I'm about to turn on my word programme and pull out the edit I'm supposed to be working on. I've done some critiquing in my group.
I'm working on three stories at once and feel a certain bit of excitement about all of them, but can't quite make up my mind which one I feel like writing on today. That isn't good because it can balk me and leave me unsure and undecisive. I have trouble focusing at the best of times.
I wonder whether to work on this...
Last night I dreamed I was in Manderlay again.
Daphne couldn’t help reciting these words in a hoarse, almost fearful whisper, as she looked up at the leadlight windows and multi turrets of the stark gray stone castle. Here and there it was coated by a shroud of greenery adhering with possessiveness over some of the walls, out of control yet softening the starkness. She shivered.
Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca. It was one of her favorite stories. One of her favorite movies, and, as she watched the cab, tires scrunching over the gravel carriageway noisily, as it sped off. However;
She wasn’t so sure that letting it leave her at the mercy of what she would find once she knocked on the door, such a good idea. Too late. It disappeared behind the copse of trees on the long drive towards the gates and she turned back to the Castle Craeghe. Silence until she retuned her ears.
The sound of crashing waves in the distance renewed the shivers down her spine.
Wasn’t the wife found murdered in the boat sunk in the harbour? She hadn’t read the story or seen the movie in a thousand years but remembered enough of it to give her a bad case of the spooks and…
Her glance was drawn up to a leadlight window. A woman was watching her. She had black hair.
Geez. Mrs. Danvers!
The woman was not smiling and not hiding. She boldly stared down from her window and continued to keep the hairs on the back of Daphne’s neck standing like porcupine needles.
Trust you Virginia!
I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. It became almost embarrassing. There was something addictive about his face. Could’ve been the laugh lines at the side of beautiful green eyes. Could’ve been the cleft in his chin. A classic Cary Grant chin.
His neck was long with an Adam’s apple which bobbed up and down like the cork on a fishing line as he swallowed. He seemed bored, or absorbed in deep thought. Long slim fingers were absently twirling a crystal wine goblet. He stared into it – mesmerized. The golden liquid swiveled and glistened like a multi faceted diamond as it caught the light from the wide window beside him. The nails were groomed to perfection. If not groomed then he was just one of God’s most perfect creatures. God does do it from time to time.
Mmmmm he could be about forty. Maybe older. Yes definitely older. Let’s bump him up to 45. Salt and pepper hair was short and practical. He was the quintessential Polo Ralph Lauren man…
Score: Perfect Ten.
I looked around the restaurant. Mine were not the only eyes drawn like lustful greedy butterflies to the eighth wonder of the world. Sitting alone there at a white-clothed table. Maybe he’d been stood up? He didn’t seem too concerned about it if he had been.
What sort of man could he be? The mouth was generous. Given that my Mother considered herself a great judge of character - I’d lived a lifetime of warnings. Never go for a shortie with a mean mouth. This mantra had seeped into my life. No matter how much I tried, short men with mean mouths were off my agenda. This man was the pinnacle of Mother’s eligible criteria.
I’m in and out of love every day. Men are on an equal par with shoes. I go to a movie and I’m in love with the leading man, Tom Cruise. Hell, I’ve even been in love with Frank Sinatra. And I’ve seen Jimmy Choo shoes I’d whore for.
But there’s a method to this madness of falling in love. With the exception of shoes, they’re all perfectly unattainable. That suits me just fine. I’m man-shy.
Why? Mother. She’s seeking eternity in the form of grandchildren.
I have loads of man-friends. There is safety in numbers. In fact I get on with men better than with other women. A couple of man-friends have attempted to cross the emotional border – but without success. One of them, Albert Johnson, was supposed to be here but at:
12.45pm… He was late.
Woops. Cellphone is buzzing. Darn thing is always falling to the bottom of my bag.
Albert Johnson. “Hi Albie.”
“Darling. Prude! I’m in Waterloo Street watching my car being loaded onto a tow truck.”
“You okay, darling?”
“Yes absolutely, darling. But I’m crying inside because you’d expect a Porsche to behave better. Darn thing just stopped. I’m going with it to the garage to see what I can do. Do you mind?”
“Mind being stood up?”
“I’ll make it up to you, darling.”
“I’ll think about it, darling. Bye.”
I looked at the glass in front of me. I’d ordered our special wine. Hunter Villa Chardonnay 2004. It was thirty Euros a bottle and I wasn’t going to waste it. I let the waiter top my glass.
And I was hungry… I tucked my bag further under the table and took my plate to the buffet. Did a slow stroll around the seafood section.
Oysters. Haven’t had oysters in ages. I picked up a dozen or so without really counting them. Added a couple of quarters of lemon.
He was still swiveling his glass. His eyes were wandering. We locked gazes as I sat with my oyster haul. I tried to unattach but he kind of locked me in. He let me off the hook by holding up his glass in a silent salute. I held my glass up then got down to business with the oysters.
Delicious. They were sprinkled with caviar.
Somehow my glass was empty. The waiter topped it up.
I checked the shells. All empty. I wanted more oysters.
Oysters? Definitely oysters. This time I exceeded my previous dozen. What the hell! There was nobody to censure me. Albert would have made some smart alecky statement about aphrodisiacs, but Albert was Absent.
The hunk was watching me. He lifted an eyebrow and smiled slightly. I squeezed a drop of lemon into each of my oysters. When I looked at him he was still watching me. Still swiveling that glass in his hands.
I dipped my fork into a shell, picked up the oyster and slipped it into my mouth. The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled. He was definitely laughing internally at me. Or at least I thought so until it dawned on me as I enveloped an oyster into my mouth – the sexual connotations were enormous.
I tried to unsex the next one, but swallowing oysters is just plain sexy. Maybe that’s why it’s called an aphrodisiac. I tried to concentrate on the Urban Vista outside the window of the 14th floor restaurant but of course…
He was still watching me.-----
The chorus joined the stars in the last of their title song..
MAMA DON’T PUT YOUR BABY ON THE STAAAAAAAAAAAAGE!!!!
Because of her cameo performance she was able to step forward and receive applause of her own. Her eyes as glittered and her diamonds sparkled with extraordinary excitement. She looked about her over the vast auditorium – glancing out beyond the bright lights her smile wide, her face excited the diamonds glittering. It seemed she was seeking somebody. She looked up at the boxes and finally at his own Royal Box. It seemed that she…
She surely had…
His heart was pounding – he hadn’t felt like this in years – singled him out specially – she had…
Felt it too! The chemistry between them was mutual… she surely had…
Connected with him. His stomach tingled with anticipation.
The curtains closed. Catcalls and frenzied clapping begged the curtains to open again.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5 times the curtain opened on the cast, Sasha and other minor cast players joined the major stars and received each time their share of the enthusiasm in the auditorium.
On the sixth and last call the cast turned to Oskar and in unison bowed/curtsied.
Oskar stood and clapped, his eyes on Sasha D’Estelle. He was looking directly into her eyes. He felt,
Desire, mixed with…
Anticipation mixed with…
Lust mixed with…
His heart was beating with excitement as he was taken backstage.
He shook hands with …
The set designer;
The costume designer;
What about the chorus…
“What about the chorus?” he asked Richard. “I should meet them too.”
“What about the chorus?”
“Your Highness, we weren’t going to…”
“Mr. Moynahan, Richard. Why am I not meeting the chorus? They were excellent and especially the girl who sang a solo. I would like to tell them so.”
Moynahan’s face was so totally readable. Sure anything for this Prince and his wonderful response to the show.
The director was asked to get the girls. It wasn’t too hard – they were all in the dark of the wings watching the Prince – all too excited to let the thrill of a gala Royal Command Performance night go too soon. She was there in the middle.
Closer… He shook hands.
And closer. He shook hands.
“Ginger de Witt…”
And the next one is…He shook hands.
The world stood still. She was as tall as he suspected. He didn’t have to look down too far to find those blue glittering eyes. She seemed…
Shy? She kind of glanced up at him from under her eyelashes.
He searched his brain for something special to say. Say something! Say something… His brain seized up, his tongue tied as never before and finally blurted…
“You have a wonderful voice, and you dance so well.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” she said then placed her hand into his. He glanced down at the long lovely fingers in his hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. The skin was soft and lovely like a baby’s.
Then much to his own surprise and to all who watched on, he lifted her hand and brushed his mouth over the tops of her fingers. He caught a whiff of her fragrance. She was heaven and here in front of him. As he straightened and lifted his eyes back to hers he realized it had been an awful mistake and was immediately sorry he’d acted so foolishly. There was…
What a fool! What a blunder! This was not a good beginning!
***I wonder I wonder. There are others that need editing but you see what I mean?
In case you are wondering about the large print in the last piece, no amount of editing on this blog would they disappear. The edit section of this site is c+r+a+p