Hello Readers
Today, it's my turn to be on the main stage of the #ChocRubyFestival, an online event for Choc Lit and Ruby authors to connect with readers.
I'm talking about my favourite among my Choc Lit and Ruby novels, which is
Magic Sometimes Happens. There's a chance to win a paperback of the book, too.
It's the story of two unlikely lovers. Patrick Riley is a married American scientist and father of two small children whose personal life is in turmoil. Rosie Denham is a single British PR consultant who is trying to forgive herself for messing up her life in just about every possible way.
When I'm writing fiction I always like to give my characters their own backstories, and here is one I wrote for Rosie. It's set while she was working in Paris, a year or two before she met Patrick. She had fun time there, particularly on one sunny summer day! How did she end up at the top of the Eiffel Tower?
You can find out in this story.
One Last Dance
It was early morning.
Soon enough, the summer
sun would glare and stifle, turning all the buildings blinding white and making
everybody tired and cross before the day had even started. But right now Paris was pale grey, enchanted
and washed by cool, pure light – an ethereal city, just made for ghosts and
lovers.
‘Look where
you’re going, can’t you?’ Rosie Denham cried, alarmed.
But he wasn’t
looking and, as she and the man collided, as his very large and very expensive-looking
suitcase shot out of his hand and hit a bollard, she stared down in horror at
the cigarette ash that had landed on her new white linen dress and scorched a big
grey burn mark in a very prominent place.
‘It’s the first
time I’ve worn this dress!’ she added furiously.
‘Then may I
suggest that it’s the last?’ The dropper of the ash, a thirty-something
Frenchman, smiled a sardonic but disarming smile. ‘You’re a very attractive
woman, mademoiselle, but creased linen isn’t a great look on anyone. Why don’t
you donate that horror to the nearest bakery? It would make a perfect sack for flour.’
‘Do you always
act like this is public?’ demanded Rosie, still incensed.
Or rather, even
more incensed.
‘I beg your
pardon?’ said the Frenchman, still smiling crookedly. ‘Whatever can you mean?’
‘I mean by knocking
people flying, ruining their clothes, and then insulting them?’
‘Only when
they’re gorgeous and you’re
absolutely ravishing.’ The Frenchman handed Rosie two of the bags of files and
samples that she’d dropped. ‘What are you doing for dinner this evening?’
‘I – I’m meeting somebody,’
she lied. ‘We’re going dancing.’
‘What a pity,’
said the man. ‘You and I – we could have had some fun.’
‘I shall make
sure I have some fun, and what’s more my boyfriend doesn’t smoke. So my
clothing shouldn’t meet with any accidents.’
She scooped up all
the other bags she’d dropped and hurried on, feeling slightly smug that she had
managed to put someone down in idiomatic French.
But that white
linen dress had cost a bomb, so mostly she was livid.
She strode on
down the Boulevard de Magenta, still cross – but paradoxically somehow almost flattered
by the man’s attention, by the way he’d told her she was ravissante…
What? She shook
herself. What was she thinking, letting herself be flattered by a man who’d
burnt a hole in her best dress, was she a fifties throwback, a simpering
Stepford spinster?
‘What’s the
matter, Rosie?’ asked her colleague Juliet as Rosie dumped her carrier bags, then
slumped into her office chair and started scrolling through her emails. ‘Why do
you look as if you’ve lost a hundred Euro note and found a centime? You’ve – hey,
look at your dress! What have you done?’
‘Some halfwit running
to the Gare du Nord flicked fag ash over me. I hope he missed his train.’
‘What was he
like?’
‘What do you
mean, what was he like?’
‘Old, young,
gorgeous, hideous, hot, wouldn’t-touch-him-with-a-disinfected-bargepole-minging?’
‘Thirtyish, not
bad looking, I suppose – but terminally arrogant, presumptuous and stupid. He
was clearly running to catch a train but asked what I was doing for dinner this
evening’
‘Do you have
anything else to wear today?’
‘Yes, of course,
don’t worry. I always keep a perfect capsule wardrobe in the stationery
cupboard.’
‘Do you really?’
‘No, of course I
don’t. I’ll have to see my clients dressed in this.’
‘They’re going to
think you’re Joan of Arc, stepped out of the bonfire for a moment, on her
break.’
The Paris office of
the PR company for which Juliet and Rosie worked was doing really well, finding
excellent new clients every day, and soon Rosie found that she was calming
down. The burn mark on her dress was not so bad and, if she looked at it a
certain way, perhaps in time she would convince herself all those grey dots
were actually a pattern?
She collected up
the papers she would need to see a client.
Then her mobile
rang. She didn’t recognise the number. But perhaps she ought to take the call? It
might be a new client.
‘We must discuss
where we could meet for dinner,’ said the Frenchman.
‘How did you get
my number?’
‘You dropped a
business card as you rushed off.’
‘It’s like I said:
I’m meeting someone.’
‘Yes, of course: it’s
me.’
‘It won’t be
you.’
‘I think it
should be, mademoiselle. When you dropped your business card you dropped your
debit card and your three credit cards as well.’
Rosie glanced in
her handbag which was sitting on her desk. The zippered section where she kept
her cards was gaping open, empty.
‘Did you have somewhere
in particular in mind for dinner?’ she asked the Frenchman.
‘The Jules Verne,’
he replied. ‘I’ve made a reservation – half
past eight. Dress code casual, but no shorts or trainers, and
definitely not burnt.’
‘The Jules Verne?’
said Rosie. ‘You mean the restaurant at the Eiffel Tower?
That’s rather chavvy-tourist, isn’t it?’
‘You’re a chavvy-tourist,
aren’t you?’ said the man. ‘You’re British, anyway. I guess you’d qualify.’
‘I thought you
had to book up the Jules Verne weeks or months ahead?’
‘I have
connections. So – I’ll see you later.’
‘You have to go to the Jules Verne,’ said
Juliet.
‘Yes, I want my
cards back.’
‘You want to see
him, too.’
‘I want my cards
back, end of story.’
‘Why are you
blushing, then?’
At six o’clock, Rosie
dashed back home to her apartment and changed into a new black dress that
wouldn’t show the marks if her companion happened to flick ash again.
‘Good evening,’
said the Frenchman.
‘Good evening,’ Rosie
said, and checked his hands – no rings.
‘I see you’ve
made an effort,’ he continued.
‘What exactly is
your problem?’ she demanded crossly.
‘It’s you who has
the problem, isn’t it? Or who is confused? You didn’t want to meet me here for
dinner. But suddenly here you are in the Jules Verne.’
‘I want my cards
back.’
‘Yes, of course.’
The Frenchman smiled and handed her the cards. ‘So now, mademoiselle, I’m sure
you’ll need to dash – isn’t that what you British say?’
‘Now I’m here, I
might as well have dinner.’ Rosie couldn’t believe she’d just said that,
couldn’t quite believe that, actually, she didn’t want to leave. ‘May I know
your name?’
‘It’s Jacques-Marie
de Bruton.’
‘Oh?’ She looked
at him suspiciously. ‘Bruton doesn’t sound very French to me. It’s a town in Somerset.’
‘Why do you
suppose I must be French? Ah, here comes the maître d’ – our table must be
ready.’
The first course
was delicious. So was the second course. The wines were excellent, too. As the
waiter brought dessert, she realised she must be slightly drunk. But only
slightly, she decided – not enough to make her vulnerable.
‘This is some
small recompense for ruining your dress.’ Jacques handed her a thick, white
envelope containing a five hundred Euro note.
It had to be a
fake.
Or it was genuine,
and he must be a criminal, because only criminals used five hundred Euro notes.
She’d read about it in a magazine.
Whatever, he
could keep it.
She gave it back
to him.
‘I can afford to
buy another dress,’ she said.
Dessert was great,
the service fine, the view magnificent. Jacques behaved impeccably, did nothing
she could have laughed about with Juliet tomorrow. There was no silly hand-kissing,
no flirty-comedy-Frenchman stuff at all.
Perhaps he was
from Somerset?
Anyway, he met
her gaze, and listened with attention, and asked occasional but intelligent
questions as she talked about herself, her PR work, her friends, her life in
Paris.
A man who
listened while she talked about herself! She could hardly credit it – weren’t
most men interested solely in themselves?
‘What do you do?’
she asked him.
‘I’m in business,’
he replied.
‘What kind of
business?’
‘As is the case
with everyone in business, I supply demand.’ Jacques smiled his disarming
smile. ‘I export a carefully-chosen range of small but rather valuable things.’
‘What kinds of things?’
‘It varies,
mademoiselle. It depends on what my clients want or need. So every day is
different. But let’s hear more of you. Do you enjoy adventures? Do you respond
to challenges? Do you like to travel?’
‘Yes, I suppose I
do.’
‘So if you could
go anywhere in the whole world, which country would you choose?’
‘I’ve always
wanted to see the Iguazu
Falls in South America. So I’d like to go to Argentina. Or
are they in Brazil?’
‘I believe Brazil. Yes, I
would like to see them, too – so that’s where I shall take you.’
‘When, tomorrow?’
Rosie asked him, laughing.
‘Why wait until
tomorrow, mademoiselle? Why don’t we go tonight?’
As the evening darkened
into velvet night, a million lights came on all over Paris and made the view even more magical.
This whole thing is mad, thought Rosie, and I must be mad as well, to be sitting
here in the Jules Verne with this peculiar man.
He’s obviously a criminal, a people-trafficker,
a member of a drugs cartel who’s on his holidays. He’ll slip something in my coffee
and I’ll wake up bound and gagged in the hold of someone’s private plane.
I wonder what it would be like to kiss him?
He’s very attractive, after all. He’s calm
and self-contained – mysterious. But I believe he could be passionate. I think
he could be dangerous…
What are you – an idiot?
She decided she’d
skip coffee and get out while she could.
She stumbled to
her feet. The room spun wildly. Perhaps he’d drugged the wine? ‘Th-thank you
for a very pleasant evening,’ she began, desperately looking for the maître d’
or for a passing waiter she could ask to call a cab.
‘It’s not over
yet,’ said Jacques. ‘We’re going to South America,
don’t forget.’
‘We are not going to South
America!’
‘You seem very
sure of that.’
‘Of course I’m
sure!’
‘But you will
change your mind and, in the meantime, I wish to show you something.’
‘What kind of
something?’
‘It’s a very famous
sight of Paris.’
‘It’s not the
Moulin Rouge?’
‘Of course it’s
not the Moulin Rouge.’
The boat was tied
up at the quay. A small but pretty town boat of the kind that she had seen in Venice, it had an
outboard motor and fat, red leather seats.
She thought: you know you’ve had far too much wine.
Otherwise, you wouldn’t be doing this. You’d
be in a cab on your way home.
Hey, but listen, said her other self. This is a challenge, an adventure, isn’t it?
You know you love adventures. The water won’t
be really cold in June. So, if he tries anything, you can just jump overboard
and swim.
He stopped the
boat outside the Louvre
Museum.
‘I think it’s
closed,’ she said.
‘It’s never
closed to me.’ He helped her get out of the boat and climb on to the jetty. ‘They
whisper that I pass through walls, that I’m a shape-shifter, a necromancer,
that I can make myself invisible. The truth is rather more prosaic. I am the
king of codes, the lord of padlocks.’
Rosie knew she
must be dreaming now. She’d wake up in a moment and find herself tucked up in
her own bed, in her bijou apartment seven floors up under the sloping roof that
leaked whenever it rained.
He led her
through the dim-lit galleries where works of art lay slumbering.
It seemed to Rosie
the subjects of the portraits and the statues were themselves asleep, dozing
heavy-lidded until the morning came.
‘It’s fairyland,’
she whispered.
‘You approve?’
‘I do.’ She
looked at him and frowned. ‘But surely we can’t be alone? There must be
security men around, or even guard dogs?
‘There are no
guard dogs in the Louvre. As for the security men – they’re likely to be drowsing
in their office, failing to watch the screens. Mademoiselle, as I recall, you like
to dance?’
‘Yes, but not
that bopping, shuffling stuff most people do. The waltz, the tango, foxtrot –
they’re my thing. I’m a big fan of Strictly.’
‘What is Strictly?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t
matter, and yes, I like to dance.’
As Jacques took
her in his arms, Rosie became aware of shadows looming, circling them.
But she ignored
the shadows.
This was all a
dream, so shadows couldn’t hurt them, could they?
Jacques led her
through a waltz, not showily but expertly, humming something that she didn’t
recognise, but it was sweet, melodious.
Then kissed her
slowly, perfectly.
Rosie kissed him
back. She found she wanted to be kissed for all eternity and she never wanted
to stop dancing.
The shadows grew,
came closer.
They resolved
themselves into four men in leather jackets, jeans and trainers.
They could not be
anything but cops.
They stood there
silent, watching.
‘Just keep
dancing,’ murmured Jacques, and kissed her cheek.
‘What are you
going to do?’
‘I have not yet decided.’
‘You mean you’ve
got a gun, a knife?’
‘Mademoiselle, you
watch too many movies.’
‘What was in that
suitcase you were carrying this morning?’
‘The most
exquisite Leonardo, the glory of this place – did you not see the headlines all
over social media today?’
‘You stole the Mona Lisa?’ Rosie pulled back and stared
at him, astonished. ‘Why are you here again, then? Do you have it rolled up in
your trouser pocket? Do you want to put it back?’
‘These things
would not be possible, ma chère. The
work is painted on a wooden panel. I do not intend to put it back. My client
would be most upset. No, I was thinking we could take another little something
to Brazil.’
‘Jacques, it’s
been a lovely evening. I’ve enjoyed myself. But I’m not going with you to Brazil.’
‘But you must.
You said you love a challenge, an adventure – ’
‘That’s enough,
de Bruton.’
The four
policemen formed a circle round them.
‘It’s over,’ said
Policeman One.
‘I know,’ said
Jacques.
‘Why you here, de
Bruton?’ demanded Policeman Two.
‘Why aren’t you
in Morocco,
the Ukraine,
the Congo?’
asked Policeman Three.
‘There must be a
thousand places where the most notorious art thief in the whole of France could
hide? Where it would be impossible to find you?’
‘Yes indeed, a hundred
thousand places.’
‘So why – ’
‘This morning, I
lost something very precious. How could I leave Paris, let alone leave France, without
it?’ Jacques de Bruton shrugged a Gallic shrug and raised his hands, revealing
that he wasn’t armed.
‘You mean you hung
around to pinch more stuff,’ said Policeman Four. ‘You might have got away with
it if you had been here an hour earlier.’
‘But you see we
had a tip-off from this lady’s friend.’
‘She told us
mademoiselle was having dinner with somebody suspicious.’
‘Someone with a
suitcase who’d been racing to the Gare du Nord.’
‘So we put two
and two together.’
‘Well, of course
you did,’ said Jacques.
‘You’re a fool,
de Bruton. You could have been in Moscow,
Madrid or Monte Carlo hours ago.’
‘Yes, perhaps
you’re right. But how could I resist the opportunity to see my private kingdom
one last time? To share it with the lady who today made me look like an amateur?
Who made off with my heart?’
UK residents can win a signed paperback of Magic Sometimes Happens by leaving me a direct message on my Facebook or Twitter pages - https://www.facebook.com/margaret.james.5268 or https://twitter.com/majanovelist - or by posting a comment here.
I'll choose a winner at random, message the winner, and send you the book to add to your summer reading pile. Good luck!
