my first-year lectures, but if she was, I don’t remember—despite her distinctive mouth.

Someone knocks on the door.

“Yes.” I drop the sheet of paper.

The door opens and in walks the woman whose picture I was just studying.

“Hello, Professor Swift.” She walks straight towards me, hand outstretched. “I’m Victoria.”

I briefly take her hand in mine, then invite her to sit.

She’s wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail.

“Right,” she says and looks me straight in the eye, flashing a very wide smile. “I have to admit”—her voice is clear—“I’m a little nervous.”

Her attitude and facial expression contradict her statement. Since her arrival, the energy in my office has shifted. She’s one of those people who draw the eye—who light up a room. I wouldn’t be caught dead using that cliché in one of my novels.

“No need for that.” She’s making me nervous now. One day, if she does get her doctorate, she’ll make an outstanding lecturer—unlike me, perhaps. With some people, one glance is all it takes to know they’ll excel.

“The way I see it”—she cocks her head—“you’re my only chance at doing this particular kind of in-depth research.”

I arch up my eyebrows. I know what Victoria Carlisle wants to research. She emailed me about it in astonishing detail.

“I wouldn’t put it in such black and white terms, Miss Carlisle.”

“Well, no doubt you know what I mean.” That wide grin again, accompanied by a wink this time. Goodness, this woman is forward. Like most young people these days, who carry themselves with a familiarity towards faculty that I’ve never quite got used to.

Of course I know what she means. “Professor Monohan has an interest in the subject you suggest.”

Victoria shakes her head. “She doesn’t really.”

“Did you inquire with her?”

“I did and she wouldn’t even meet with me to discuss it.”

That figures. “So I’m your second choice?”

“Most definitely not, Professor,” she’s quick to say. “You were always my first choice, but I felt like I needed to hedge my bets.”

“You didn’t try Professor Fleming?” I ask, more to amuse myself than anything else.

She cocks her head again. “No, of course not.” Now she’s making me sound silly for even suggesting it.

“All right.” It’s time to move things along. “So, the evolution of lesbian characters in English literature in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.”

Victoria nods.

“I take it you have considered this subject carefully?” Another silly question, but one I find myself asking every time nonetheless.

“My master’s thesis was about lesbian pulp fiction of the fifties and sixties, so a doctoral dissertation would really be an expansion of that. I feel like there’s much more to be said on the subject and a DPhil dissertation carries more weight.”

“You seem very passionate about the subject.” I take my time to examine her face more carefully this time.

“I am, indeed.” She sits up a little straighter. “In almost every aspect of life, lesbians are the most invisible group. Regardless of the reasons for that, it’s my mission to unearth as many lesbian characters as I can in the last hundred years of English literature. It is very much my passion.”

“Good.” I give her an encouraging nod. The goal of this first meeting is always to gauge and predict—insofar as that’s possible—the stamina of the DPhil candidates. The dropout rate is so high, and so many promising dissertations never get finished. I, for one, would like to read the final version of this particular project. At the moment, Victoria Carlisle surely comes across as very enthusiastic. I see a determination in her glance I rarely encounter. This could be one that works out. “I’d be very happy to be your supervisor.”

“Yes!” Victoria bumps her fist into the air.

I can’t help but smile a little. It bolsters my enthusiasm for my own job just a bit. The fondness for it that I seem to have lost along the way. It’s been a while since someone like Victoria has come along. One more year full-time, I tell myself. By the end of this year, my other supervisees will have completed their dissertations and working part-time will give me more than enough hours to supervise Victoria. To help this woman get started with her research. I can actually see myself do it now.

Victoria regroups and puts her hands in her lap.

“The first few months, I’ll see you once a week.” I’m already looking forward to discussing Victoria’s quest for lesbian characters in literature. When I was a student, it wouldn’t have been entirely unthinkable to devote a dissertation to this type of subject, but it would have taken a lot more convincing to get the whole thing off the ground. I also didn’t have any out-and-proud professors to turn to. Today, in the Faculty of English Language and Literature alone, there are three of us—with a lot of suspicion surrounding a fourth.

“I look forward to it, Professor Swift,” Victoria says.

 

Chapter 2
RORY

Professor Swift has no idea how much I look forward to working with her. I had kind of hoped she’d want to see me twice a week to discuss my progress—or take me out to lunch to celebrate. But I’ll take once a week. I’ll take whatever I can get.

I glance at her, wondering if she’ll have anything else to say or ask. Maybe she’ll want to inquire about my research methods or perhaps she’d like a copy of my master’s thesis. I have one just for her in my bag.

She moves her mouse and looks at her screen.

“Shall we say Mondays at three?”

“Okay.” I don’t even consult my calendar. I’ll make time regardless.

“Was there anything else?” Professor Swift’s light blue gaze goes a little steely all of a sudden.

“Um, no.” I came to this meeting prepared. I have all the answers to her possible questions at the ready in my head, but she doesn’t appear to have any. Perhaps she had already decided to take me on before seeing me. She doesn’t appear to be the most talkative type. There’s a lot of inquisition in that icy gaze of hers, however.

“I take it you know what to do next?” There’s a hint of doubt in her voice.

“I do.” Resolutely, I jump out of my seat. “I’ll report back next week.” I offer my hand.

She eyes it for a split second, then stands and takes it in hers. She gives me a curt nod before releasing my hand.

I exit Professor Swift’s office and once I’ve closed the door behind me, bump my fist into the air again.

When I decided to go for my DPhil I only ever wanted to do it on this subject and with Professor Swift as my supervisor. I might have gone to Professor Fleming if Swift had refused to supervise me, but it wouldn’t have been the same, what with Fleming being a man.

I walk out of the building’s stuffy hallway feeling like I’ve won the lottery. In a way, I have. This should also keep Mother and Father happy with me for a few more years.

* * *

“Swift’s on board,” I shout as soon as I walk into our apartment. I don’t even know if Jessica’s home.

She leaps from the kitchen into the lounge. “You wooed the ice maiden.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Go you.”

I chuckle. “I hardly wooed her.”

“You know what Sarah told me.” Jess walks to the drinks cabinet. “G&T to celebrate?”

“Is that what Sarah told you?” I beam a smile over to her.

She rolls her eyes at me. “You want one or not?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Jess and I are both DPhil students, both of us lingering in limbo between student and ‘real’ life. We can have a gin and tonic before lunch any day of the week.

“On it, darling,” Jess says.

“What did Professor Monohan tell you?”

She turns around to roll her eyes at me again. “I take it Swift will never let you call her by her first name, but Sarah and I are very much on a first-name basis. Have been from day one.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’ve told me often.” I let myself fall onto the sofa.

“Sarah told me she’d be very surprised if Swift took on any new DPhil students to supervise this year.” Jess arches her eyebrows.

“I must have some really serious powers of persuasion then.” I wink at her.

She turns towards the drinks cabinet again. I hear the sizzle of a can of tonic being opened.

“You really must, Rory,” Jess says with her back to me. “I should know, after all.”

I ignore Jess’s comment and think about the brief amount of time I spent in Professor Swift’s office. I didn’t have to persuade her at all. Professor Sarah Monohan must have assumed wrongly.

“There you go, darling.” Jess hands me a glass filled to the absolute brim. “Cheers.” When she clinks hers against mine, some liquid sloshes over the top. Sometimes, I feel like we still live a bit too much like students.

“Now that it’s official,” she says, “you should come to lunch with Sarah and Alistair tomorrow. We’ll have a gay old time.” She grins at me.

“Christ, Jess.” I take a large sip and inwardly admonish myself for not picking a more subtle kind of person as a roommate.

“Sarah’s much more forthcoming than Swift and she’s rather fond of a boozy lunch. Think of all the background information you can get out of her.”

“I’ll see.” I glance at my friend. We’ve been living together for three years and I know what she’s like—a loud busy-body who likes to throw a party every other week.

“Fuck that, Rory. You’re coming,” Jessica says. “I know you better than you know yourself. You want to come.”

“Don’t you have a Tinder date to get all dolled up for?”

“Not today,” Jess says on a sigh. “In fact, not this week or this month or this year.”

“Has the well of eligible Oxford bachelors run dry?”

She expels another sigh. “I should have stuck with you, Rory.” She paints on another grin. “We had a good time together.”

“For about a week or two, maybe.” We’ve had this conversation so many times before, usually over a couple of drinks.

“I could have been married to Victoria Carlisle by now,” Jess muses. “Acquired myself a piece of your family’s fortune along the way.”

“I hate to break it to you—again,” I catch her gaze. “But it’s hardly a fortune and, besides, my mother would not have welcomed you into the family with open arms. She’s not really a very open-armed kind of person.”

“What are you talking about? Lady Carlisle adores me.” Jessica bats her lashes.

“Sure, as long as you’re nothing more than my friend.”

Jessica shrugs and takes a large gulp of gin and tonic. Even she doesn’t have a comeback for that one.

<<End of preview>>

A Lesson in Love will be available on Tuesday 6 August 2019.

Preview: French Kissing: Season Five

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French Kissing: Season Five

The new season of French Kissing will be out on 18 June 2019! I’m so excited. I have an extra-long preview for you. Enjoy!

French Kissing: Season Five
© Harper Bliss

AURORE

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be working for Séverine Marechal instead of Dominique Laroche?” Aurore regretted the words the instant they’d passed her lips.

Solange just rolled her eyes, emitted a small sigh, and retreated into silence. Always that silence. More than anything else, it drove Aurore to insanity.

“Will you please say something?” Aurore had tried beating Solange at her own silence game, but she didn’t have the patience for it. Because the woman got under her skin too much. At least once a day, Aurore wondered how it was possible for her to be so attracted to someone with such ridiculous political views.

“What do you want me to say?” Solange shrugged. “Whatever I say next will just propel us into another fight.” She narrowed her eyes to slits. “But just for the record, I would never for a second consider working for someone like Séverine Marechal or any far-right candidate. I don’t believe in anything she stands for.” She looked up. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while. I figured you’d know that by now.”

“I’m not so sure of that. The MLR and the ANF have different strategies to get elected, but you do want some of the same things.” Aurore couldn’t stop herself. She didn’t care that, once again, she’d be accused—in Solange’s usual clipped tone—of being a bleeding heart socialist who wanted nothing more than to pamper the less fortunate.

Solange leaned back against the sofa. Her white blouse was crumpled. Aurore had bought her some more colourful blouses, but Solange never wore them. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “I’m honestly too tired to do this with you tonight.”

“That makes two of us,” Aurore said.

Solange looked her in the eye briefly, then cast her gaze to the stack of papers on the coffee table. To the tax reform memo she’d been reading.

“Maybe I’ll just go,’ Solange said.”

“It’s late.” Aurore tried to ignore the stab of guilt in her gut.

“Yes, I know it’s late, but I’d rather make my way across town at this hour than sit here with you and be accused of being a closet fascist.” She shook her head. “Yes, we want to push through this tax reform before the end of Dominque’s term, but I truly don’t see how that makes me fit to work for someone like Marechal.” Solange put the memo in a folder.

Aurore bit back the reply she had at the ready.

Solange pushed herself out of the sofa. She looked tired, worn out even. “When I come here, I want to relax. Not have the same old argument every time.”

“Relax?” Aurore nodded at the folder Solange had in her hand. “How can you relax when you’re working on more tax cuts for the rich? On my sofa. At eleven o’clock in the evening.”

Solange held up a hand. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore. Any of it. Elections are coming. I’m only going to get busier and… frankly, I could do without your socialist distractions.”

“My socialist distractions? Is that all I am to you now? A socialist?”

“Tonight, you clearly are.” Solange straightened her spine. “Do you enjoy our endless fights? Because I’m sick of them. I’d rather be alone than fight with you every other day.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Again. Aurore tried to keep her voice steady.

“What’s there even left to break up from? We’re hardly couple of the year.” Solange grabbed her bag from the sofa and stuffed the folder inside.

“I take it back.” Aurore stepped closer to her. “What I said about Marechal was a heat of the moment thing. Surely, you know that. Please, stay.” Aurore had been here before too many times. Every single time had felt like the last time—like Solange would disappear from her life forever. It was a thought she couldn’t bear.

“It’s not working.” Solange’s voice shot up, which indicated she meant business. “Can’t you see that?” She shook her head again. “You’re supposed to be the expert in relationships and emotions and communication and all the other things I suck at. So you tell me. Do you really think this is worth putting any more energy into? Because I can use my energy for much more valuable things.”

“In that case, I think my opinion hardly still matters.” Aurore’s voice cracked.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you truly believe we are worth fighting for.” Solange took a step closer. She stood so close that Aurore could feel her breath. This was a new move. Was it the first hint at the make-up sex they’d be having or was Solange truly being serious?

In the end, it didn’t matter. Because Aurore was tired too. Tired of the endless arguments, tired of never feeling totally at ease. Solange was so different from her, it often annoyed her more than it aroused her.

But Aurore couldn’t just say that out loud. She couldn’t just admit defeat like that. She couldn’t lie either. “I respect you as a person, but I don’t respect your political opinions. I just can’t.”

“Well, there we go then.” It came out as a whimper. “I knew I could count on your honesty, which is something I truly respect.” Solange was regaining confidence, or maybe it was the sarcasm that made it sound that way.

Aurore reached out her arm and put her hand on Solange’s hip. “Let’s not do this.” It was hardly an adequate argument—and she knew it wasn’t enough to persuade someone like Solange to stay.

“I agree. Let’s not.” Solange stepped to the side so Aurore’s hand slid off her hip. “Let’s end it here and now.” She swiftly made her way into the hallway. Aurore followed on her heels.

Solange snatched her coat from a hanger. She turned around. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Her words were like a dagger through Aurore’s heart—because she knew that what Solange had just said couldn’t possibly be more true. They were in love, but it wasn’t enough.

With that, Solange slipped into her coat and out the door.

Aurore watched the front door for a good while longer. It wasn’t the first time Solange had disappeared through it—Aurore had lost count of how many times they’d ended things between them during the time they’d been seeing each other. Correction: tried to see each other. This time, however, a foreboding sense of finality hung in the air. And apart from the acute sadness she always felt when things went awry between them, Aurore was a little relieved as well. Which was probably the biggest indicator that this was their final goodbye.

 

SOLANGE

Solange opened the door to her office at the Elysée. She’d never get tired of walking into this grand room, reserved for the President’s Chief of Staff. Working for Dominique Laroche pleased her more than anything else. A thought she had to cling to now more than ever. A headache throbbed behind her eyes and the three cups of very strong coffee she had downed earlier weren’t helping with her fatigue. She’d barely slept a wink.

The conversation with Aurore kept playing in her mind. Could she have dealt with it differently? She had asked herself over and over. The answer was always no. At least Solange had tried. She had ventured into a relationship with the least-likely person—maybe that was the problem. Either way, personal relationships would have to be relegated to a dark, dusty corner of her life once again. Now that she no longer had Aurore to fight with, she’d start on a strategy for Dominique’s re-election campaign. The election was still a year and a half away, but it was never too early to start strategising. Solange needed the distraction.

Speak of the devil. Solange had barely sat before Dominique appeared in the doorframe.

“If you keep turning up earlier and earlier, you’ll make me look bad.” Dominique tilted her head. “Or did you sleep here? You look a bit worse for wear.”

Solange shook her head. She made a point of not discussing her personal life with the President, but she figured if she just told her and got it over with, the subject could be closed and she wouldn’t have to talk about it with her boss again.

“Please don’t make a big deal about this.” She gazed out of the window. “Aurore and I broke up. For good, this time. It’s over and it’s for the best.” There. She’d said it. She had expected some sort of relief to wash over her, but instead she was flooded with sadness.

“Oh, Solange.” Dominique walked further into her office. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“I really don’t want to talk about it and I would appreciate it if Steph didn’t stop by later to make a big song and dance about it.”

“Don’t worry about Steph.” Dominique leaned against Solange’s desk. “I’m probably foolish to ask, but do you need some personal time?”

“With all due respect, Madam President, but that is indeed very foolish.”

Dominique nodded.

“I’ve been thinking about the upcoming campaign.” Solange quickly changed the subject. She knew Dominique would respect her wish to not discuss her breakup any further. Not only out of respect for Solange, but simply because she didn’t have the time to worry about her staff’s personal life. She barely had time to see her own children.

“Of course you have.”

“Shall we set up a meeting with Barbier & Cyr soon?” If it were up to Solange, they’d consult other agencies as well, but Steph still officially worked for Barbier & Cyr, so it was out of the question for Dominique to employ anyone else to handle the PR for her campaign.

“You’re certainly eager.” Dominique started pacing. “How about we focus on getting this tax reform bill through the Assemblée first?”

“I am focused on that, but how about I have a preliminary meeting with Claire and Juliette?” During the previous campaign, Solange wouldn’t even have considered calling the owners of Barbier & Cyr by their first name. But everything was different now.

“No.” Dominique squared her shoulders. “Not yet.”

“Do you want to use a different agency?” Solange asked, slightly baffled.

“No, it’s just too soon.”

“It’s really not,” Solange urged. “I can assure you that Marechal and Rivière are already consulting, and they will be your two main competitors. In fact, we should aim for a face-off with Marechal in the second round and try to eliminate Ri—”

“Solange.” Dominique held up her hand. “Stop.”

Solange quirked up her eyebrows. Dominique never raised her voice like that—not to her chief of staff.

Solange had no choice but to accept that she was not fully in charge. There would always be one more person above her.

“Okay.”

“We’re going to have to re-crunch some numbers for this bill. Again,” Dominique said, not explaining herself further.

“I’m on it. You’ll have it on your desk in an hour, but…” Dominique might be the president, but she wouldn’t be if it weren’t for Solange. And Solange had already lost a battle last night. She needed the thrill of gearing up for re-election to take her mind off Aurore. “We’re going to have that first meeting soon.”

Dominique rubbed her forehead briefly. Solange had a hunch of what that could mean. Surely, Dominique wanted to run again? It was unthinkable that she did not. What it would mean, for Dominique, for France. For herself. Her brain couldn’t really parse the thought.

“You do want to run for another term?” Solange asked.

Dominique didn’t immediately reply. Merde. Before she could put together a battle plan for re-election, Solange had to come up with another plan. Convincing the president that not running really wasn’t an option. If she couldn’t persuade Dominique to run again, then she was pretty sure Dominique’s father would come to the rescue. She made a mental note to get in touch with him as soon as possible.

“I truly resent that it’s so automatically assumed.” Dominique huffed out some air.

Resent it all you want, Solange thought. It doesn’t make it any less so.

“Do we have to talk about this?” Solange asked.

“At some point yes, but as I said earlier, not now.” She didn’t say anything else before leaving.

This was worse than breaking up with a woman she loved. Far, far worse. Dominique simply had to run again. The thought that she might not hadn’t even been a possibility in Solange’s mind.

 

DOMINIQUE

“If I tell you about Juliette’s latest bright idea for Barbier & Cyr, you’re going to be green with envy,” Steph said.

The mention of Barbier & Cyr made Dominique look up from the tax bill she and Solange had been reworking for the better part of the day. It made her think of the meeting Solange had wanted to set up. Dominique could have handled that better, but, as always, she hadn’t had time to think about it beforehand. She should have known Solange would start bringing up the campaign about now. She had been her campaign manager, after all. She had been instrumental in getting Dominique elected as president of the Republic.

“What’s that then?” Dominique pushed the papers away from her. The numbers were dancing in front of her eyes anyway.

“She’s been researching all these Scandinavian studies about working fewer hours per week and she wants to do a trial at Barbier & Cyr. Go from the official thirty-five hours of work per week to thirty.” Steph painted a large grin on her face.

“Marriage has really changed her,” was all Dominique could think to say. She probably worked three times thirty hours each week, if not more. She could have all the opinions about this that she wanted but as the president, and one of the hardest-working people in the country, she could never voice them. It wouldn’t be fair on anyone.

“Yeah.” Steph slung one long leg over the other. “Maybe you should try it. Who knows, it might have the same effect on you.”

“I’ve been married before.”

“Not to me, you haven’t.” Steph kept a bright smile on her face. She’d been teasing Dominique about Dominique’s lack of time to marry her for a while now.

“You know when I would have the time?” Dominique hadn’t discussed this with Steph yet. She hadn’t talked about it with anyone. It was a mere thought. A fleeting—but, at times, rather alluring—possibility in the back of her brain.

“If you gave Solange less control over your calendar?” Steph joked.

“Well, there’s that…” Dominique could too easily recall the look of sheer devastation on Solange’s face when she’d brought up the option of not running again. “But what I mean is…” God, it was hard to say it out loud. “That I would have much more time if I… decided not to run again.”

“What?” Steph had never sounded more incredulous. She sat up straight. “Wait, say that again because I’m not sure I heard you properly.”

Dominique sighed. “Don’t you think that the question should at least be pondered? I know very well that nobody will explicitly ask me, so I have to ask myself.”

“You’re right,” Steph said. “Not even I would have asked.”

“You would have just assumed, wouldn’t you?”

“Just like anyone else.” Steph stroked her chin. “Are you serious about this?”

“I’m serious in that I want to think about it thoroughly instead of just being automatically coaxed into running again… Not just because I think it’s going to be a very tight race.”

“Because of Rivière,” Steph stated more than asked.

“And Marechal. They’re both on the up, whereas my approval ratings are down.”

“Ah, but you know what would have them soar in a heartbeat?”

Dominique nodded. “A big lesbian wedding.”

“To one Stéphanie Mathis. Some pictures of the kids in front of us. Boom. Election gold.”

“You know when you proposed to me in such a dramatic fashion, for a second there, I believed you were a true romantic.” Dominique’s chest glowed warmly at the memory of Steph’s proposal.

“Yes, well, that was quite some time ago. Is this going to be one of those decade-long engagements or what?” There was kindness in Steph’s eyes when she spoke. They’d had this chat many times before.

When you were president, there just weren’t that many good times to get married, let alone go on a honeymoon. Although Dominique had to ask herself whether her reluctance to set a date had more deliberate reasons—like possible electoral gain. But no, she might have been born and bred in the bosom of politics, but she would never use her relationship for that. If anything, what she had with Steph was a much-needed antidote for the cynicism of politics. Maybe that was why they weren’t married yet. Subconsciously, Dominique wanted to wait until she wasn’t in office anymore.

“If I didn’t run, we could marry and take a gloriously long honeymoon.”

“I was just kidding.” Steph looked her in the eye. “I truly don’t mind being engaged to you a bit longer.”

Dominique gazed at Steph’s lovely features. Her bright blue eyes. Her hair that was always just a tiny bit too long. Her skin, smooth as porcelain. Some days, all she wanted was to spend more time with Steph. Or simply just spend one entire day with her, without interruptions. “Would you agree that, right now, I’m in the prime of my life?”

Steph jutted out her bottom lip. “I guess so. You certainly look rather scrumptious to me.” She had that leery look in her eyes—the one Dominique had fallen for instantaneously when they’d first met.

“Do I really want to spend another five years not thinking about myself? Not spending enough time with my children, who will be going to university by then?” The rate at which Lisa and Didier were growing up was what did her head in the most. “Am I not going to regret that later in my life? When you hear these stories of people on their deathbed talking about what they would have done differently, no one has ever said they wished they’d worked more and spent less time with their loved ones.”

“That might be true, but none of those people, I would dare say, held the highest office in their country. Ask the same question to any former president of France, and I think the answer might be very different.”

“Probably, but… those presidents weren’t women. I’m the first female president of France and, whether I want to admit it or not, so many things are different for me.”

“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” Steph pushed herself up and sat on the armrest of Dominique’s chair.

“I have to be,” Dominique said. “I can’t just go blindly into another draining campaign and term—because if I run, I intend to win—just because it’s expected of me.”

“You never really were one to do what was expected of you.” Steph leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “I should know.”

 

STEPH

“Are you willing to try?” Juliette asked Claire.

“Work only thirty hours a week? Margot will have me declared insane. She might want to operate on my brain!”

Juliette shook her head and turned to Zoya. “How about you?”

“I’ve considered it and I think it’s a great idea. I think it might very well be the future.”

Steph smiled. Zoya Das had been an excellent acquisition for Barbier & Cyr. She knew her stuff, was a fast learner—she spoke good French already—and wasn’t afraid to voice her opinion.

“I’m not dead set against it,” Claire said. “I’m just not sure now’s the right time to do this trial.” She fixed her gaze on Steph. “I expect Dominique will be in touch about her campaign soon?”

Steph knew Barbier & Cyr had been approached by other political parties. Parties whose policies the staff of Barbier & Cyr generally agreed with much more. “I expect so,” Steph said, although, after last night’s conversation with Dominique, she couldn’t be entirely sure.

“I had a call from Aurore last night,” Zoya said. “She was rather cagey about it. She and Solange just broke up—again. She called to tell Camille and me about that, but I couldn’t shake the impression that she was somehow fishing for PR representation. Apparently, the Socialists have a big budget to spend.”

“They broke up again?” Claire asked.

“It’s no surprise,” Juliette said. “Clearly it’s not impossible.” She winked at Steph. “But having opposing political views doesn’t really make for a romantic match made in heaven.”

“How’s Aurore doing?” Dominique had told Steph about the split late last night—almost as an afterthought after what she had told her first.

“It was hard to gauge on the phone,” Zoya said. “But I did sense a sort of acceptance about the situation. If Aurore’s going to be working on Rivière’s presidential campaign and Solange is Dominique’s campaign manager, it would have become impossible in the end, either way. And it’s hardly been a bed of roses so far.”

“Solange is a pit bull. Once the campaign kicks off, she’ll have no time for a relationship, anyway,” Steph said. She felt for both of them regardless and made a mental note to call Aurore soon.

“Just to be one hundred percent clear, Steph,” Claire said. “Your fiancée will be hiring us for this campaign, won’t she? Other agencies are not in the running?”

Steph took a breath before speaking. She was a partner in this firm now. She had to tell the truth. “She would never choose another firm but… Dominique hasn’t decided to run yet.”

“What are you saying?” Juliette dropped her pen.

Steph had barely had time to get used to the idea herself. Even she was torn about it. On the one hand, she’d love nothing more than to spend more time with Dominique—and finally get married—but, on the other hand, she was sure that if Dominique didn’t run, she would regret it for the rest of her life. But Steph was not the person making the decisions. This was something only Dominique could decide.

“I’m saying that being president is not easy.”

“No one ever said it was easy,” Juliette said. “I just hadn’t expected it from Dominique. She’s such a fighter.”

“And such a political animal,” Claire added. “I think I might be in genuine shock.”

“It’s not a foregone conclusion. She only just mentioned it for the first time last night,” Steph said. “Solange was badgering her about it.”

“Do you think she’ll make a decision soon?” Claire asked.

“She has to,” Steph said.

“I’m not saying our firm can’t survive without running a presidential campaign, but if Dominique doesn’t run we—” Claire said.

“Claire, come on.” Juliette cut her off. “Don’t say something you might regret later.”

“I’m just being honest,” Claire said.

Juliette rolled her eyes.

“Maybe it would suit you if Dominique didn’t run. Then you could cut back your hours even more,” Claire said.

“I know things are difficult at home right now, but I would appreciate it if you didn’t take that out on us, your colleagues and friends,” Juliette said.”

“Sorry.” Claire heaved a sigh. “I’ve seen Margot crumble once before and she never does a half-assed job. When she crumbles, it’s all the way down.” She ran a hand through her hair.

Steph didn’t see her mother that often, but she couldn’t possibly imagine not having her around anymore. Margot had lost both her parents in a very short space of time and she wasn’t dealing with it very well.

“Can we do something to help?” Steph asked.

“She needs to talk about it. Process it. But Margot’s not a talker. She just works,” Claire said. “All the time. That’s why this thirty-hour week idea has been getting on my nerves so much. Honestly, I’d love to work a bit less but I would just spend the majority of my new-found free time waiting for my wife to come home from her eighty-hour work week.”

“I’ll ask Nadia to try again,” Juliette said. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a friend than to your significant other.”

“Nadz has tried so many times. Which I greatly appreciate,” Claire said. “I just hope that with time, it will get better.”

“Things usually do,” Zoya said.

“I’ll talk to her,” Steph said. “Margot has always been there for me when I really needed her.”

Claire nodded. “That would be wonderful, Steph.”

Steph’s to-do list was growing. Check in with Aurore about her breakup from Solange. Convince Dominique to run again, lest she regret it for the rest of her life. And have a chat with a grieving Margot. Good thing she only worked part-time at Barbier & Cyr for now, and that she wasn’t willing to invest that much energy in her other part-time job: being first lady.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. At least she didn’t have to worry about Solange—she would be just fine. She’d much rather avoid Solange until Dominique had made her decision, because Solange would only try to rope her in to force Dominique to make a swift commitment—and if it were up to Solange, there was only one viable decision Dominique was allowed to make.

 

CLAIRE

To her surprise, Claire found Margot on the sofa when she got home from work. These days, it was hard to gauge what kind of mood Margot would be in, so Claire always trod with caution.

“I’ve made a decision,” Margot said. Her voice sounded even, which gave Claire hope they could spend a nice evening together.

Claire quickly shook off her coat and sat next to Margot. “I’m all ears.”

“It came to me again on the way home. I took a detour to clear my head. I really needed it.”

Claire nodded.

“I think I might try to find my birth parents.” Margot looked Claire straight in the eye.

Claire’s eyebrows shot up. She had to take a moment to regroup. Not once in all their time together had Margot expressed any desire to look for her birth parents.

“That’s a big thing.” Claire shuffled in her seat.

“I know.”

“Is this the first time you’ve thought of doing this?”

Margot shook her head. “I’ve thought about it many times in the course of my life, but I knew it would hurt Mum and Dad if I did while they were still alive. And I didn’t want to lie to them about it or keep it from them. But now they’re dead and I just feel… this extreme emptiness inside of me. An emptiness I hadn’t expected to feel. Their death wasn’t supposed to knock me for six the way it has.”

“If two people that important to you die so suddenly, it’s always going to be unbelievably hard, babe. It’s normal.”

“That they’re no longer here is a thought I almost can’t bear. I don’t know why. This grief just lasts and lasts and I feel like I need to do something big to snap myself out of it.”

Claire wanted to be supportive. There used to be a time when she could be certain any decision Margot made was a hundred percent thought-through, but that time was not now. She had to be the one to think this through for Margot.

“It’s a big leap into the unknown.”

“I know.” The corners of Margot’s mouth drew into a crooked smile. “You probably think I’m crazy and this is a bad idea in the emotional state I’m in, but I need to do something.”

“I understand the need for action.” Claire didn’t want to interrupt Margot too much. Some days, she hardly said a word at all, so when she was talking, Claire wanted her to get as much out as possible.

“I know I’m springing this on you. I’m not talking about leaving for South Korea tomorrow. I want to talk to my sister first, which won’t be an easy conversation. I’ve just been thinking about trying to find them more and more lately, so maybe that’s what I need to do.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Korea.” Claire tried a smile of her own.

“We’ll go together then.” Margot’s eyes brimmed with hope in a way they hadn’t done in a long time.

They sat in silence for a while. Claire wondered if Margot was conjuring up images of the woman who had given birth to her and her sister.

“How was your day?” Margot asked after a few minutes had passed.

“Juliette’s still going on about the thirty-hour workweek.” Claire inched a bit closer to her wife.

“I guess in some professions the number of hours you work isn’t as important as the way in which you use them.”

This remark caused Claire to look up.

“It’s logical,” Margot said matter-of-factly. “The only way a surgery I perform will ever get shorter in time is through medical and technological advancements. Some surgeries used to take eight hours and now only take half that.”

“But has that made you, and I mean you specifically, work fewer hours?”

Margot shook her head. “No, because I need the extra time to learn new procedures and keep up to speed with new techniques. My profession will always be a high-pressured one with long hours. Until the robots learn how to perform surgery on their own, of course.” She snickered.

“Would you let a robot operate on you?” Claire teased.

“If I was the one who trained and programmed it. Why not?” Margot burst into a chuckle.

“Yeah right.” Claire leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “I haven’t told you the biggest piece of news from the inner sanctum of Barbier & Cyr yet.” She waggled her eyebrows.

“What?” Margot sounded genuinely curious. It was subtle, but her mood had improved.

“Dominique isn’t certain yet that she’ll be running for re-election.”

“Oh no,” Margot groaned. “She has to.”

“I guess that’s easy for us to say.”

“It might be, but that doesn’t change the fact that any alternative to Dominque as president is just an appalling thought.”

“Rivière isn’t too bad.”

“The Socialists have had their chance. Dominique is doing good things for this country. She needs another term to finish what she’s started.”

“Sounds like they need you at the Elysée to talk some sense into our president, babe.”

“I might just give Solange a call.”

Claire scanned Margot’s face. “You’re not even joking?”

“We are Dominique’s friends. If she needs us to make the best decision, we have to be there for her.”

“The best decision for whom, though?”

“For everyone.” Margot nodded forcefully.

“Oh, and Solange and Aurore broke up,” Claire added.

“I didn’t even know they’d got back together after their last breakup.”

“Political differences,” Claire said. “Not every relationship can withstand the issues they bring up.” She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet underneath her.

“Opposites can attract for a while, but those two are both way too consumed by their beliefs. I never gave them much chance for the long term.” Margot patted her knees.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Claire manoeuvred so she sat with her back against the armrest of the sofa, then stretched out her legs and put her feet in Margot’s lap.

“If Dominique does make the unthinkable decision not to run, whatever will Solange do with herself?” Margot asked.

“Work on the campaign of whoever else runs for the MLR, I guess.”

Margot caressed Claire’s ankle with her fingertip, exactly in the spot where Claire enjoyed it so much. “That will be a lost cause. If Dominique doesn’t run, it will be a two-woman race between Marechal and Rivière.”

“Oh, the horror.” Margot squeezed Claire’s big toe.

“You can’t compare Rivière to Goffin. Just like Dominique is so very different from the previous MLR president. They’re a new generation. And they’re women.”

“Let’s not talk about politics tonight, babe.” Margot, who was massaging her heel now, said on a sigh.

“Fine with me.” Claire moaned as Margot’s fingers found that special spot again.

<<End of preview>>

French Kissing: Season Five will be available on Tuesday 18 June 2019.

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PREVIEW: Life in Bits (co-written with T.B. Markinson!)

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Life in Bits

Life in Bits, the novel I co-wrote with T.B. Markinson will be out next week. Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

Life in Bits
© Harper Bliss & T.B. Markinson

CHAPTER ONE

Eileen attempted to raise her shoulder to secure the battered army-green bag, which was slipping down a little with each step. At the same time, she kept her left hand on the handle of the massive rolling luggage, which was jam-packed with the necessary pieces of her life. The rest of her belongings still resided in her London apartment, which Eileen hadn’t decided what to do with: keep or sublet.

This thought, along with the thousands of others racing through her mind, wrenched a deep sigh from Eileen. For forty-nine years she’d been a woman of action, but lately, she’d been immobilized by… what? Fear? Exhaustion? Betrayal? All three, perhaps.

Despite Eileen’s best efforts, the bag continued to slide precariously off her shoulder. Ever since the event and subsequent hospital stay, simple tasks had become arduous, much to her dismay and frustration.

“Eileen!” Julia, her younger sister by four years, smiled and waved as soon as Eileen cleared the final door of the soul-sucking customs area of Boston’s international airport. “Here, let me take your bag.” Julia reached for the shoulder bag, but Eileen pulled back.

“I got it, thanks.” Eileen ignored the bead of perspiration snaking its way down her face.

Julia’s gaze fell briefly to Eileen’s stiff right arm cradled right under her chest. A silent wave of anger surged through Eileen. Pity was one emotion she couldn’t stomach.

Wrapping one arm around her sister’s right shoulder, Julia took the opportunity to nudge the bag back into place on the good one. “How was your flight?”

“Delayed, cramped, and customs took over two hours due to the complete incompetence of allowing four international flights to land at once.” Despite Julia’s efforts, the bag slipped off Eileen’s shoulder completely. Eileen crooked her elbow to stop it from plummeting to the floor, but she couldn’t hoist it back into place without the use of both arms.

The rigid right arm remained in the same spot, where it’d rested the past three weeks.

Without saying a word, Julia eased the bag off Eileen’s arm and tossed it effortlessly over her right shoulder.

“I need a shower,” was all Eileen said. She was grateful to be relieved of the bag, but too strong-willed to say thank you out loud.

Julia nodded, seeming to understand. “The car’s this way.” She led her sister to the parking garage without talking, much to Eileen’s relief.

After stowing the bags in the back of the SUV, Julia settled behind the steering wheel. “Let’s head to my place since you don’t have keys to your apartment yet. I’ve arranged for the key exchange on Monday morning at nine. You can shower at my place and have time for a nap before heading to dinner with the parents.”

Eileen groaned, shoving her head into the padding of the seat.

“It’s not high on my list of things I wanted to do on a snowy Saturday night either, so don’t even start.” Julia cranked the heat on. “It’ll take a minute to warm up.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready… for mother.” Eileen looked out her side window at the BMW parked next to Julia’s vehicle. It was much like the type her mother drove. Her dad, a New Englander to the core, abhorred drawing attention to his wealth and more than likely still had his beat-up Ford with only three hubcaps.

“You’ve never known how to handle her.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve learned—to the point where we have a semi-decent relationship.” Julia, with one hand on the back of Eileen’s headrest, checked to see if it was all clear before backing out of the spot and heading for the exit ramp.

“Semi-decent,” Eileen mocked. “Mom has always been hard on me, blaming me for everything that’s gone wrong in her life.” Her mom had never been shy about reminding Eileen at every possible chance that she’d given up her dreams when she fell pregnant with Eileen.

“Please.” Julia’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as she guided the smoke-gray Range Rover around the tight curve of the parking garage ramp, the tires squealing on the cement despite the low speed. “She’s just as hard on me. Even more so when you weren’t around.”

“You didn’t have to stay, you know,” Eileen said, her jaw tightening, becoming acutely aware of her sweaty back from carrying one bag that didn’t compare to the weight of her camera equipment when on assignment.

Julia, seemingly unperturbed by Eileen’s tone, pressed on. “It’s not that simple. Mom and Dad are getting older. I have to remind them to take their medication. Mom can’t drive at night. Now that Dad’s retired, he doesn’t know how to entertain himself without driving Mom bonkers. I feel like a referee half the time. I have my hands full. I’m glad you’re home and can help some.”

Eileen rubbed her right hand with her left. “And you think that’s possible? I struggle to open any bottles and I can’t drive. Not just because my driver’s license expired two years ago.” Eileen sensed Julia’s quickly glancing at her immobile arm before returning her gaze to the road.

“Those aren’t the only tasks I need help with. You’re not useless, Ellie. Besides, I’ve missed my older sister. You have a niece and nephew who look up to you, but they don’t actually know you. It took… this for you to come home for the first time in five years. And I’ve lost count how many years it was before this visit.”

“Are you going to lecture me the entire drive to Derby?” Eileen yawned, setting the side of her head against the seat, fatigue settling in.

“Close your eyes. You must be exhausted.” Vivaldi was playing and Julia fiddled with the stereo volume to turn it down. “It’s nice to have you home. Really, it is.”

Eileen opened one eye and appraised her sister whose hair had grown grayer than her natural mousy brown since their last meeting. It must rankle their fastidious mother. That was one quality Eileen actually shared with her mom. Although, she’d hadn’t highlighted her own hair to cover the gray since the hospital. “I never meant to stay away for so long this time. The days just slipped by. How are Isabelle and Michael?”

“Nearly grown. Michael’s graduating high school this spring. Belle the following. It’ll be weird when they’re gone, although, I hardly ever see them now. Teenagers have little time for their mothers, apparently.”

“I remember those days,” Eileen’s voice was soft, infused with sleep. “And James?”

“He hasn’t changed one bit. Still works too much, but he does his best to be a great father.”

“Your children are lucky to have him. And you.” Her exhaustion made the words sound much more perfunctory than Eileen intended.

Julia nudged the volume up a notch, indicating conversation could wait for when Eileen wasn’t half-dead to the world. Ironic, considering, just twenty-one days ago, Eileen had thought for sure she was a goner. And since surviving, a part of her wished she hadn’t. Not in this current state.

Eileen, with eyes closed and seconds from nodding off, feared she’d made a mistake coming home. Would she become yet another burden to her only sibling, who’d been left keeping the family together when Eileen absconded at the age of twenty-two, so many years ago?

***

Her parents’ house hadn’t changed much since Eileen’s childhood. Still massive, with a curved, carpeted staircase to the right upon entering the house. Mahogany antique furniture, oriental vases, bronze sculptures of Greek gods and goddesses occupied every nook and cranny, making the house more museum-like.

“We’re here,” Julia called, stepping into the house right on Eileen’s heels.

Eileen’s gaze traveled the expanse of the black and white tiled foyer. A crystal chandelier shone overhead. In the center of the space was a round table with a flower arrangement and statue of Nike, the Greek goddess of victory. What stood out the most was the absence of dust. The spotless, but cold space made Eileen long for her cozy apartment in London, overlooking a private garden. The home suited Trudy Callahan’s personality, however: beautiful on the outside, cold and empty on the inside.

“There you are. I was expecting you two twenty minutes ago.” Her mom’s perfectly colored hair, in contrast with Julia’s, once again reminded Eileen to make an appointment at a salon sooner rather than later.  Eileen took in her mother’s gray duster-length cardigan with a matching turtleneck underneath and black trousers. A necklace fashioned with tortoise disc beads dangled past her plentiful bosom, the opposite of Eileen’s. Her mom drifted across the tile, her arms out, pulling the much taller Eileen into an awkward embrace. “How lovely of you to visit.”

Julia met Eileen’s eyes as if persuading her not to point out the obvious. Not within minutes of her arrival at least. Her parents were fully aware of the reason for Eileen’s return.

Their father, Bruce, a dead ringer for James Garner, shuffled into the entryway in his dark brown leather deck shoes, Vineyard Vine plaid button-up, and chinos—his go-to outfit no matter the season.

Eileen smiled, tickled this aspect of her father hadn’t changed over the years, despite her mother’s harping he should dress in suits or whatnot, even for a family meal in his ancestral home. “Hello, Dad.”

His heartfelt hug comforted her for the first time since…

“It’s good to have you home,” his voice had a wisp of old man to it.

Eileen, stunned by how much he’d aged since their last meeting, leaned into him briefly and then pulled back, cognizant that her mother stood two feet away. “It’s good to see you.” She hastily added, “Both of you.”

“Would you like a drink before we sit down for dinner?” Her mom picked some lint off Eileen’s right shoulder.

Eileen turned her body slightly, protecting her right flank.

Her mother continued, “It’s so nice just to have the two of you over for dinner. The four of us, back together again.”

Julia, biting her bottom lip as if trying to curtail a brusque remark, said, “I’d like sparkling water. Sound good to you, Ellie?”

“Sure. Thanks.” A headache formed behind her eyes, and Eileen chalked it up to not drinking enough water.

Their father cheerfully dittoed, rolling back onto his heels, digging his hands into his pockets.

Her mother, with a wounded look, said, “But I decanted a 2001 bottle of Vietti Barolo Villero Riserva for this special occasion.”

“I’m driving tonight,” Julia countered in a tone that closed the matter. “And, we should have dinner sooner rather than later. I need to get to bed early.” Her stare fell on Eileen.

Eileen worried the fatigue from her travels would make it impossible to mask her mounting frustration dealing with her mom and a simple reminder, such as not drinking, only highlighted how much her life had drastically changed, piling on to her irritation. The doctors had been clear alcohol should be avoided, especially during the first few weeks of her recovery. Julia, who’d flown to London the moment she’d heard, knew all the do’s and don’ts for Eileen firsthand. Granted, a few weeks had already passed, but knowing the ever-cautious Julia, having a glass of wine to ease the tension wouldn’t be permissible. Clearly, their mother, not surprisingly, opted to ignore medical opinion and Julia’s disapproving glare. Or had her mom blocked out the knowledge of Eileen’s medical issue, since that would acknowledge weakness?

Their father feigned a yawn. “This old man prefers early bird specials for a reason.”

“Besides their being early, you mean? They’re cheap.” Julia said, laughing, patting his cheek. “How much is Maggie charging for tonight’s feast?”

He guffawed over the joke. It wasn’t the first time Julia had cracked it.

“Fine. I didn’t know I was surrounded by old fogies.” Their mom gestured they might as well retire to the dining room. “I’ll let Maggie know we’re ready for dinner, tout de suite. It’s not even six.” She tutted. “Such an uncivilized time for dinner. In Europe—”

“Hey, girls.” Their father cut off his wife. “If you’re American in the living room what are you in the bathroom?”

Both Eileen and Julia playfully groaned, responding in unison, “European.”

“Or Russian.” Her father laughed. Standing on Eileen’s left, he crooked his arm for his eldest daughter to thread her good arm through, and then proffered his other elbow to Julia. “It’s not often I’m flanked by two beauties.”

The French oak table with its parquet top had all the leaves removed, so it sat four comfortably. Usually, when the whole family gathered there were double the attendees or more if the far-flung members came.

This piece had always been one of Eileen’s favorite items in the home and secretly she hoped she’d inherit it simply for the parquet top. Although now, her mother’s crocheted tablecloth covered the surface. The lacy masterpiece had taken her half a decade to make and it only saw the light of day for special occasions. Eileen suspected Maggie had set the table, not her mom.

Each took their seat, Julia sitting to Eileen’s right and her father on her left.

Maggie, significantly grayer since Eileen had last seen her, and slightly stooped, served everyone a grapefruit, walnut, and feta cheese salad. She placed Eileen’s plate last, saying, “I made this just for you.”

Eileen smiled. “Thanks, Maggie. I haven’t had one since the last time you made it for me.”

Maggie departed and the Callahans tucked into their salads, no one talking. She returned briefly to pour wine, but her mom was the only one who assented with a curt nod. Maggie left once again.

Eileen grasped a salad fork with her left hand, awkwardly piercing a grapefruit slice and piece of butter lettuce.

“That’s new,” her mom’s gaze zeroed in on Eileen’s use of her left hand. “Living in Europe all these years has added sophistication to your etiquette. Maybe you can teach your sister. It’s never too late to better ourselves.”

Julia glugged her water.

“Have you been following the Pats?” her father asked.

“Not this season. Is Brady still their quarterback?” Eileen managed to get a walnut onto the tines of the fork, but fumbled it at the last second, only ending up with lettuce in her mouth.

He nodded, chewing.

“You know what you should take up while on vacation? Knitting or crocheting.” Her mother tapped the tablecloth. “I made this when I sat around waiting for your dance lessons or soccer practices to end. It helped pass the time and look at the final outcome—something I can hand down to one of you.”

Eileen blinked, and Julia blanched.

Her father cleared his throat. “I have an extra ticket to next Sunday’s Pats game if you want to go, Eileen. Julia still has zero interest in football and James said he has to work.” He placed his fork in the five o’clock position indicating he was done, although he’d only eaten a third of the salad. Unusual for the rotund man. Or had his eating habits changed over the years?

“Maybe. I’ll check my schedule.” Eileen, like her sister, loathed football, but appreciated her father’s diversionary attempt.

“It’s so hard supporting the sport now with all the documentation about brain damage.” Her mom sipped her red wine. “So many of them end up as vegetables. I always thought, Eileen, you would have made an excellent brain surgeon. Steady hands and wicked smart. Instead you chose to gallivant around the globe from one war zone to another. Running has always been your thing, which is ironic since I was the one who dropped out of college and gave up my dreams of medical school to have you.”

Peeved, Eileen had to marvel at how her mom had seamlessly worked this into the evening in record time.

“Where’s Maggie? I’m ready for the next course.” Her father patted his belly, eyeing the door.

Never too far away, Maggie appeared. She quietly cleared the salad plates and returned with the main course.

“Another favorite of yours, Eileen,” her mother said. “Garlic parmesan chicken with brussels sprouts.”

Julia’s thinning lips indicated to Eileen her sister had requested the meal.

Unlike the other plates, Maggie had cut Eileen’s chicken breast into bite-size pieces, much to Eileen’s relief. Julia nodded her appreciation, leading Eileen again to believe her sister had made a great effort to arrange everything this evening for Eileen’s homecoming. The wine kerfuffle probably ruffled Julia’s mother-hen ways.

“And in case anyone wants more brussels sprouts, here’s a dish.” Maggie placed it at Julia’s side.

After Maggie had left via the service door, her mom asked, “What are your plans while you’re home, Eileen?”

“Can you pass the brussels sprouts?” Her father asked.

Julia handed the dish toward Eileen, her face paling when she realized her mistake at the last second.

Eileen had reached across her chest to grasp the dish with her left hand, but bobbled it when Julia released her hand, spilling three sprouts, one rolling to the center of the table, leaving a grease stained path.

“Look at what you’ve done to my tablecloth. You’ve ruined it!” Her mom’s lips drew back into a snarl.

“I’m sure Maggie can get the grease out.” Her father dabbed the mark with his blood-red linen napkin.

“Stop that, Bruce! You’ll make it worse.” Turning her attention to Eileen, she said, “You did that on purpose.”

“W—what?” Eileen spluttered.

“It was my fault, mother. I let go of the dish too soon.” Julia plucked the sprouts from the tablecloth, putting them onto her own plate. “I’ll have it professionally cleaned.”

“Stop covering for Eileen. She’s had it out for me since the day she was born.”

“Jesus, Mother! You know Eileen isn’t home for vacation. She had a stroke and can’t use her right arm and you want her to crochet and berate her for fumbling a dish!” Julia’s chest heaved up and down.

Eileen, tight-lipped, looked to her father, then to Julia, and finally rested her gaze on her mother. Fighting back tears, she rose from the table, her napkin slipping onto the floor, and walked out of the dining room toward the exit.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Naomi held the hospital door open for Kelly, then closed it behind them. The cold November air whipped her in the face. Naomi reveled in its iciness. She was used to it. Whereas most people loathed the heavy gray clouds hanging in the air this time of year, she loved them, because it meant that the holidays were soon approaching.

She grabbed her friend’s arm. “Let’s do something special for the kids this Thanksgiving. For just one day, let’s try to make them forget where they are and why they’re in hospital.”

“There’s time,” Kelly said.

“Not that much,” Naomi insisted.

Kelly stopped in her tracks. “You do know you say the exact same thing every year.” She grinned at Naomi.

“Because I want it to be special for them every year,” Naomi replied.

“Are you sure that this year in particular you’re not overcompensating?” Kelly turned toward her.

“Oh, please.” Naomi rolled her eyes.

“I just want you to know that I’m here for you if you want to talk. Whenever you need to. Okay?” Kelly put a hand on Naomi’s upper arm.

“How many times do I need to repeat myself?” Naomi said. “I’m fine.”

“Jane cheated on you.” Kelly squeezed Naomi’s arm now. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine when you’re with me.”

Naomi shook her head. “How did we go from Thanksgiving plans to this?” She pretended to shiver and dug her hands deep into her coat pockets.

“I’m just trying to be a good friend.” Kelly’s gaze found Naomi’s.

“I appreciate that, but you bringing it up all the time isn’t really helping. I’m just getting on with my life. Spending time with the kids in there.” She nodded her head in the direction of the hospital. “Trying to replace all the negative vibes of a break-up with some positive ones.”

“Maybe I’m the one who’s still angry at Jane,” Kelly said. “For the way she treated you.” She shook her head. “And I must admit I’m a little baffled at your lack of utter rage.”

“Whereas I wish you’d have started this conversation while we were still inside,” Naomi said, even though it wasn’t the cold bothering her. “Obviously things weren’t meant to be between Jane and me. She wasn’t the one for me. That’s how I’m choosing to look at it.” She took a deep breath. “No one, not even my ex who cheated on me, is going to mess with my holiday cheer.” She shot Kelly a wide grin, hoping to lay this conversation to rest. Not that Naomi had anywhere pressing to be, or anyone waiting for her at home. She just didn’t want to talk about Jane any longer.

“Don’t I know it.” Kelly injected some lightness into her voice. “Naomi Weaver will have an outstanding Thanksgiving and the merriest of Christmases no matter what.”

“Thank you. Now am I allowed to get into my car?”

“Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Kelly didn’t move. “And call me if you need anything.”

“Will do.” Naomi gave her friend a quick wave and hurried to her car, a hand-me-down from her brother. Every time she got in and it started from the first go, she considered it a small miracle.

On the way home, Naomi wondered if she hadn’t been too hard on Kelly who was, after all, only trying to help—even though she could be a bit subtler about it.

It was only a ten-minute drive from the hospital to her apartment and, instead of ruminating more about what Kelly had said, Naomi turned to Spotify, found the song she was looking for and put it on repeat. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” she sang along loudly, tapping the steering wheel with her gloved fingers, all the way home.

***

Naomi was still humming the Kelly Clarkson tune when she turned the key in the lock of her front door. It snapped open after one turn. Had she forgotten to double lock the door again? It surely wouldn’t be the first time. In fact, most days, Naomi simply let the door fall shut behind her, much to Jane’s chagrin when they were still living together.

“You don’t have to make it easy for burglars to get in,” Jane would repeat endlessly.  These days, Naomi could leave her front door unlocked guilt-free, without having to deal with some harsh words from her partner. Because she didn’t have a partner anymore.

When she swung the door open, Naomi noticed she must have left the lights on as well—oh, the things Jane would have to say about that. She quickly closed the door only to find, when she turned around, that Jane was standing right in front of her.

“What the—” Naomi tried to regroup quickly. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” Jane said. “I miss you.” She painted a soft smile on her lips.

“You can’t just be here when I come home.” Naomi held out her hand. “I’d like your key, please.”

“Will you sit with me for a minute?” Jane pleaded. “So we can talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. It’s over.” Naomi took a step back. She had no intention of sitting as long as her ex was in her apartment.

“Come on, babe,” Jane pleaded. “This doesn’t have to be the end of us.”

“It very much does.” Naomi brought her hands to her hips. “Now, I’d like you to leave and give me your key.”

“I’m so incredibly sorry for what happened,” Jane said. “You must know that. I’ve told you about a million times by now.”

“It’s not about how sorry you are.” While it was distressing to find Jane in her home unannounced, Naomi had no trouble at all playing this cool. “In fact, you cheating on me was the best thing that could have happened. For both of us. If anything, it showed us that we’re not right for each other.”

Jane scoffed. “You’re such an annoying glass half-full person.” She inched closer toward Naomi. “I know I hurt you and you have every right to be upset. But we were together for almost three years. Don’t you think because of that alone we deserve another chance?”

“I clearly don’t,” Naomi said coldly.

“I came clean to you. I explained why I did what I did. You know I never meant to hurt you. The whole thing didn’t even have that much to do with you.”

“You didn’t hurt me as much as you made me see that you’re not the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. Something I’m really glad to know.”

“Christ, Naomi. Can you be any harsher?”

“Can you be any more delusional?” Naomi took a step closer to her ex. “I made it very clear what I wanted from this relationship. I distinctly remember using the words monogamy and marriage. Quite often, actually. And what was your response? Falling into bed with the first woman you came across, and for what? To simply prove that you could?”

“I’m not the marrying kind, Naomi. I never, ever made a secret of that.” Jane shrugged. “What’s marriage, other than a silly piece of paper, anyway?”

“Which is exactly why you and I shouldn’t be together anymore.” Naomi stepped to the side. She spotted Jane’s coat hanging over a chair. She reached for it and handed it to her. “Please, give me the key and find someone else to string along. I’m sure there are plenty of women out there who don’t want to be married. Maybe… what’s her name? Petra, was it? Maybe she’ll be up for that sort of thing.”

“What I don’t understand,” Jane pulled her coat from Naomi’s hands, “is how, when we were together, you could even bring up marrying me when us breaking up doesn’t seem to bother you all that much?”

“That’s easy.” Naomi finally shrugged off her own jacket. She was beginning to sweat in the heat of the apartment. “I’m glad for what it has taught me. I know exactly what I want and, for a minute, I was fooled into thinking I wanted it with you. But now I know you’re not the one for me. You made that very clear.”

“You know Petra meant nothing to me. It was one night. We can’t throw away three years because of one night. We’d be so foolish to do so.”

“I see things very differently.” Naomi tossed her coat onto an antique armchair. “From my point of view, it was the best thing that could have happened to us. We weren’t happy anymore. Not like we used to be.” Naomi scanned Jane’s deflated face. She was starting to feel sorry for her. “We were just going through the motions. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have cheated. People in happy, fulfilled relationships don’t do things like that behind each other’s back, Jane. I think we both know that.”

“I disagree.” Jane’s bottom lip started trembling.

“We’ve been over this so many times now. You can’t keep rehashing what happened. As I said, and as we both know very well, it’s over.” It was hard to get the next words past the growing lump in her throat. “You need to understand that. We’re not getting back together. Not only because of what you did, but because we don’t belong together. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you can move on.” Naomi scooted closer to Jane again. They’d only broken up a few weeks ago. Jane admitting to sleeping with someone else hadn’t instantly dissolved all the feelings Naomi had for her. She fought the urge to take her ex into her arms and tell her everything would be all right—because, for them, it never would be.

“We can still be friends, though?” Jane mumbled.

“Of course we can.” Naomi tried to find Jane’s gaze, but it kept skittering away.

“And you’ll come to my photo exhibition?”

Naomi did put a hand on Jane’s arm now. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Jane dug her hand into her jeans pocket. “Here’s the key. You won’t find me in your place unannounced anymore.”

“Thank you.” Naomi took the key from Jane and held her hand for a few seconds, just one last time.

“I am sorry,” Jane said.

“I know.” Naomi watched as Jane fumbled with her coat.

“I’m going now.” Jane finally looked her in the eye. It felt like a kind of very last resort. One last glance to see if all possibilities were truly exhausted.

“Bye,” Naomi said. She let Jane walk out on her own, then stood watching the door for a while after Jane had left. Break-ups were always painful because of the shared history and all the memories of better days resurfacing at the most inconvenient times. Yet a wave of relief washed over Naomi after Jane had closed the door of the apartment they used to share behind her, hopefully for the very last time.

In her heart of hearts, Naomi knew it was the best thing for them both.

<<End of preview>>

Life in Bits will be available on Thursday 13 December 2018

Preview: More Than Words (Pink Bean 9)

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More Than Words (Pink Bean 9)

My new novel More Than Words (Pink Bean Series – Book 9) will be out next week. Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

More Than Words
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE
KAT

“This is the perfect location for a third Pink Bean,” Kristin says, standing in front of the large shop window. “I can just picture it already.” She turns around to face Rocco and me and reaches out her hand. “And I’m very happy to be in business with both of you.” I let Rocco shake her hand first.

Just as I’m touching my palm against Kristin’s, my phone starts vibrating in the back pocket of my jeans. I sigh because I can so easily guess who it’s going to be: Alana, trying to convince me, once again, to reconsider quitting The Lesbian Experience.

“This is a job perfectly suited for working part-time,” she said yesterday, when I was silly enough to pick up. “Even only one appointment per week would be good.”

“Do you have to get that?” Kristin asks and quickly lets go of my hand.

“Let me check.” I slip my phone out of my pocket. A picture of Liz appears on the screen. Relief washes over me and I pick up. Even though we used to be colleagues at the agency, I know she won’t try to convince me to take another client. She knows that once you’re done with being an escort, you’re done. The line has been re-drawn once and for all.

“Hi Lizzie,” I greet my friend. We’ve gotten much closer now that we’re no longer co-workers—although we never actually, in the true sense of the word, collaborated.

“I’m in my old ‘hood,” Liz says. “I thought I’d drop in.”

“Rocco and I are with Kristin at the venue for the new Pink Bean. Swing by here.” I give her the address. When I hang up, Rocco’s telling Kristin all about his interior design plans—again. His arm swoops through the air and his voice shines with enthusiasm. We’ve been talking about this for so long—although I’m not sure either one of us ever sincerely believed our dream would come true. Then we met Kristin and everything started going really fast.

“Liz is stopping by,” I say when a silence falls in their conversation.

Rocco checks his watch. “Auntie Hera should be here soon as well.”

We make our way into the empty shop.

“If only we had a working coffee machine already,” Kristin says, a smile on her face.

“My aunt will have the renovations done in no time. She’s not one of those builders who say yes to a deadline only to push it back time and time again. I’m also her favorite nephew and she can’t pull that shit with me.” He puts his hands on his hips.

“Family connections can work in your favor as well as against you,” Kristin says.

Ever since we started talking to her about a possible third Pink Bean branch, she’s been uttering words of advice like that. She doesn’t talk a mile a minute, but she’s been invaluable in helping us make our dream a reality. And as a silent partner she has invested enough money so that Rocco and I can devote all our energy to getting this off the ground as quickly as possible.

He waves her off. When they talk to each other, Rocco so flamboyant and Kristin so measured in her movements, the contrast always makes me smile. They’re so different, yet they seem to hit it off. Then again, Rocco is the kind of person who hits it off with almost everyone he meets. He wags a finger at her.

Kristin peers at it as though it’s not a gesture many people have ever had the balls to aim at her.

“Not when it comes to my aunt. Nu-uh,” he says. “She’s a woman of her word if ever there was one.”

“A woman after my own heart then.” Kristin gives him a small smile. I don’t think she’s capable of anything more generous, as though her genetics don’t allow her wide grins.

“After we’ve talked with Hera, we can set an opening date,” I say, my voice brimming with excitement.

When Jessica first introduced me to Kristin, I misjudged her as the kind of person who would take great offense at my then-profession. But looks can be deceiving—something I should know all about—and Kristin embraced the idea of the new coffee shop from the start. It helped that she already had a partnership going with two women who run a Pink Bean branch slash feminist book shop in Newtown.

“We’ll see,” Kristin says. “I know she’s your aunt, Rocco, but it will also depend on the budget.”

Rocco waves her off again. Kristin looks at his fluttering hand as though, if he waves it at her one more time, she might very well slap it away. “This is even better than mates’ rates, Kristin. This is family.”

Even I’m curious about meeting Rocco’s aunt. I’ve known him for a long time, but I’ve never met her. I do know all about her long-term partner Samantha suddenly dying of a cerebral hemorrhage last year. Rocco may have cried about it when he was with me but I’m sure he was a rock for his aunt. He’s that kind of guy. As camp as they come, with a heart of gold underneath. I love him to bits for both those elements of his personality.

A woman on a pale blue racing bicycle stops in front of the window, catching all of our attention. From her lanky form, I can tell it’s Liz. She takes off her helmet and straps it to the handlebar of her bike. She waves at us through the window.

“I can’t believe there’s going to be a Pink Bean in bloody Bondi,” she says as she steps inside. “Now that I no longer live here.”

“Sorry, darling,” Rocco says. “But this is where it’s happening. You shouldn’t have been such a lez and moved in with your girlfriend after two dates.”

The three lesbians surrounding him protest loudly, telling him off for his inane utterance of clichés. While Liz admires the space, I see a bright red flatbed truck pull up outside. The driver manages to maneuver it into a tight spot, impressing me with their parking skills.

Rocco claps his hands together. “Hera’s here.”

We all watch Hera as she descends from the truck. She stands looking at the building for a split second, just long enough for me to take her in. She’s tall with short cropped dark hair that is greying slightly at the temples. Her jeans are faded and marred with paint spots. The T-shirt she’s wearing is loose and shapeless, but from its sleeves, a pair of bulky biceps protrude. Hera pushes her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose and heads inside.

 

CHAPTER TWO
HERA

Rocco introduces me to Kristin, Liz, and Katherine. I’ve heard him talk about Katherine before. I know what she used to do for a living.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Rocco, as he’s my only nephew, but I was still hesitant to take on this project. Especially when he told me he would be ‘interior designing’ the coffee shop.

I glance around and conclude it’s a good space. It’s light and airy so it won’t feel cramped.

“The counter will go here,” Rocco says, not wasting any time. He’s like an overexcited puppy. It makes me want to pet him to calm him down a little bit, but I’d better not embarrass him in front of his business associates. I know he and Katherine will be running the show, with Katherine putting in most of the money—apparently being a hooker allows you to save up quite some cash.

Kristin will be lending her brand name and expertise, and is also investing a percentage of the money. What Rocco lacks in cash, he can sure make up for in sheer enthusiasm, I know that much. I’m secretly proud of him for doing this, for making his dream come true. Life can be so short, he’s right to make the most of it.

“Rocco has drawn up some plans,” Katherine says. “Which I’m sure he’ll share with you.”

I point at the backpack slung over my shoulders. “I’ve studied the plans already.” I lock my gaze on Katherine’s for an instant. Her eyes are dark and intense. I can see why a woman like her could hire out her… services. I quickly push the thought away. I’m here to help Rocco make his dream come true, not judge his business associate. He’s old enough to make his own judgments. I’m just the builder. I come in, do the work, and leave. “I’m here to get a feel for the place.” I glance away from Katherine. “What you’ve planned for it shouldn’t be a problem, from a builder’s point of view.” I have to admit that, though striking as she is, Katherine looks quite different than I pictured. She’s much more curvy than my idea of a high-class escort—but what do I know? She wears her curves well, however, and maybe that’s where the secret lies.

And if I’m going to do this job, I really need to get over Rocco’s friend’s profession—or former profession, so he has assured me.

“You’d best not tell your mother who you’re hanging out with,” I told him when he first told me about Katherine’s job. “She won’t understand.”

Rocco had shaken his head in that way he has, adding an exaggerated eye roll and hiss, and said, “Seems to me the one who doesn’t understand is sitting right across from me.”

When he offered me this job, I took it because I need it. Not so much from a monetary point of view—although at the time Australia wouldn’t let us legally marry, Samantha had made me the only beneficiary of her life insurance policy. She urged me to do the same, because you just never know. But now the beneficiary of my life insurance policy is dead. I guess it’ll all go to Rocco then.

No, I need this job for the distraction and as a way of getting back into it. I need to work, need to do something with my hands to chase the ever-growing cobwebs from my mind. If I have to work for an ex-prostitute, so be it. I’ve always considered myself an open-minded woman, but I have my limits. Trading sex for money is something that falls out of the boundaries of my comprehension.

“When can you start, Auntie?” Rocco asks. “And how long do you think it will take?”

Kristin steps forward. “We will also need a quote from you, Hera. On paper.”

“Of course.” I nod at her. I like her. She seems to know what she’s doing, unlike Rocco who’s been wagging his tail over this coffee shop for months now.

“You’re opening up a coffee shop called the Pink Bean?” I asked him, incredulously, when he first told me. “You’re not pulling my leg?”

He looked at me with his eyebrows all arched up. “Because we’re all gay, hence the coffee beans are supposedly pink,” he said, looking much more innocent than I knew him to be.

“Sure, dear,” I said. “If that’s what you want to believe.”

I’m glad Rocco and Katherine have Kristin on their side for this venture. It makes me feel as though I won’t be working on something that’s bound to go bust in a few months’ time.

“I’ll get you the quote, on paper, by the end of the week,” I say. “I can start as soon as all parties are agreed. I don’t have any other jobs going at the moment.” I don’t explain why. I’m sure Rocco has told them all about how his aunt has become a sad, grieving widow. “The job is pretty straightforward.” I give Rocco a quick pat on the biceps. “If we put all this vanity muscle to use, Rocco can be a great little helper if he wants to be. It should only take a few weeks. Let me have a proper think about it and I’ll give you a better idea of the time I’ll need when I send over the quote.”

“Sounds great,” Katherine says.

“This place is going to be amazing,” the lanky, toned woman whose name I’ve already forgotten, says.

“I’ll do my best,” I say.

Rocco puts his arm around me. “I know you will.” He cocks his head. “When Chris and I redid our apartment, Hera tore down the walls as if it was nothing.” He grins at me.

Katherine extends her hand. “I look forward to working with you.”

I have no choice but to shake her hand. We stand around chatting for a few more minutes, after which I do another run of the place, inspecting its nooks and crannies.

By the time I’m back in my truck, already doing calculations for the quote in my head, I’m glad for this opportunity. It’s time to get out of my house and start living in the real world again.

<<End of preview>>

More Than Words will be available on Thursday 15 November 2018

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