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Preview: French Kissing: Season Five

June 3, 2019 by Harper Bliss Leave a Comment

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.

It’s now available for pre-order here:

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Filed Under: Preview Tagged With: French Kissing, French Kissing: Season Five, Preview

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

December 6, 2018 by Harper Bliss 13 Comments

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

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Filed Under: Preview Tagged With: Age gap romance, Christmas romance, Co-write, harper bliss, lesbian romance, Life in Bits, Preview, TB Markinson

Preview: More Than Words (Pink Bean 9)

November 8, 2018 by Harper Bliss 13 Comments

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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PREVIEW: In the Arms of a Woman

October 1, 2018 by Harper Bliss 2 Comments

In the Arms of a Woman

Next week, my short story collection In the Arms of a Woman will be released. You can expect 100.000 words of extremely hot lesbian erotica!

Here’s the blurb:

Best-selling lesbian romance author Harper Bliss has collected all the short stories she has penned over the years. You can find all twenty-eight of them in this sizzling hot collection.

You will encounter women of all ages, from all over the world, and practicing a myriad of professions—ranging from police officers to rock band singers and from therapists to personal trainers.

Just one piece of advice: do not read in public!

And here’s the Table of Contents:

The titles with a clickable link can be read for free on my website!

  1. Reunion Tour
  2. Alphas
  3. Overtime
  4. Neighbours
  5. Champagne
  6. Off the Record
  7. All of Me
  8. Stair Walking
  9. Fit for Forty
  10. Rather
  11. Lovely Rita
  12. Wetter
  13. Dress Code
  14. Stormy Weather
  15. New Girl
  16. Bar Service
  17. Personal Training
  18. The Power of Words
  19. Fair & Square
  20. The Client
  21. Match Point
  22. Freedom
  23. One-on-One
  24. A Matter of Inclination
  25. The Opposite of Darkness
  26. Stepping Stone
  27. Commanding Officer
  28. Not Yet

That should give you a taste of what’s to come. 😉

In the Arms of a Woman will be available on Thursday 11 October 2018

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PREVIEW: A Swing at Love

July 25, 2018 by Mrs Bliss 8 Comments

A Swing at Love will be out next week (on Friday 3 August 2018). Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

A Swing at Love
© Harper & Caroline Bliss

CHAPTER ONE

Diane’s ankle twisted as the heel of her shoe caught in between two cobbles. She steadied herself on a parked car and gave her foot a tentative turn to determine if there was any serious damage. A light pain jabbed her but it was nothing unbearable.

She continued her walk to the clubhouse at a more careful pace. She was already late, but being one minute less late wasn’t worth ending up in a wheelchair for. The bloody high heels were a couple of inches taller than Diane was used to wearing . But they matched her maroon evening gown so well, or so the lady in the shop had told her, rightly seeing her as easy prey.

She climbed the steps to the main entrance and hurried towards the cloakroom.

“Good evening, Mrs Thompson,” the attendant greeted her.

“Has the presentation started yet?” Diane asked as she took off her coat and handed it over.

“I’m afraid it has.” The girl smiled apologetically.

Diane made her way to the clubhouse’s main function area. She could already hear the booming voice of the club’s president. She reached the room and slipped in at the back.

The sofas and armchairs that usually clustered around the elegant coffee tables had been pushed to the side. Behind them the large bay windows overlooked the putting green and eighteenth hole, now shrouded in dusk. Several elaborate flower arrangements adorned the ledge in front of the windows. The decorating committee had obviously spared no expense for the event.

Diane craned her neck to try and see the front of the room, where Stephen, the Royal Tynebury Golf Club’s president, was giving his speech to open the new season and introduce the new members, but even her higher heels didn’t make Diane tall enough to see above the heads in front of her.

“In conclusion, I wish you all the best season you’ve ever had,” Stephen’s voice came over the speakers, “and without further ado, please enjoy the wonderful food and drinks we have lined up for you tonight.”

The crowd erupted in applause and, on cue, waiters brought out trays of champagne from the large oak bar.

Diane made her way through the crowd, greeting people and making small talk as she progressed. She kept her eyes peeled for her ex-husband and spotted him towards the front of the room, his arm around the shoulders of Debbie. In Diane’s mind that name always came out in a childish tone, probably because Debbie was about the same age as Diane’s own son.

“I think her boobs look bigger, she must have had them done over the winter,” a familiar voice whispered in Diane’s ear from behind.

Diane smiled as she turned around to face her friend, Isabelle. “Not what I was looking at, but now that you mention it.” Diane opened her arms and embraced Isabelle. “It’s so good to see you. When did you get back from Florida?”

“Two days ago,” Isabelle replied. “I would have called you, but the transition from Floridian sunshine to British drizzle was rough.” She shivered. “Anyway, catch me up on the gossip. Did anything juicy happen while I was away?”

Diane laughed. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I haven’t been here much, what with the course being closed a lot because of the weather.”

Isabelle squinted at Diane. “Your absence wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that young Debbie there has been taking lessons and visiting the driving range more often—probably to prove she’s worthy of her new member status?”

“Let’s say that didn’t help my motivation to spend time at the driving range.”

A waiter stopped in front of them. “Mrs Thompson, Mrs Ardery, can I offer you a glass of champagne?”

Both women eagerly grabbed a glass.

“Speaking of new members,” Diane said, “where are Rob and Matthew? I only got here at the end of the speech so didn’t get to see Matthew being introduced.”

Isabelle shook her head. “He wasn’t accepted. They’re not here tonight.”

“What?” Diane exclaimed. “Why? What happened?”

Isabelle sighed. “They weren’t given a reason. I haven’t been able to corner our dear president yet to grill him about it, but trust me, I’ll get to him before the night is over.”

“Would you like me to make some enquiries?” Diane asked. “I know at least one other person on the admissions committee.”

“No, not yet,” Isabelle answered. “I want to see what pretext he gives me first. Of course, he won’t tell me openly that this place is still so stuck in the fifties that the same-sex spouse of one of their lifelong members is less acceptable than the classless bimbo your ex now calls his wife. No offence.”

“Oh, none taken.” Diane smiled at her friend. She knew Isabelle was probably much more affected by her son-in-law’s rejection than she was willing to let on tonight. “It’s so good to have you back. Let’s set up a date this week to play a round. I need to get back in shape before the Ladies’ trip next month. You can show me again how wintering in the Florida sun does wonders for your game.”

“Diane.” A male voice came from behind her.

Diane cringed and turned around to face her ex-husband. “Lawrence.” She offered a cheek for him to peck, grateful at least that he’d had the courtesy to come and greet her alone. “How are you?” She had to admit he still looked quite dashing, especially in his tuxedo.

“Jolly good, my dear. And yourself?”

Diane tried to keep her tone neutral as she replied, “I’m very well, thanks.”

An awkward silence followed. Diane and Lawrence’s divorce had been finalised five years ago, but they had not yet reached the stage where small talk came easily.

Diane hoped Isabelle would say something to break the tension, but when she turned her head to give her a pointed look, she found her friend had scarpered off somewhere, abandoning her to face Lawrence alone.

Diane turned back towards him. “Have you seen Timothy recently?” At least their son should be a safe topic.

“He and Lucy came over for dinner the other night. Debbie made shepherd’s pie. You know that’s still his favourite.”

Diane fought to suppress an eye-roll. “How lovely.” No way did Debbie cook a shepherd’s pie as good as hers. “I hear Debbie is now a full member of the club. You must be delighted.”

“Ah, yes,” Lawrence beamed. “Very happy, quite right. She’s been working hard, trying to get certified so she can start playing on the course.”

Diane could see Debbie moving through the crowd, making her way towards Lawrence. “Excuse me, would you? I need to powder my nose before we get ushered into the dining room.” She turned around and walked towards the exit into the hall. Attempting a civil conversation with her ex was one thing, but having to be polite to his new wife was not on the cards yet.

On her way out, Diane deposited her empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and grabbed a new one. More bubbles were required to fight back against the bad taste she got in her mouth every time she saw Lawrence and Debbie together.

She took her glass into the ladies’ changing room, hoping to find a quiet spot to gather herself before having to sit down for the dinner, which was bound to last too long. It was the same thing every year.

She sat on a stool in front of a vanity and checked her make-up in the mirror. She ruffled through her small evening purse to find her lipstick.

The door to the dressing room opened. A short-haired woman Diane didn’t know walked in and looked around uncertainly. She must be one of the new members.

“Are you looking for the bathroom?” Diane asked. “It’s past those lockers on the right, then through the first door.”

“Thank you,” the woman replied with a smile. “I haven’t quite got the lay of the land yet.” She walked in the direction Diane had indicated and disappeared into the bathroom.

Diane turned back to face her image in the mirror. She applied a new coat of lipstick, checked her eyeliner was still as it should be, and stood. The pain in her ankle had all but disappeared—probably thanks to the two glasses of champagne she’d had. She took one last look in the full-length mirror—her shoes did indeed match her gown perfectly, she couldn’t take issue with the salesgirl’s taste. Debbie might have almost thirty years on her, but youth could never make up for elegance. At least that was the mantra Diane was going to stick to tonight.

She pulled back her shoulders and headed out towards the function room as the bell was rung to call people to dinner.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Tamsin hurried out of the ladies’ room and into the grand dining room. Long tables were set with folded name cards next to the plates. Good. She didn’t have to scour for a seat—all she had to manage was find her assigned spot. A wooden lectern displayed the seating plan. A crowd huddled around it, so Tamsin waited and cast her glance over her new place of employ. This evening might be just a dinner, but to Tamsin it was as nerve-racking as the first day on a new job. So many unknown people, so many names and faces to put together and remember.

The crowd at the lectern had dispersed and Tamsin scanned the large piece of paper for her name. Now all she had to do was locate the table. A few people were already sitting there. They probably all knew each other—but mingling with the members was part of her job.

She walked over to her table and spotted the friendly lady who had shown her where the bathroom was earlier. She smiled and found her seat, right next to her.

“Hi,” the woman said, extending her hand, “Diane Thompson.”

“Tamsin Foxley.” Tamsin shook the woman’s hand. Her grip was firm. Her blue-eyed gaze on Tamsin unwavering.

“Lovely to meet you, Tamsin,” Diane said. “You must be one of the new members.” She smiled apologetically. “I arrived late so I missed the introductions.”

“I’m the new pro, actually,” Tamsin said. “I’ll be replacing Darren when he leaves in a few weeks.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Diane said, turning towards her more. “My game’s always a bit rusty after the winter break. I must book some lessons.” Diane pushed her glasses up her nose.

Tamsin felt a little under-dressed next to her, but she’d never really been one to dress up.

“Of course. That would be lovely,” Tamsin said.

“Diane, how are you?” An elderly man had approached and put his hands briefly on Diane’s shoulders. “I believe you’re stuck with me for the evening.” He pulled back the chair on the other side of Diane.

“Have you met our new pro, Reg?” Diane said.

Tamsin repeated the motions she’d gone through many a time since she’d arrived at the club: shaking hands, smiling broadly, and replying to chit-chat.

Reg kept Diane engaged in conversation for a while. Tamsin was relieved she’d been seated next to someone as welcoming as Diane. If the opening dinners of her previous club were anything to go by, they’d be stuck with each other for a few hours.

Tamsin picked up the menu card that stood in front of her plate. Smoked salmon as a starter and steak for mains. The number of times she’d had a similar meal at a golf club. She smiled inwardly. Golfs clubs were not known for grand innovations and any change—even to the menu—was always slow.

“Which club were you with before?” Diane had turned to her again. She gave Tamsin a warm smile.

“Chalstone,” Tamsin said, a pang of regret shooting through her.

“Any particular reason you left?” Diane inquired.

“I was in dire need of a change of scenery.” She sent Diane a wide smile. Tamsin was eager to keep the real reason she left—or rather, had been forced to leave—under wraps.

Diane nodded thoughtfully. “Do you live nearby?” She took a sip of the white wine that had just been poured.

“I found a place on the outskirts of the village,” Tamsin said. She looked at the glass in front of her but left it alone for now. She’d had two glasses of champagne already and, unlike most of the other guests, she wasn’t here to relax tonight. “Very quiet and green.” Tamsin had fallen in love with the small cottage, which was modest, but stretched her rental budget considerably nonetheless. Even though Tynebury was a good number of miles from London, it was still a commutable distance to the capital.

“Welcome to the club and the village, then.” Diane lifted her glass.

Tamsin mirrored her action. They clinked rims. “Are you joining the Ladies’ trip to Portugal next month?” Tamsin asked.

“Oh, yes.” The skin around Diane’s eyes crinkled when she smiled. “I’m looking forward to it greatly. Winter has been long. I need a good dose of vitamin D.”

“And an equally good dose of golf, I hope.” Tamsin attempted a joke.

“That goes without saying.” Diane drank again, then set her glass down. “I do miss playing during the off season.” Her gaze on Tamsin was kind. “I should book those lessons before the trip, by the way. I hope your calendar’s not too full yet.”

“I’m sure I can squeeze you in.” Tamsin’s calendar was still very empty. She wanted—needed—to teach as many classes as she possibly could.

Diane’s eyes locked on a woman strutting past their table. When she glanced back at Tamsin, the kindness in her eyes had disappeared.

“That woman,” Diane said with utter contempt in her voice. She straightened her spine. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Debbie?” Tamsin inquired. She’d been introduced to Debbie earlier, who had promptly also inquired about lessons.

“It’s just so unfair.” Diane leaned in Tamsin’s direction. Tamsin caught a whiff of her flowery perfume. “Since you’ll be working here, you might as well learn about the medieval politics of this club.” She shook her head. “My good friend Isabelle’s gay son-in-law has been refused membership, while my ex-husband’s trollop of a wife has been accepted,” she whispered. “This club has not yet entered the twenty-first century, I can assure you that.”

Tamsin momentarily stiffened at the mention of the word gay. She reached for her glass of wine so she had some time to regroup. “That’s simply appalling.”

“It is, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure Matthew gets accepted next year. What is this? The middle ages?”

“I sure hope not.” Tamsin was distracted by a bunch of waiting staff milling about. The starters were being served. With that, Reg engaged Diane in conversation again, and Tamsin was left in welcome silence to ponder the information she’d just received.

* * *

Tamsin scanned the improvised dance floor. She wasn’t much of a dancer and she preferred leaning against the bar, letting her gaze wander. Dinner had gone well, largely thanks to her welcoming neighbour. More people had come up to her after dinner to introduce themselves and enquire about lessons. She knew from experience, however, that members of these old, traditional golf clubs were always very welcoming at first, brimming with courtesy and warm smiles, but it was only the thinnest veneer that hid the true nature of some.

A man sidled up to her. “How are you holding up?” She recognised him as Lionel, who had sat at the far end of her table, which, Diane had revealed near the end of the meal, was dubbed the ‘singles’ table’.

“Just fine, thanks.”

Lionel had loosened his tie and his eyes were glazed over.

Tamsin took a small step away, not that she considered him in any condition to take a subtle hint.

“You’ll find us a lovely, civilised bunch.” He all but slurred his words.

Yeah right. Like the lot at my previous club.

“I’m sure you all are.” Tamsin had little choice but to oblige him.

“I hear you’re renting the Andersons’ cottage,” Lionel said. “Is it just you there or do you have a husband and some kids running around?”

How quickly word spread in villages—and clubs—like this. Of course, the Andersons were members here as well. Any newcomer would have tongues wagging. She knew how this worked.

“Just me and Bramble, my dog,” she said. Bramble had acclimatised to the cottage and its surroundings instantly. Tamsin adored the cottage but would need a bit more time with everything surrounding it.

Lionel took a step closer again. “We’ll have to make sure you don’t get too lonely over there then.” Lionel tried a smile but the corners of his mouth seemed too lazy to quirk up all the way

Tamsin thought it best to not dignify that with an answer. She looked at the dance floor again. Diane was chatting to a woman at the edge of the bopping crowd. She didn’t seem like much of a dancer either. Of all the people who had inquired about lessons tonight, Tamsin looked forward to teaching Diane the most. They’d spent the most time together, so it was only logical. She didn’t much look forward to teaching Debbie—what had Diane called her again. A trollop? Tamsin snickered inwardly, careful not to show any outward signs of her glee, lest Lionel believed she was actually enjoying their conversation.

Diane must have felt Tamsin’s gaze on her because she looked in her direction and gave her a wave. Her gaze lingered, then meandered to the person next to Tamsin. She rolled her eyes.

Emboldened by Diane’s small display of sympathy at being stuck with a drunken Lionel, Tamsin said, “Please excuse me.” She turned away from him, only to be accosted as soon as she rounded the corner of the bar by another member in dire need of golf lessons.

<<End of preview>>

A Swing at Love will be available on Friday 3 August 2018

 

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PREVIEW: No Greater Love Than Mine

June 30, 2018 by Harper Bliss 14 Comments

No Greater Love Than Mine

No Greater Love Than Mine: A Silver Linings Novella will be out next week (on Friday 6 July 2018). Here’s a preview. Enjoy!

No Greater Love Than Mine
© Harper Bliss

CHAPTER ONE

ANGELA

“You have no choice,” Harriet says. “I wish I could get you out of it, but you have to go see Roger.”

I tap the tip of my shoe against my boss’s desk. I don’t care if it annoys her—in fact, I’m pretty sure it does, and am glad of it.

“Maybe you can work something out with him,” she says. “But administratively, my hands are tied.”

‘Administratively’ is one of Harriet’s favorite words. Especially in combination with explaining how tied her hands are exactly.

“That’ll be the day,” I scoff, “when Roger lets a woman off the hook.” I hang my head in desperation. “How is this guy still working for the department?”

Harriet leans over her desk. “You didn’t get this from me, but I hear he’s on his way out.”

“About ten years too late, but still, some good news today.”

“There can be much more good news soon. Five mandatory sessions is all it takes.” Harriet fixes her gaze on me. “I need you back on the squad, Angela. As soon as possible.”

I shuffle in my seat and, inadvertently, wince.

“If you’re physically ready, of course.”

“Just a bullet to the shoulder,” I say sarcastically. “Comes with the territory.”

“I hope you know I don’t question your mental readiness to return to work.” Harriet sends me one of her attempts at a smile. She used to be my partner. I know smiling isn’t her forte.

“But someone in HR does,” I say.

“We have to cover our bases. That’s all it is.” Harriet tilts her head. “Five hours of your life spread out over two weeks. You’ll have the rest of your time to recover from whatever Roger Bradley’s therapeutic skills unearth from the depths of your soul.”

I snicker. “It’s not funny. I just want to work. I’ll even have you chain me to a desk for the coming two weeks.”

Harriet arches up her eyebrows. “If you only had an ounce of desk jockey blood in you, you’d be sitting on my side of this very desk right now.”

“But action is what gets you killed.” Even though it was a through and through, sometimes, it’s as though I can still feel the bullet lodged in the flesh of my right shoulder.

“Don’t even say that.” Harriet and I worked side by side for seven years, until she got promoted.

“Fine then. I’ll go waste my time in Roger’s office.” I make to get up. It’s not because I have all the time in the world that the captain of our squad doesn’t have a million things to do.

“Call me after,” Harriet says. “Screw confidentiality.”

“Yes, boss.” I give her a faux-salute and leave her to tend to her many administrative tasks.

* * *

I’ve been lucky enough to never have to avail of Roger Bradley’s services during all my years as a police officer with the LAPD, but I’ve heard all the stories.

I hope Harriet’s right about him being on his way out, although it doesn’t help me much now, as I sit in a nondescript waiting room, wishing it was evening already, and my hour with Roger over.

It’s not just his reputation that gets my hackles up. I’m not a believer in talk therapy and the prospect of having my soul shrunk sets my teeth on edge. It’s just a formality, I repeat in my head, as I see how the seconds tick by on my wristwatch. Maybe I can try something with Roger, get him to sign the necessary paperwork without me having to sit through five actual sessions with him.

The door to Roger’s office opens and a colleague I know vaguely—I think he works in Vice—walks out. We nod our recognition, or perhaps our commiseration, and he walks off. The door remains open, but I’m not being called in. Maybe Roger needs to make some notes on the mental wellbeing of his previous client first.

A few more minutes pass and I just sit there waiting in front of an open door. I check my watch and it’s not 4 PM yet, that’s true, but only about fifty seconds off.

When the seconds counter on my watch turns to ’00’ a woman appears in the doorway. A woman who is decidedly not Roger Bradley.

“Detective Hill,” she says. “I will see you now.”

For a second, I’m chained to my chair. At the sight of her, I simply can’t move. My legs have lost all their power.

I mumble something, but nothing sane comes out of my mouth. What happened to Roger Bradley? It would be a delight to have a therapy session with him now that I’m faced with the alternative. Because this will be a trip down memory lane I swore I would never take.

 

CHAPTER TWO

JACKIE

I’ve had time to prepare for this. Still, seeing her knocks me for six. It’s been twenty years, yet I could pick Detective Angela Hill out of a crowd of millions. She has aged, of course. Twenty years in this job will do that to you, yet her essence has remained the same. Those pale blue eyes—the undeniable sparkle in them. She’s not in uniform anymore, but she still tucks her blouse tightly into the waistband of her trousers, revealing a fine figure.

“You’re not Roger Bradley,” Angela says, after I’ve closed the door behind her.

“Very perceptive.” I point at two club chairs facing each other near the window. “Please, sit down.”

“I’m not sure I should stay,” Angela says. “It must be against some protocol.” She fidgets with the wristband of her watch.

With any other client, I’d put a reassuring hand on their shoulder, but I can’t do that with Angela.

I sit down, hoping she’ll follow my lead. “I assure you, it’s perfectly fine.”

“Where’s Roger?” She sits down and slings one leg over the other, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Mr. Bradley has been suspended. I’m covering for him until a suitable, more permanent replacement is found.” I find myself distracted by a freckle next to Angela’s nose. Has that always been there?

“Okay.” Angela eyes me through narrowed lids. “So, am I to assume that you’d rather be somewhere else instead?”

I give her a hint of smile. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You’ve read my file. You know what happened. It’s LAPD procedure for every officer who’s the victim of a shooting to see a shrink. But I’m fine. We can just skip this whole thing.”

I relax my hands on the armrests of the chair, hoping to inspire some calm in my reluctant client. “Is that what you were going to say to Roger?”

Angela presses her lips together and nods. “I probably would have gone about it differently, but I figure you owe me, so I might as well be direct.”

Ouch. The knives are out already.

“Interesting.”

“Please don’t do that typical shrink thing and bring your hand to your chin, nodding thoughtfully, and only say ‘interesting’. None of that shit’s going to work on me. I just want to get out of this. If you cared for me at all.” She stalls. Something twists deep in my gut. “Then you’ll at least do this for me.”

“Angela, please,” I implore. “We have an hour. Maybe we can talk.”

How can it be that I still remember her lips on mine so vividly? How those blue eyes stared into mine as she pushed a finger high inside me. A drop of sweat trickles down my spine. Maybe I should have protested more when I saw Angela’s name in Roger’s appointment book. But what could I have said? Detective Hill and I have a secret history together?

Angela shakes her head. “It would have been nice if someone had alerted me to this.”

“I agree. I apologize. Believe me, these are not the circumstances under which I wanted us to meet again.”

Angela scoffs. “As if you ever wanted that.”

I deserve that. I deserve every last ounce of scorn she sends my way. “I got called in to take over from Roger a few days ago. I’ve been in over my head. I didn’t ask for this either, but this is the situation as it is.” I try a smile, although I know it won’t work on her. Or no, I can only guess. It’s been twenty years, and even back then we didn’t know each other that well. “How about we just begin?”

Angela purses her lips. The way her eyes blaze with anger, I half expect her to make a locking up gesture with her fingers, followed by throwing away the imaginary key. She gives a stern nod.

“Would you like to begin by telling me what happened?” I’m glad there’s a safe distance between us. About three feet separate us. More sweat pools in the small of my back. I’ll need to change my blouse if I keep perspiring like this.

“You already know what happened.” There’s nothing but accusation in her tone. “Or did you not read my file?”

I read it last night and again this morning. I skimmed through it again during my lunch break, my glance always halting at her picture. Those eyes. They could cut through steel.

“I’d like to hear it in your own words.”

Angela rolls her eyes. “I can’t do this.” She throws up her hands. “How can you possibly expect me to? I haven’t seen you in two decades and then, boom, here you are. And you expect me to talk about something I have no desire to talk about, with you, of all people.” She massages her temples.

“I know it’s not fair.”

“Not fair,” Angela repeats under her breath. “You should know a thing or two about that.”

I swallow hard. I try to hold her glance, but it’s my own that skitters away. I can’t look her in the eye—it’s a privilege I squandered years ago.

“It’s probably meaningless now, but I’m so sorry about what happened back then.” My hands go all clammy. “My choices were very limited. I had Carl to consider.” No matter the agony of the moment, my voice fills with joy when I say my son’s name.

Angela holds up her hand. “Save it. Whatever you’re going to say is twenty years too late.”

“Everything’s different now,” I say, not sure what I mean.

“At least your ex-husband became commissioner.” Angela’s voice is all venom. “I hope it was worth the sacrifice.”

“I didn’t do it for him.”

“Truly, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I’m just flummoxed because I was expecting that poor excuse of a human being Roger Bradley to receive me in this office for a therapy session, not the woman who broke my heart so ruthlessly, so…” She pauses, then waves a hand. “Well, you’re the therapist. I hardly need to explain it to you.”

“You don’t. I understand. If it’s any consolation, it’s a shock for me as well. To see you again after all these years.” I refrain from telling her that, despite all the hard feelings between us, I’m happy to be sitting across from her. To look into the cool blue of her gaze whenever my eyes dare to wander there.

She huffs out some air. “I’ve been so angry with you.” She shakes her head. “Once the anger subsided, I was sad. For a very long time.”

“I’m sorry.” I have to ask. It’s none of my business, but there’s an acute need inside me to obtain this information. “Did you, um, find someone… after me.”

Angela’s eyes grow wide for an instant, then she just shrugs. She just sits there and it’s as if I can still see some of the sadness inside her. As though, faced with me, she’s trying to hide it so well, pulling up all her guards that, in her zeal, she’s forgetting to conceal the most vulnerable parts of her.

“I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

“This is turning out to be one big apologizing session for you. I hope it’s cathartic.” Her tone is all bite, but something has softened in the blue of her eyes.

“It’s not.” I wish I could at least say to her that if I could go back in time, I’d do everything differently, but I can’t do that. My child came first. Although, perhaps his happiness was the perfect cover for my cowardice. “Here’s what I propose.” I have to meet her halfway, even though, by doing so I’ll be neglecting my professional duties. But I’m not the right therapist to help Angela with her possible PTSD. There’s too big a conflict of interest. “I’ll write you down as having taken today’s session. I’ll find someone else to take over from me for the next sessions. But—”

“Of course there’s a but.” She taps her fingertips on her knee.

“You’re my last client for today. How about we go for a drink instead? I know I could use one.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up briefly, only to plunge down again and pull her lips back into their dismissive slant. She doesn’t say no immediately. “If I don’t go for a drink with you, will you make me sit out the session?”

“I’m not blackmailing you into having a drink with me, Angela. You’re free to leave if you want to.”

She rises and walks to the back of the chair. She plants her hands on the back of it. I don’t spot any rings on her fingers. “I know a place not far from here. Classy enough to not be crawling with cops.” A small shift in her lips again. “I’m not fit to drive yet, which is bullshit, but there you have it.” She straightens her spine and, for a split second, grimaces. “I’ll be taking a cab.”

“Give me the address. I’ll follow you.” I suppose it’s a step too far to propose we ride together.

<<End of preview>>

No Greater Love Than Mine will be available on Friday 6 July 2018

 

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