“It’s over. I can’t see you anymore,” Lucy had said to him over the phone. “Not now it’s summer.”

What does that have to do with anything?” he’d said to the dialling tone.

He looked out of the window at the park opposite his flat and saw nothing but couples and families. He put his palm flat on the glass and tried to picture himself sitting on a bench, tucked away in the rose garden, carefully peeling an orange where the citrus tangs wouldn’t make people wrinkle their noses as much as they do on a bus or a train. But that reminded him of her shampoo and suddenly what he imagined instead was Lucy in a summer dress, coming along the path hand in hand with a tall faceless man in good jeans and proper shoes, not trainers. She was laughing and pulling him along, chasing the butterflies flitting from pink to white to yellow before taking off out over the lake.

So, she was already seeing someone else. In his park.

The dialling tone didn’t give him any clue as to why summer was a bad time to date him, so he dropped the handset back into its dock and turned away from the scene of her imagined betrayal.

Now here he was in his small cube of a kitchen, kettle in one hand, and a Snickers bar in the other. He bit off the corner of the wrapper and pushed the chocolate bar free, ripping the rest of the wrapper and crushing the chocolate shell with the force.

By the time the kettle boiled, two more wrappers had joined their pioneer friend on the counter and Alastair was feeling too sick to drink the green tea Lucy had recently bought him.

A dull ache took hold in his temple, his mouth was dry, and he had a sudden urge to leave the flat, which he felt was shrinking daily. In the hall, he struggled into his light summer jacket, grabbed his keys and wallet and ambled to the pub two streets away.

His local on the corner was okay but this one, The Unicorn, served guest ales and offered early bird meal deals and right at this moment, he felt that nothing could comfort him more than their oozing brimful dish of lasagne and some garlic bread with cheese. He might even order curly fries with that, which was something he hadn’t done since he’d first started dating Lucy. What had she called it? Oh, yes, a “MealDealbreaker”, and so he’d opted for a side salad instead on that early date in December last year.

‘Stupid to eat salad in winter though,’ he thought. ‘What had she been thinking?’

He placed his order at the bar and chose a table close to it, but off to the side of the dining area. He squeezed in to the padded bench seat and then got himself all hot and bothered trying to free himself of his jacket.

The purple polo shirt he was wearing clung to his body and it felt damp in the small of his back, his armpits and around the love handles which Lucy had started to tease him about.

‘Didn’t she buy me this shirt for Christmas?’ It wasn’t a good colour on him. Not when he flushed beetroot with the slightest physical exertion. ‘Some people just do, don’t they?’ he thought. ‘I’ve always been like it, even at school.’ Although he had to admit that he couldn’t remember the polo shirt being quite so snug at Christmas. ‘Clothes don’t last anytime at all, these days. A few washes and they’ve had it.’

Without Lucy around to shape his evenings and weekends, Alastair soon became a regular at The Unicorn. It was easier than traipsing around a supermarket, lugging everything home, putting it away and then trying to summon up the energy to cook something in his tiny kitchen. Instead, he kept his stash of Snickers stocked up and went there for his dinner.

At first, the old boys at the bar nodded and grunted hello to him when he came in, the bar staff asked him how his day had been, other diners joked with him or asked him for the sauce bottle and he distinctly remembers a time when the glass collector flirted with him.

Then, Alastair supposes, he became a regular and they barely registered him arriving or leaving and increasingly forgot that they hadn’t taken his meal or drinks order. He felt as if his table had become untethered from the others and was drifting across the dining area, as people moved from tables close to his to those further away.

But it didn’t put him off coming to The Unicorn, although he was finding it increasingly hard to walk there and back. He wanted to take the car but in this part of town, the police stopped people for kicks and he knew that he would be the one to be stopped ten metres from his own front door.

So he shuffled there and he shuffled back, and now has to stop for breath at every second lamp-post. He remembers a time when strangers and neighbours passing by would ask him: “Are you alright, mate?” “You okay there?” “D’ya need any help?” but now, no one stops him or talks to him as they pass. He can’t tell if they know him or not because he’s so busy concentrating on each step. He has to, unless he wants his foot to catch on an uneven paving slab and for him to keel over.

Alastair can’t remember the exact moment it happened but knew that, on that grey, drizzly Tuesday evening in late September when he left the house, he was no longer there anymore.

Lucy was long gone, Summer was over, and he had eaten his way through the disappointment of it all.

Until he was so big that he simply disappeared and no one could see him anymore.

Image: thaikrit / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

What is Friday Flash?

The Friday Flash Collector 

But first, here’s what you need to know about Housewife with a Half-Life:

Susan Strong is a suburban housewife who is literally disintegrating. When Fairly Dave, a kilt-sporting spaceman arrives through the shower head to warn her, she knows things are serious. When she and her precocious four year old twins, Pluto and Rufus, get sucked through Chilled Foods into another universe it gets even messier. Where household appliances are alive and dangerous, Geezers have Entropy Hoovers and the Spinner’s Cataclysmic convertor could rip reality apart, Susan Strong is all that’s holding the world together.

In this madcap, feel-good adventure, Susan and Fairly Dave travel alternate universes to find Susan’s many selves, dodge the Geezers and defeat evil memory bankers. From dystopian landscapes and chicken dinners, to Las Vegas and bubble universes, can Susan Strong reintegrate her bits and will it be enough to save us all?

The ebook is available on Kindle at Amazon US and Amazon UK and in a variety of formats from Smashwords. A paperback will be available in June!

About the Author

What is a housewife to do when she becomes 42? Write a book about life, the universe and everything. A.B.Wells is the mother of four children age 11 and under, three of whom are that particularly alien species called boys. As Alison Wells her more literary writing has been shortlisted in the prestigious Bridport, Fish and Hennessy Awards and she’s been published or is about to be in a wide variety of anthologies and e-zines, including the Higgs Boson Anthology by Year Zero, Metazen, The View from Here, Voices of Angels by Bridgehouse and National Flash Fiction day’s Jawbreakers. She recently won the fiction category of the Big Book of Hope ebook with a flash fiction medley and has a litfic novel The Book of Remembered Possibilities on submission. She blogs for writing.ie in the guest blog: Random Acts of Optimism. One of the as yet unsolved mysteries of the universe is whether the B in A. B. Wells stands for barmy or brilliant.

In her former life she worked, among other things, as a clerk like Albert Einstein, as a technical writer (and a HR Manager) and before that studied psychology and communications where, in the college library James Gleick’s book Chaos fell on her head. Her ambitions include a desire to travel to see the Northern Lights and to really travel with Dr Who’s David Tennant in a Tardis.

You can find her elsewhere on her Author Website and blogging on Head Above Water or like A.B. Wells writer on Facebook.

She’d heard him perfectly well but looked up and said, “I’m sorry?”

He shifted in his seat. “I was just saying, I thought I knew you. You look familiar. I’m sure I’ve met you or seen you somewhere before…”

She half-smiled, dipping her head down a fraction. “We have? You know, I can’t place you, sorry. It’s possible but I don’t think so.”

He suddenly turned towards her, making the seat crack and groan. She was thrown forward slightly and held out her coffee cup so she didn’t spill anything.

“No, I feel sure. It’ll come to me. Maybe not locally or anything. But on TV. Or in a film, more likely, yeah? You’re even better looking in real life though. In fact,” he bounced forward on his seat, “you’re stunning.”

He was staring at her.

She didn’t say anything but instead waited for him to speak. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him. She wanted him to work for every word.

He looked less certain now though.

“Am I wrong? Oh. O. I get it. You’re not her. But… you look like her. Oh god, I’m so sorry. I bet you get this all the time. Must be a real bugger. Sorry, sorry. I mean, it must be annoying. A nuisance. That’s why you didn’t say anything. I mean, if you were her, you’d say so, wouldn’t you? Stands to reason, don’t it? Why wouldn’t you? Unless you didn’t want a fuss. Yeah.”

She opened her mouth to say something then but just smiled at him.

“Reckon you could get a job as her double though. If you’re not her. Or be on TV off your own bat, if you wanted? You’re gorgeous. And it’s better than the old 9-5, in’t it? The old fame lark.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Does it happen a lot then?” he leaned forward, almost touching her, his face shiny with sweat and hope.

She shook her head, slightly, enough to shift her bangs and have hair fall over her left eye.

“I’m never the first!”

She shrunk back into the seat and concentrated on her book.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Bit over-excited there. Too loud. Still, not every day you meet a famous…, well, someone who you thinks a… I’m making a right tit of myself, aren’t I?”

She tried not to smile by focusing even harder on the page in front of her.

“I’ll shut up. I’ll just sit back and look out of the window. Keep my big mouth zipped. I must be annoying the hell out of you. I get it, I do. Bet you can’t wait for the train to get in and then you’ll be able to get out of here. Instead of which, you’re stuck with this moron, me,” he beat his chest with both hands, “Me! Wittering on about how he thinks he knows you when of course I don’t, not really. In fact, how could I? I don’t know anyone famous. No-one from my school even went on to become famous, you know, so I can honestly say, hand on heart, that I am the world’s unluckiest bugger in that respect. And here you are, sitting next to me, thinking, ‘What a prize idiot. How the heck did I get to luck out today, when out of all the people to sit next to on this train, most of them no doubt perfectly normal, like, the type who don’t talk to you non-stop, I get this clown. Who doesn’t seem to know how to stop blimming talking away about nothing. That’s what you’re thinking right now, isn’t it? Tell me I’m wrong.”

He slumped back down into his seat. She almost felt sorry for him then. Once, before, she might even have fancied him.

“No,” she said. “Really, it’s fine.” There was a half-smile on her lips before she returned to her book.

“Prize idiot,” he said, looking at his hands and shifting about a bit. “I should never have said anything. I should have just sat here quiet, like, and minded my own business. Muppet.”

He pushed his big hands up over his face and through his hair, linking them together and resting them in the crook of his neck. Then he closed his eyes.

She could tell him, she thought. About the months of personal trainers. Trainers, plural, because it had taken her a while to find one, the right one, who wasn’t all about getting her fit and toned but who’d help her sculpt her body exactly as she wanted it, without judging her or thinking her a freak. The carefully-timed sunbed sessions to ensure she always looked like she was just back from her latest beach holiday, instead of yet another session at Bake ’n’ Go. She could mention the hours of make-up trial and error, watching videos on YouTube with a palette of colours, creams, powders, and gels around the extra-large portable tilting mirror until she’d nailed the look and could replicate it almost as naturally as her own previous beauty routine. She could tell him about the debt. The store cards and credit cards and loans from Mum and Dad, all of which helped her get the clothes she’d needed to complete her look. And she could tell him about the pain. The pain of a nose job and cheek implants.

She could tell him but it would spoil the effect. After all, he didn’t want to know how much work had gone into her looking this way. He probably thought she looked like this when she woke up in the morning. Even if, judging by last week’s edition of Heat magazine, not even the original model looked this good first thing.

She wouldn’t say anything. She’d just sit there quietly, smiling to herself, pretending to read until the train pulled in, and that way he need never know. She couldn’t spoil the illusion now.

Image: luigi diamanti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Everyone loves a villain and today on the Nut Press I’m delighted to welcome Dexter Snide, the deliciously evil mastermind behind Evil UnLtd, whose first two adventures have been chronicled by Simon A Forward and are available in paperback and ebook formats.

Welcome to the Nut Press, Mr Snide, or may I call you Dexter? For those poor unfortunates who don’t yet get your television station Galaxy Six beamed into their homes or might not know of you, how would you describe yourself and why should everyone here on Earth take notice of you?

First of all, can I say what an honour it is for you to be interviewing me.

Modesty inhibits me from talking too extensively about myself, which is why I dispensed with that particular ‘quality’ before I was old enough to look it up in a dictionary. In essence I am the exemplar of villainy. People will perhaps remember with fondness certain evil masterminds from the realms of fiction – Sherlock Holmes’ Moriarty, Doctor Who’s Master, Die Hard’s Hans Gruber – gentlemen of refinement, superior intellect and commitment to long-term relationships with criminality. If you put all three of those in a blender, you’d have the beginnings of an appreciation of the man I am – and as a bonus, you’d be removing some minor competition.

Amateurs, all three, who allowed their respective antagonists (known in your language as ‘heroes’) to get the better of them. Still, I gather they were popular figures and I’ve heard it said, “Everyone loves a good villain.” So it seems to me, the greater the villainy, the greater the love. Which is not so much why the people of Earth should take notice, but rather the reason they will.

When did you first turn to the dark side and decide that being Evil was not only more fun and fulfilling, but the life for you?

Well, I could blame it on my upbringing – at a very early age my mother (*shudders*) washed her hands of me and deposited me in the care of the Cringemyre Educatory Reform Habitoid For Wayward Boys. I use the term ‘care’ loosely, of course. They ran a strict Dickensian regime there and brooked no misbehaviour or stepping out of line. But mine is not a sob story. Indeed it was the fact that they brooked so very little that made it all the more appetising. In that respect, it was a nurturing environment. While familiarity – along with, if you ask me, a great many other things – breeds contempt, pompous piety and intolerance breed Evil and are therefore to be applauded. Especially in schools. Imagine, if I hadn’t turned to Evil in my formative years I wouldn’t be half the villain I am and I’d have a serious amount of catching up to do.

You can’t always have been Evil. What’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for anyone?

I have on occasion consented to interviews. Any claims that I have ever done anything nicer is defamation of character and my people will be seeing your people in court. If you’re lucky.

You’ve gathered together a remarkable group of miscreants to assist you in your plan to see Evil run/ruin the Universe. Are you still recruiting or will the rest of the work be done by whoever wins your Minion Factor talent contest?

Ultimately, in my business, you constantly have to be thinking ahead. Clearly, some tasks are best done by yours truly, but I’m not sure everyone grasps the sheer volume of menial chores involved in running an expanding Evil empire. Combine that with the tendency of minions to let one down and there will always be job opportunities open. That said, I think we have some promising contestants lined up in our Minion Factor competition so there’s a strong chance that the rank-and-file positions will be filled for some time to come.

But if you’re asking because you’re interested, then you can fill out an application form like everyone else.

Squizzey can’t help but think that you might have underestimated the Bunnymen when they auditioned for Minion Factor. Are you afraid of any bounceback from those (hind)quarters?

Afraid? Of bunnies? You are pulling my leg, of course. The Bunnymen – or Myxomatosans – might be as militaristic as a hardline Republican Klingon with a rocket launcher on one shoulder and a chip on the other and a whiff of oil in the region, but at the end of the day they’re far too cute to be any kind of threat. I sent them packing with their little cottontails between their legs and I doubt we’ll be seeing them again anytime soon, despite any appearance they may have been granted in the epilogue.

Do you find it hard to hold the team together and sometimes feel that they have their own agendas? How do you deal with this when planning your next Evil move?

We have, as you say, a remarkable team. The cream of the galaxy’s criminal crop. Beyond that, I’m not going to sing any of their praises here. Suffice to say, most perform their roles adequately – even admirably on occasion. Mr Knucks is my most dependable lieutenant. But this question of personal agendas is becoming an increasing problem.

Ms Troy can be a menace, for example, with her gender superiority issues and I worry there may come a day when even Mr Knucks’ unfettered chauvinism becomes, well, fettered in the face of her manoeuvring. I’m aware of her underhand tactics and I have plans in place to keep her in check. Doubtless she has plans to counter those, but I have plans to deal with those too. It’s a whole spiral of plans and counter-plans and just one of those unfortunate necessities of working alongside egos of that magnitude.

Similarly, I have some concerns over our latest employee, Six. Adding another female to the mix strikes me as asking for trouble. But Professor Doomladen assures me she was manufactured according to his own Laws Of Robotics so I’m hopeful she’ll be the one woman on the team who knows her place. And with Evil Robot and the Hatchling currently in absentia we need her to make up the numbers, wash a few dishes, that sort of thing. (Laughs.)

You obviously have some kind of relationship going on with Tanith Troy, but no doubt get a lot of attention from women since you rose to power. What’s your idea of a perfect date?

Ultimately, a date is all about the meeting of two minds with an eye to some potential gain for at least one of the parties involved. There might be some mutual benefit, but really there’s no sense concerning yourself over what’s in it for the other person. As long as they believe you have something to offer, that should suffice. In any case, the best date would naturally involve the greatest gain for a minimum of effort. Expense is no object, since funds can always be stolen or, like anything you might say on the date, counterfeited.

Dinner is, of course, the classic choice and it’s hard to beat. It’s sitting and talking and if the food’s sufficiently palatable you can even save yourself the effort of too much conversation. Obviously never go to the trouble of cooking and be sure to ply your rival – that is to say, your date – with plenty of wine. And even if you can’t quite command my levels of charisma and charm, well, you can rely on the setting to generate a winning impression.

For preference, I like a quiet night out by the fire. Set a nice conflagration rampaging through a city or national park and choose some locale with a commanding view of the blaze. If she’s not thoroughly entranced by the flames reflected in your eyes then you failed to use the right accelerant.

Who’s been your most formidable opponent to date or have you yet to meet someone who is your equal?

Formidable is an ugly word, when it comes to opponents. It irks me to say this, but our most bothersome enemy has been Rolph Stengun. For years, he was the bane of my most devious schemes and it’s not as if he ever had to outsmart me. No, all the shaven ape had to do was turn up and be impervious to bullets and my wittiest barbs. And he was infuriatingly resistant to death. When we threw him out the airlock he came back, reanimated as an unstoppable cyborg by a swarm of vengeful Space Midges. I mean, what were the chances of that? It was aggravating in the extreme.

Still, he’s finally met his end and we won’t be seeing him again. So, all being well, we can look forward to coming up against a better class of hero. One with a cerebrum would be nice for a change.

Somewhere out there, some day I am sure I will meet my Sherlock Holmes. And take the greatest pleasure in killing him before he’s had a chance to feature in one whole story.

Which villains (real or fictional) do you admire and envy for their own special brand of Evil, and why?

Despite their aforementioned amateurism, we will admit to a grudging admiration for the likes of Moriarty and the Master. The former gentleman has attained a notoriety and fame wholly disproportionate to his appearance in all of one official Sherlock Holmes tale. And the Master commands a huge fanbase, despite a long succession of completely insane schemes easily defeated by an ineffectual dandy in a frock coat or even, in later years, by a prematurely retired vet in a pantomime cricketer’s outfit. These are notable achievements and show that, in spite of their poor track records, they must possess many commendable qualities to have forged such enduring impressions.

Oh, and Keyser Soze in The Usual Suspects – not least because he gets away with it.

Are you happy with the way in which you and your escapades are being portrayed by Simon A Forward?

As an author, the fellow has some credentials – he’s written for Doctor Who and Merlin. Only books, mind you, not for the TV series or anything that counts. But he has a tendency towards laziness and takes almost a year to produce each instalment of Evil UnLtd. He would, at this point, contend that he likes to take time and care over the details, to ensure the quality of the writing and so on, but frankly it’s not good enough. And sometimes I don’t believe he takes us sufficiently seriously. Do not be surprised if you hear he has been taken out and shot and replaced with a dedicated scriptbot.

Squizzey is very interested in achieving world domination. Do you have any advice for him?

World domination is a laudable ambition, but I wonder if Squizzey’s heart is quite in it, what with setting his sights so low. I understand that travel to other planets is limited at your world’s current state of technological advancement, but I gather a certain Mr Branson is developing the first commercial spacecraft so Squizzey might consider staging a hijack and striking out for some other world altogether.

Still, if Squizzey is intent on confining his aims to one world, one key piece of advice I can offer is to never fall into complacency. Earth may seem to be a comprehensive ball of festering Evil and in need of no further input from us villains. But despite the wars, famine, poverty, rampant corruption, collapsing economy, widespread suffering and cultural barrel-scraping in TV and film – all of which are encouraging signs – some persist in clinging to antiquated notions like hope and faith in humanity, so we must never rest on our laurels.

One of your most celebrated writers wrote, “All it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing.” This is blatant nonsense and Shakespeare really ought to have taken pains to attribute lines like that to someone else. It should be abundantly clear to anyone that evil must be nurtured. Contrary to popular misconception, Evil is a creative endeavour.

Squizzey would do well to bear that in mind.

What’s next for you and Evil Unltd? Where will it all end?

A third account of our enterprise is due for release in December 2012 – assuming Mr Forward (or the replacement scriptbot) meets his deadline. It will follow on directly from events detailed in Vol 2: From Evil With Love and will go by the title of Vol 3: Evil Utd.

While continuing to chart our rise, it will also cover the outcome of the Minion Factor, touch on the trifling matter of a brewing galactic war, follow the progress of our currently MIA colleagues, reveal a little more of my past and answer many burning questions, chief among them, I suppose, being “What happens next?” It may also feature some of those personal agendas to which you referred, although not if I have any say in the matter.

As to where it will all end – well, universal domination. In the meantime, we would like to see our brand make the transition to other media – audio, screen, stage, video game, perhaps even a musical – along with a great deal of exploitative merchandising. Evil Lego is only one courageous executive and a few million pounds away.

Thanks very much for fitting us into what must be a hectic schedule what with running a TV station, being lead judge on a reality show to find your minions and ridding the universe of good. All the best of luck with your plans for Evil UnLtd Domination!

The first two volumes of the Evil UnLtd adventures by Simon A Forward  are both available from Amazon UK and Amazon US as ebooks and direct from the Author as signed paperbacks. You can read samples on BookBuzzr: Evil UnLtd: The Root of All Evil and Evil UnLtd: From Evil With Love. For more background on the Evil UnLtd books and for fun extras you can follow the Evil UnLtd blog, and to find out more about Simon A Forward you can read the Author’s Blog or follow Simon on Twitter.    

An exciting new collection of short stories is released today. It’s a collaboration between two remarkable writers, Caroline Smailes and Nik Perring, and comic book illustrator, Damien Craske. There are over fifty freaks and misfits in this collection and each story features a character with an unusual superpower.

To celebrate the launch, I’m hosting one of the stories from the collection right here, so you can all get a sneak peek:

Invisible 

[Super Power: The ability to make oneself unseen to the naked eye]

If I stay totally still,

if I stand right tall,

with me back against the school wall,

close to the science room’s window,

with me feet together,

pointing straight,

aiming forward,

if I make me hands into tight fists,

make me arms dead straight,

 if I push me arms into me sides,

if I squeeze me thighs,

stop me wee,

if me belly doesn’t shake,

if me boobs don’t wobble,

if I close me eyes tight,

so tight that it makes me whole face scrunch,

if I push me lips into me mouth,

if I make me teeth bite me lips together,

if I hardly breathe,

if I don’t say a word.

Then,

I’ll magic meself invisible,

and them lasses will leave me alone.

Freaks is a collection of short stories written by Caroline Smailes and Nik Perring, and illustrated by Darren Craske. It is available as a paperback and also as an ebook. 

I’m thrilled to be hosting a tale from the latest project by talented writer friend, E J Newman today. Emma has previously published a brilliantly dark short story collection From Dark Places, and 20 Years Later, a post-apocalyptic YA novel.

This is the twenty-second tale in a year and a day of weekly short stories set in The Split Worlds.  If you would like Emma to read it to you instead, you can listen here.  You can find links to all the other stories, and the new ones as they are released here.

Good Enough

Lydia walked past the dining room table, checking the position of the cutlery and inspecting the white linen. Her mother emerged from the kitchen and found her removing a speck of dust from one of the charger plates.

“You’re nervous,” she said and Lydia nodded. “The caterers are the best in Bath, I chose the menu myself, the house is spotless and you look beautiful. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“What if it’s not good enough?” Lydia said, fiddling with her bracelet, squeezing each black pearl in turn.

“If he can be put off by something trivial, then he isn’t the one,” her father said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “And I know you love him and I know you want it to be perfect, but there’s no point getting yourself into such a state that you won’t enjoy the evening, is there?”

Lydia forced a smile. “Nathaniel likes sherry before dinner,” she said. “And don’t mention anything about how wealthy his family is.”

“Lydia,” her father shook his head. “We’re not exactly peasants, are we?”

“His is old money though, you know what I told you about his ancestry.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve found something out about ours that’s bound to impress him,” her father replied and then the doorbell rang.

Her father opened the door, Nathaniel stepped inside and began to take off his coat. He wore a dinner jacket and black bow tie, the black satin strip on the outer seam of his trousers made him look even taller than usual. His wavy brown hair was perfectly coiffed, his large brown eyes made her stomach flip over.

“We meet at last Nathanial,” Father said.

Nathaniel’s eyebrows shot up, Lydia realised her father had been mistaken for the butler they didn’t have. “Ah, you must be Lydia’s father,” he said, shaking hands, a broad smile pushing the embarrassment from his face. “A pleasure to meet you Mr Dunstone.”

“May I introduce my wife, Phillipa and you know my daughter already of course.”

Nathaniel kissed her mother’s hand and then hers, Lydia smiled at him. “Would you like a glass of sherry?”

“Please,” he said, and then whispered something about how lovely she looked as they followed her parents into the living room.

As her father poured, Lydia searched Nathaniel’s face for any signs of disappointment. He was scanning the room with a detached interest, his eyes lingered over the photographs on the mantelpiece, then he took the glass with thanks.

“Did you have far to come?” Father asked.

“No, I live very close to Bath,” Nathaniel replied and walked over to the mantelpiece. “Are these members of your family?” he asked, pointing to the sepia portraits.

“Yes,” Mother replied, joining him. “Mostly my side of the family.”

“I can see the resemblance,” Nathaniel said, studying them closely. “Now I know where Lydia’s beauty comes from.”

Lydia blushed. If anyone else had said that, she’d have groaned, but his compliments just made her melt.

“I understand you’re a keen genealogist,” he said to her father, who beamed at the prospect of being asked about his favourite topic, rather than having to shoehorn it into conversation.

“Yes, I’ve turned up something rather interesting only this week in fact, haven’t even had a chance to tell Lydia, but I think you will both like it. Lydia told me that your family has some royal roots.”

“It’s not something we usually talk about,” Nathaniel replied and she knew she shouldn’t have told her parents. “It’s distant.”

“I understand the surname “Iris” comes from the Old French, meaning “from Ireland”, is that right?”

Nathaniel looked horrified. “There is no Irish blood in my family sir,” he said, then seemed to calm himself. “But my family does have French roots, a long way back.”

“Shall we go through to dinner?” Lydia said, wanting to end the conversation so clearly making Nathaniel uncomfortable.

“It isn’t ready yet,” her mother said and whispered; “the caterer will call us through.”

“From the Norman conquest, I imagine,” Father continued, oblivious to Nathaniel’s discomfort. “Well, I uncovered a marvellous fact yesterday. We’re descended from royalty! If it hadn’t been for a couple of quirks of fate, we could have been having dinner in Buckingham Palace!”

Nathaniel set down his sherry glass. “Really?” he leaned closer, fascinated.

“It turns out we’re related to William himself.”

“The conqueror?”

“No, William the third, or William of Orange as he’s often called,” father replied. “I finished the family tree last night, thought you might be interested to see it.”

Nathaniel looked at Lydia, the warmth gone from his eyes, the colour from his cheeks. “Yes, I’d be very interested.”

Her father unlocked the bureau, an antique that had been in the family for at least four generations. Lydia’s nervousness had evolved into nausea, she had the terrible feeling that family was more important to Nathaniel than she’d realised.

“Here we are,” her father unrolled a large sheet of paper, covered in neat lines and writing. As he talked Nathaniel through the details Lydia excused herself, needing a moment alone in the hallway to fight the panic. She drifted over to Nathaniel’s coat, stroked the cashmere and tried to tell herself all would be well as her hand felt a bump in the pocket. She reached inside and felt a small square box covered with velvet. Her breath left her, she pulled out her hand and looked up at the ceiling, hoping her family would pass this test.

Nathaniel came into the hallway, closely followed by her parents and she moved away from the coat.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, I hate to be impolite but I think this is the best for Lydia and myself.”

“Nathaniel?” she took a hesitant step towards him. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m afraid I have to leave.”

“But, the dinner…” her mother said, but her father put an arm around her and steered her back into the living room, leaving Lydia in the hallway staring at Nathanial.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as he headed for the coat stand.

“It wouldn’t work, I’m sorry.”

“Is this because of that stupid genealogy stuff?”

“It isn’t stupid. It’s very important to my family, they would never approve of you.”

“But they haven’t even met me, how can you know?”

He put his coat on, avoiding eye contact. “It’s… it’s just the way things are. It was always going to be difficult, to get them to accept you, but now it’s impossible.”

He reached for the door handle, she stepped into the way. “Wait… are you dumping me?”

“I would never call it anything so crass, but I can’t see you again. I’m sorry.”

“But weren’t you going to propose?”

His eyes widened slightly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s best that you forget about me. And let me leave before this gets any more difficult.”

He gently pushed her to one side, opened the door and left. She watched him stride down the path and step out into the street without looking back. Her bottom lip wobbled, she bit down hard. If he was so shallow, she wasn’t going to waste any tears on him.

“You alright love?”

“Seems he’s not ‘the one’ Dad,” she said, fighting the tremble in her voice as she closed the front door. “Let’s have dinner, shall we?”

—

Thanks for hosting Kath!

I hope you enjoyed the story. If you would like to find out more about the Split Worlds project, it’s all here: www.splitworlds.com – you can also sign up to get an extra story and get each new story delivered to your inbox every week. If you would like to host a story over the coming year, either let me know in the comments or contact me through the Split Worlds site. Em x

99: the reason why I was only worth ninety-nine quid

It’s been six days since the little girl in the pink coat went missing and me Uncle Phil’s in me bedroom.

We’ve been watching the little girl in the pink coat’s mam on the news. She was appealing to the public for witnesses.

‘Didn’t realise she had a mam,’ I says, looking at me telly.

‘Everyone’s got a mam, pet,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

‘She sold her story to The Sun,’ I says, looking at me telly.

‘Got a few quid,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

I nod.

‘She wanted nowt to do with that bairn before all this,’ me Uncle Phil says, looking at me telly.

‘Do you know where she is?’ I asks me Uncle Phil.

‘Belle?’ me Uncle Phil asks me.

I nod.

‘She’s safe,’ me Uncle Phil says to me. ‘Your mam’s keeping an eye on her.’

‘Can I be her mam?’ I asks me Uncle Phil.

‘No, pet, you’re a filthy whore,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

I nod.

‘Can you make Andy Douglas come back, Uncle Phil?’ I asks me Uncle Phil.

Me Uncle Phil shakes his head.

‘I love him,’ I tell me Uncle Phil.

‘Andy Douglas is your brother, pet. You didn’t seriously think Princess Di was your mam, did you?’ me Uncle Phil asks me.

I nod.

‘You’re a cradle snatcher just like your mam,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

I nod.

‘Your mam miscarried when she found out I’d been banging Betty Douglas. Betty was expecting you,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

I don’t speak.

‘When you was born, your mam went mad and I ended up buying you from Betty Douglas for ninety-nine quid,’ me Uncle Phil says.

‘Ninety-nine quid?’ I asks me Uncle Phil.

‘I paid a hundred but got a quid change for some chips for your mam and dad’s tea,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

‘You bought me?’ I asks me Uncle Phil.

I’m a little bit sick in me mouth.

‘It was the right thing to do,’ me Uncle Phil says to me. ‘I got Betty Douglas pregnant straight away with Andy.’

‘I’m pregnant,’ I says to me Uncle Phil. ‘I’m pregnant with me brother’s baby,’ I says, and then I throws up on me purple carpet.

‘You’re a filthy whore,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

‘What am I going to do?’ I asks me Uncle Phil.

‘You’re going to have the baby,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

‘Have me brother’s baby?’ I asks me Uncle Phil.

‘Then I’m giving it to Betty Douglas to bring up,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

‘You what?’ I says to me Uncle Phil.

‘It’s the right thing to do,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

‘I can’t—’ I says to me Uncle Phil.

‘It’s either that or I’ll make you disappear,’ me Uncle Phil says to me.

I don’t speak.

I’m thinking, they’re all a bunch of nutters.

99 Reasons Why is available as a Kindle edition and an iBook edition.

Caroline Smailes is the author of Like Bees to Honey, Black Boxes and In Search of Adam. You can find out more about Caroline and her books on her Author Website, her Blog or by following her on Twitter: @Caroline_S.

Bill spends his time meandering between these three rooms in the daytime, sitting for a while, watching and listening, before he moves on. He suffers the odd game of draughts or chess with one of his fellow inmates, listening to their wheezing chest, whistling nose or slapping jaws. He dreads an invite to the TV room, as it means enduring the soaps or talk shows that dominate the  schedules.

Despite the constant noise around him, of television, nursing staff, coughs, moans and clicking joints, he sometimes finds the silence of his world suffocating. If it is warm enough, he likes to sit on a bench in the garden. He chooses one halfway across the lawn under some birch trees where he sits and listens to the leaves rustling overhead and the wood pigeon’s plaintive call.

He used to like Sundays, the main day for visitors at the home. Not that anyone ever visits him. His friends are either too frail to travel or gone now. He has no children of his own, only nieces and nephews. They send cards at Christmas and on his birthday but they don’t visit. He used to hover nearby when others had visitors, surreptitiously sharing in their conversation and family. That was until one woman complained and he was told not to bother people any more, which had annoyed him. It’s not as if he’d been doing any harm.

Now he dislikes Sundays most of all. In order to avoid them, he has to lie to matron. He doesn’t like doing it but every last Sunday of the month, he visits his old friend Jim Harris in the seaside town where they used to live. Jim is too frail to travel to see Bill. That’s what he tells matron anyway. So she allows him a day pass once a month and he gets the train on his own. To see Jim. He enjoys those visits but is finding them harder. His body aches for a week now after making the trip and he wonders how long he can continue his jaunts.

When his train pulls in at the station, he opens the door and stands for a moment on the step, inhaling the salt air and smell of grease from the chip shop. Those behind him expect him to take his time getting off the train. Those getting on wait awkwardly, not knowing whether or not to help him off. He walks towards the esplanade and sits for a while on a bench, watching the waves rise and fall. If the weather is bad, he doesn’t stop but instead walks on past the arcades and gift shops until he reaches the bright green and orange canopy of the restaurant.

He always chooses a table at the back, looking out over the restaurant and onto the seafront beyond. To his right is the bar and to the left the kitchens. He knows the menu verbatim but he and the Head Waiter go through the ritual of him studying it each time. He sucks on a bread stick, as he considers the choices. He reads the Italian first, pronouncing it perfectly in his head, then savours the description in English underneath.

It is busy today and he eats even more slowly than usual. He hears laughter and the crack of one of those tiresome party poppers: he guesses they are a hen weekend from their high heels, bare legs and short skirts. He is distracted by a squeal as sundae glasses of multi-coloured ice-cream sail towards another party, a family this time. One of the ices has a sparkler in it for the birthday girl with flushed cheeks, cowering in the middle of the table. To his right, he can hear a father rasping commands to a child, sit up, finish your pizza, stop banging the table leg, or we leave right now and go home. A line or two of ‘O sole mio’ rises in a crescendo from a table of lads by the window. He watches the waiter collect their glasses, smiling patiently and bowing his head when they finish, before moving off towards the bar.

At the other window table sits a young couple: she has long blonde hair that she flicks over her shoulders while she talks; her skin is pale and clear and squeezed into a one-shouldered black top; he sits forward awkwardly in a stiff grey shirt and scuffs his feet while he talks. The first date in a proper restaurant, Bill thinks. Her nervous giggle ripples through the restaurant and his embarrassed cough gives them away as the children they still are.

Bill orders an espresso at the end of his meal, although he knows he will pay for it later. He has had such a good evening of people-watching that he feels like rebelling. There will be another month of insipid tea when he gets back to the home. He thinks he deserves a treat. He pockets the mints for the train ride home. The coffee is sharp and hot, so he lets it cool off, as he watches the parties break up and tables clear. Jim would like it here, he thinks to himself. He realises that he has hardly given poor old Jim a thought this evening. But this would be Jim’s kind of place, he is sure. That is, it would be, if Jim actually existed.

Sophie’s in trouble. Must be Tuesday. 

Welcome to the Nut Press, Sophie Green! Run Rabbit Run is the first of your books to be published in the UK but is the fifth Sophie Green adventure.

You sound like a girl who gets herself into a lot of scrapes and dangerous situations. What made you decide to become a spy in the first place, and how long have you been one for?
Well, it was only about a year. As for the why…er, well no one’s really worked that out, least of all me. My previous job involved working terrible hours for an airline. Badly paid, boring, and the rest of my life stretched ahead of me with the same badly paid boredom. When Luke recruited me…well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. As for why he chose me…the current theory is that he wanted to sleep with me.

Can you tell us a bit about yourself and your past adventures? 
There’s not a lot to tell. Up until Luke recruited me I did absolutely nothing of consequence with my life. I followed my first boyfriend to university, where he cheated on me, and I quit and got the airport job. Then one day, I crossed paths with a wanted criminal, and Luke showed up, and, er, I may have ended up travelling down the baggage belt to catch the guy. And somehow, this convinced Luke I should be a spy.
The first case I got involved in was an inside job: one of my colleagues had teamed up with a madman who blew planes up. Being that the only training I ever had was how to walk in high heels and barely know which end of the gun is which, it was a bit of a wild ride.

For those reading about you for the first time, do we need to have read about any or all of your previous outings?
I shouldn’t think so. All you need to know is that I’m probably the worst spy the British Service has ever seen, that I have a really hot boyfriend and that I’ll make your sarcast-o-meter bounce off the scale. But, you know, if you want to read about my adventures, you could start with I, Spy?

You look in terrific shape on the cover of Run Rabbit Run. How do you manage to look so good in the profession you’re in?
Aw, thanks. Er, my exercise regime could be thus summarised: wear high heels, get chased by criminals, and never do any exercise except that which requires two people and a bed.

Aren’t you worried about your adventures being made public record by Kate? Is there anything that you won’t let her include in the Sophie Green mysteries?
Yeah, she doesn’t get all the details of my sex life!

You’re now an ex-spy, or trying to be an ex-spy? What’s made you decide to leave that world?
It’s a bit embarrassing actually. I got fired. Basically, as I said, I was rubbish at it. Well, I mean I tracked down the bad guys and everything, but I have a slight habit of leaving a trail of burning buildings, exploded cars, and dead bodies behind. It was kind of a lot for the Service to clear up, not to mention expensive. I’m a PR disaster. So when they started cutting back…I got cut. To be honest, it wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. I was getting quite tired of being shot at.

What’s been your favourite part of being a spy, and what was your least favourite moment?
Well, I did get to do cool stuff, like calling in the military. And even though I’m bloody terrified of my gun, I have to admit it’s cool. And, of course, it was through my old agency, SO17, that I met Luke, and it’s probably safe to say he’s the love of my life. And he is hot. I mean HOT.
Ahem. As for the worst… well, I don’t realy like being shot. Or stabbed. Or burned. Or set upon by a hive of bees. (Yeah. That happened once. Did I mention my life is really weird?)

Your boyfriend, Luke Sharpe, is in MI6. How would you describe him, and is it difficult maintaining a relationship when you both work in the intelligence services?
Is it difficult…? Honey, you have no idea. People like Luke don’t have relationships. I mean seriously, I think I’m the first actual girlfriend he’s ever had. He’s about as comfortable having emotions as most people are having stomach flu. Probably that’s because he had a very posh, rich upbringing that was entirely devoid of actual affection. In fact, having met some of his family, I have to say he’s surprisingly normal. Of course, he’s got used to using his looks as a sort of commodity, the way you might use a skill with languages or music. He really is gorgeous. Tall and blond and lean and… oh my. Is it hot in here? But he’s also very, very clever, cool in a crisis, and while he can sometimes be a bit cold, he can also be unexpectedly kind when you really need him.

I understand that you already have a special man in your life but any fantasy men out there who you’d like to volunteer your services to as their protection detail?
Luke knows he’s always second in my heart to Spike from Buffy, and that should Johnny Depp turn up at my door, especially in Captain Jack Sparrow guise, then I’d be off in a flash.
He also knows that I have my own real-life protection detail, albeit one I never asked for. My best friend’s husband Harvey is most women’s idea of a fantasy: handsome, smart, funny and a great kisser (it was before he met her, all right?). And then there’s Docherty, who looks like a vampire with a hangover and has a mysterious attachment to me that manifests itself by showing off in flashy cars and repeatedly saving my life. Needless to say, while Luke is quite happy about the life-saving part, he’s madly jealous of Docherty’s role in my life. It’s quite sweet, really.

And finally, if you’re leaving the service, what’s next for you? Will there be more Sophie Green mysteries, or will you be retiring and settling down with Luke?
Settle down? Don’t scare me like that! The only think Luke has ever made an overt emotional commitment to is his gun. Settling down…no, I don’t think it’s for either of us, regardless of how much we love each other.
I’d like to say I’d get a normal job where I don’t get shot at, but even when I worked in a bookshop—a freaking bookshop!–I still ended up framed for murder, so I dunno, I think trouble just follows me. So yeah, there will probably be more adventures, whether or not I want them!

Thanks for visiting, Sophie, and all the best of luck with your latest adventure, Run Rabbit Run, which you can pre-order in paperback but is out now for Kindle at Amazon UK or Amazon.com. 

Kate Johnson lives behind a keyboard in Essex and belongs to a small pride of cats. She likes wine, shoes and dying her hair, can be found online most days talking about these things, or about how much she fancies Richard Armitage. Her first book with Choc Lit, The Untied Kingdom, is shortlisted for the Contemporary Romantic Novel of the Year 2012. You can find Kate online at her Author Website and on Twitter @k8johnsonauthor. You can also follow Sophie on her adventures on Twitter @TheSophieGreen.

We have a 200g Lindt chocolate bunny to give away… all you have to do to win it is to tell us what spy name or cover name you would use if you were a spy like Sophie. Squizzey’ll pick the winner on Monday 19th March 2012. 

Admittedly, at the moment, I am only going to the library, some bookshops and the supermarket so my world is small but still. It is in ALL of those places, sitting there all pert and shiny and pretty, practically calling out from its shelf. “Buy me, Kath, come on, I’m lovely, take me home. You won’t regret it.”

There’s no escape even when I go online. Yesterday, I logged onto amazon UK and it appears in my recommendations four times. FOUR. (Check it out for yourself by clicking on the image to enlarge it.)

Yes, I’m being stalked by a book (Me Before You by JoJo Moyes), which is a pretty clever marketing ploy if you ask me, because I am incredibly close to caving and buying it.

It’s happened before, of course. I’ve seen a book mentioned on Twitter or a blog or on TV or glimpsed it in a bookstore and from that point on, it’s followed me around until I’ve bought it. Okay, so it hasn’t actually got up off the shelf and waddled after me on its little legs, frantically waving its pages, but you know what I mean. Has anyone else ever been stalked by a book or is it happening to you now? If so, what’s the book and did the two of you have a happily-ever-after? I’ll be sure to let you know if Me Before You and I do.