Doing It My Way

By Richard F Jones

Jason Walsh was a moderately successful author living in the heart of the picturesque Wye Valley. Then by chance he met a glamorous young Hollywood film star, Sam Whylock. From that moment on his world turned upside down.
Shortly afterwards his book sales escalated into millions, leading him to a prize book award. His relationship with Sam blossomed into a passionate affair and he attended with her many glittering Hollywood receptions and award winning events.
To try and keep his feet on the ground he continues to befriend his near gay neighbours,George and Dianna and their dog, Mack, who live up a narrow country track near his home.
Throughout the story Jason is bedevilled by tax demands from the Inland Revenue, problems with his publishers and troubles around his isolated home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard F Jones
• Release date: Jun 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463340424

Richard F Jones

I was born in Wales, but have lived in Spain, Majorca, the western highlands of Scotland and the Wye Valley. My books are mostly set in the places where I have had homes. These include ten published paperbacks and eleven e-books. I append below a review from Mr Derek J Edwards of my novel, 'Time on their Hands'. 'I could not put this book down. It was full of interesting characters, with twists and turns in every chapter. I will certainly be looking for other novels by Richard F Jones. ' You can check Amazon Kindle for the authenticity of the review.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I was in one of those glitzy, money spinning casinos in Los Angeles dressed in a black dinner jacket and black bow tie. Beside me was a gorgeous, glamorous looking young woman with long black hair, she wore a shimmering gold dress with a plunging neckline which accentuated her nubile figure. Everybody around us looked as though they were also out of the Hollywood jet set. I was sat at a roulette table and at the time I was winning money, albeit in small amounts. Sometime ago I had been given a formula by a couple of drinking buddies, which they said was foolproof on the roulette wheel. With the hubbub going on around me I had to concentrate hard on the formula. At the next role of the dice I again came up trumps, which doubled my winnings. The chips alongside me were beginning to accumulate into a substantial pile. A crowd started to gather around us to watch and I started to sweat. ‘What the hell,’ I thought and decided to gamble half my winnings on the next roll of the dice, I had nothing to lose. I had started the evening with virtually nothing. Around me the atmosphere went silent as I placed my chips on the relevant number. The number came up and there was a huge cheer around the table. The croupier glared at me with a frozen stare.

Again I decided to risk my new winnings on another spin, whilst leaving half of my original winnings untouched. The watching bodies alongside the table were increasing rapidly. I think I caught sight of what looked like some of the management amongst them. Again I deposited the chips on another number. There was an uproar when I won again.

I wiped my brow. I didn’t know how much I had won. Then one of the managers approached me and asked me to follow him into their office. At that moment I hadn’t a clue why, but I gathered my chips and obliged them. The glamorous young woman came with me.

They asked me to sit down, then one of them said, ‘Sir, we think you are cheating but we don’t know how.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I replied. ‘I have hardly ever been on a roulette table in my life before. I wouldn’t know how to cheat if I tried.’ The glamorous girl added. ‘What rubbish.’

But they ignored the both of us and then one of them said. ‘Well on that last roll you’ve won thirty thousand dollars, plus your unused chips on the table. We can’t afford to pay out any more.’

I was stunned by the amount more than anything else. ‘But I assure you I’m not cheating.’ Two of them stood up in front of me and glared down threateningly. ‘If you don’t leave now we will have to take steps to ensure you do,’ and so I readily agreed to accept the amount they were prepared to pay out which in total amounted to the best part of forty thousand dollars. I could see that under their tight fitting suits there appeared to be a bulge, which indicated a shoulder holster and pistol. So the woman and I went back to our luxurious hotel bedroom, ordered bottles of champagne and enjoyed a night of glorious sex.

CHAPTER

Take me back, take me way, way back to where I belong.

One day, many, many months before my casino episode, I was sitting in Cardiff Airport drinking coffee at a small table awaiting my delayed flight to Amsterdam. My name is Jason Walsh and I was then a moderately successful author. I was on my way there to promote my new book, ‘My Way’, as my books sell quite well in Holland. When I say was a moderately successful, I had sold novels over a period of ten years. In my best year my biggest seller had earned me one hundred thousand pounds in commission, whereas in the following year I earned only two thousand five hundred pounds, so I have to be careful monetary wise.

As I have said at that moment I was sitting at the table by myself, but the departure lounge was packed and most of the other tables were taken, as nearly all the flights had been delayed because of bad weather.

The only chair available was the one next to me. Suddenly a very attractive young woman approached me. ‘Do you mind if I sit here? There is nowhere else,’ she asked while holding a plastic cup of black coffee in her right hand.

She was quite beautiful in a simplistic way. She wore very little make-up, fair hair down to her shoulders. Her slim figure and legs were covered up by a short denim jacket and tight blue jeans.

‘It would be my pleasure,’ I said beckoning her to the seat alongside me. ‘All the flights are delayed. Where are you heading?’ I asked.

‘Amsterdam and then on to New York,’ she replied.

‘I’m going to Amsterdam but unfortunately not on to New York,’ I replied winsomely. ‘Do you live there?’ I asked.

‘Some of the year. I am an actress, but my parent’s home is in the Vale of Glamorgan, so I try to get home as often as I can. It’s so peaceful and green after the chaos and noise of New York and California.’

‘When you say an actress is that stage or films?’

‘Bit of both. I have been lucky with a few good film parts, hence the trips to California.’ I studied her face hard but there were no clues.

Before I could question her further she cut in with, ‘And you?’

‘Oh I’m a labouring writer. I have had some successes, but mostly average sales over the last ten years. I’m going to Amsterdam to promote my latest epic!!’

‘What’s it called?’ she asked.

‘My Way,’ I replied.

‘I’ll look out for it,’ she said. ‘Do you live in South Wales?’ she added quickly.

‘Not exactly,’ I responded. ‘l live high up in the Wye Valley overlooking Tintern. Over the last ten years, when money has allowed, I have slowly renovated a nineteenth century cottage there. If you like it’s my Caledonia’.

‘How wonderful,’ she replied. ‘My parents used to take me to Tintern in the autumn, when the trees are at their best. Magical,’ she added passionately.

We continued to talk about our various and respective homes until our flight was called. I told her that in my youth I had spent a lot of time on Llantwit Major beach which was very near to where she was brought up in the Vale. It appeared we had both had the same experiences on the rocky beach, swirling sea and clambering on the rocky slopes above it. At that moment I was fifty three years of age and obviously substantially older than her. My best guess was that she would have been in her late twenties, but certainly no more than thirty. I asked her name.

‘Sam Whylock,’ she replied.

Living a reclusive life during the last ten years her name meant nothing to me. I hardly ever went out to the cinema, I didn’t watch much TV and spent the hours when I wasn’t writing walking throughout the beautiful Wye Valley.

‘And your name?’ she asked. ‘I won’t be able to buy your book if I don’t know your name.’

‘Jason Walsh,’ I replied

We talked some more along the same lines, mainly about my books, until our flight was called.

When we got up to go to the allocated gate number, she asked me, ‘Do you have a mobile phone?’

With all my travelling around on book tours it was one of the few modern conveniences I had regrettably had to acquire, so I confirmed I had.

‘Good,’ she said ‘What’s the number?’ I had to look at the back of my phone where I had written the number, as I could never remember it. She entered it into her mobile.

‘Do you want mine?’

I was so shocked I stumbled over my reply. ‘Yes please,’ I just managed to say.

She told me her number, but I hadn’t a clue on the spur of the moment how to insert it into my phone. To my embarrassment she had to do it for me.

As we walked together to the departure gate she said we should keep in touch. I agreed.

We didn’t sit together on the plane, but during the flight I had a lot to think on. Standing in the queue, in the aisle, whilst disembarking she was a long way ahead of me, but half way along the passageway she turned around to face me and put her hand to her ear to indicate a telephone call.

CHAPTER

When I eventually got into my hotel room in Amsterdam I instantly switched on my computer and inserted the name Sam Whylock into Google. I was amazed by what I read.

According to their report she was a famous young actress who featured in many sexual roles in award winning films. To exemplify my ignorance the article read that she had been nominated for an Oscar, although she had yet to receive one. The Google page showed many scantily dressed images of her nubile, desirable body which was in complete contrast to the carefree young woman who I had met at Cardiff Airport. I have to say that I drooled over the images several times, but eventually considered that I would never see her again.

* * * * *

After an uncomfortable nights sleep in my stuffy hotel room I had difficulty getting out of bed in the morning. I had been instructed by my publishers agent, that one Alicia White was going to pick me up at ten thirty in the morning, but I struggled to shave and shower in time. All too soon I heard my doorbell ringing at the agreed hour. When I opened the door I looked at an attractive dark haired woman who would have been in her early thirties, with a well shaped figure and legs encased knee length boots. She looked at me as though I was something that the cat had brought in. I’m afraid I didn’t go in for suits, collars and ties.

‘Mr Walsh?’ she enquired with doubt in her voice.

‘Well you’ve got that right,’ I replied attempting respond to her sarcasm.

‘I’ve got a car downstairs. Are you ready to go?’ she responded with impatience.

‘Just give me a minute to get my things together,’ I said and went into the bedroom and closed the door leaving her standing alone in the sitting area. I deliberately took longer than a minute.

‘We are going to be late,’ she said when I eventually reappeared.

‘Well if it’s me they want to see they’ll have to wait a few minutes,’ I replied. ‘If they don’t I may as well go home.’

She had hired a taxi and we drove across town through busy traffic virtually without speaking. At that moment I didn’t know what she was going to say about me and my work as an introduction, as throughout the journey she asked me no questions.

The reception was due to start at eleven thirty, so with the other employees of my publisher, who were gathered around, we attempted to arrange a format to suit all of us. I think they were a little surprised at my knowledge of such events, but I had been through a few of these before. Again I asked about Sam Whylock and everybody confirmed that she was a famous actress and former model.

Slowly people began to arrive. As I had previously assumed, the gathered press core were there mainly to consume the free drinks and the fayre on offer. In between I was able to spot some normal people who obviously had an affinity and interest in my books. With my free glass of champagne in hand I attempted to circulate amongst them ignoring Alicia White’s attempts to guide me in the direction of the attendant press people. Eventually she commandeered me to the front desk which was set up for the presentation, behind which was a blown up cover of my book.

She began the presentation with. ‘As I am sure you all know Jason is a successful author who has produced many best sellers.’ Her words were greeted with silence. ‘We are here today to promote his new book, ‘My Way,’ and she went on to give a brief synopsis of the story which to me didn’t seem to impress much of the press gallery. ‘So now I am going to ask Jason to stand up and answer your questions’. I didn’t stand up and waited to receive the first question whilst remaining in my seat on the front desk. It came from the back of the room.

‘Is this book similar to your last ones?’ the journalist asked laconically.

‘No,’ I replied instantly ‘it’s totally different from anything I’ve ever written before. For those of you who are still awake I’ll give you a more detailed description.’ I pointed to the back of the room to where one of the journalists was asleep and snoring. His colleagues, sitting beside him, pumped him awake. He raised his hand in apology. Everybody in the room laughed, which eased the tension and enabled me to adequately describe the plot in my novel. Afterwards there were a few more relevant questions which I was able to answer comfortably, then the meeting broke up. All in all, as those events go it went reasonably well. A few of the journalists even came over to shake my hand and wish me luck, which took me by surprise.

Once they had all departed after leaving the bar and the food trays completely empty the general public were allowed to enter the room.

They supplied a completely different atmosphere. Everybody wanted to see and talk to me. Obviously most of them had read some of my previous books and had enjoyed them. I happily signed copies of the books they had bought and chatted eagerly with most of them. When we finished at four o’clock it had been a long day and I was very tired.

As Alicia White and I drove back to my hotel in the taxi, she said, ‘I will pick you up in an hour to take you out for a meal.’ I was too exhausted and hungry to argue.

I won’t say our meal together went swimmingly but I was by then hungry and in need of alcohol. We just about managed to keep a conversation going, but although she was very attractive, I didn’t really enjoy her company. When she could see I was getting sloshed she said, ‘I’ll organize a taxi to take you to your hotel.’

In the taxi when she got in alongside me on the back seat I was surprised when she said, ‘I’ll see you to your room if you like.’

When the taxi pulled up alongside the hotel foyer, she said, ‘Well would you like me to come in with you and take care of you for the night.’ I was astonished.

‘In my present state I don’t think I could be much use to you,’ I struggled to reply.

She helped me into the foyer, then told the receptionist what time a taxi was organised to take me to the airport in the morning, and left.

I stumbled drunkenly into the lift and somehow found my room and crashed out on my bed for the night without undressing.

In the morning, with a hangover headache, I made it via the taxi to Amsterdam Airport. Fortunately I slept through most of the flight and picked up my car to drive to my home in the Wye Valley. All the way there this vision of Sam Whylock continued to gnaw at my brain.

CHAPTER

My house in the Wye Valley is situated five hundred metres above sea level with an extensive view of the River Wye and the village of Tintern down below. It is a one hundred year old stone, solid property, which has taken me ten years of occupation to convert to acceptable modern standards. There is now oil central heating, modern bathrooms with showers and a modern kitchen, but there is also a cesspit which continues to cause problems. In addition, as well as the mature garden, I have two acres of land, on part of which I graze half a dozen sheep who belong to a local farmer to help to keep the grass down and deter the moles. Above, behind the cottage, I have planted an acre of hard wood trees.

The house was freezing cold when I got in so my first job was to fire up the central heating. Fortunately my touch on the button responded with an instant thrump. My next task was to delve into my sideboard cupboard for a bottle of Bell’s whisky. I then walked around the place to re-familiarise myself with the comforts of my habitat. I rediscovered the comfortable chairs and sofas, the warm carpets and log burning stoves in the lounge, kitchen and dining room. I had to eat first, but with all the modern cooking facilities I quickly managed to rustle up a meat pie, vegetables and a fruit dessert, which I ate at the kitchen table, as it was warm in there. Then I turned my attention to my laptop to read the many awaiting e-mails. They were mostly about my new book and attendant details, which I could happily leave until the morning.

When I checked on my mobile phone I was astonished to read a text from Sam Whylock. ‘I hope you got home safely from Amsterdam. I would like to hear from you again and attach my e-mail address. Best Sam.’

I had to reread it two or three times before the details therein eventually sank into my brain. I wrote her e-mail address on a piece of paper, picked up my laptop and wondered what the hell I was going to say in response. I eventually managed to reply with some drivel about longing to see her, but I worried about how we could ever get together as we lived so geographically far apart. After I had sent it I hoped that my hesitation had not put her off. I also sent her my e-mail address.

The next morning I awoke to a bright sunny day, the sun was pouring in through my bedroom window. Looking out from my comfortable double bed I could see the view down to the Wye Valley. I noticed the trees were just beginning to adopt their golden autumn glow and I watched the six sheep I looked after grazing in the paddock below. It felt good to be back.

I made breakfast then felt I needed fresh air and a walk after the cooped up stale, heated environment I had lived in during the last couple of days. I donned my walking boots, anorak and hiking trousers, fed the sheep and then set out on the forestry trail near my cottage. The path was narrow but manageable. I knew the track was going to eventually lead me to the cottage of my nearest and dearest mates, George and Dianna. George was obviously a man, but so too was Dianna. They were gay and had lived together in that isolated cottage for at least twenty years. They had no mains electricity and only a petrol generator which supplied the lighting and power points. Their water emanated from a well in the back garden from which they had to carry buckets into the house. Their heating in the open fire was supplied from the fallen timber which surrounded them in the forest. They lived a surreal, but somewhat uninterrupted life as they had nothing that anybody else would want to steal, borrow or procure. From time to time the cottage roof leaked in heavy storms, but it never seemed to bother them. The outside stone walls, which had long ago been painted white, were rancid with mildew and stains. The windows were the original timber frames and looked as though they would collapse out of their worn sockets at any time. As I approached I could see that nothing had changed since my last visit. There was debris and logs scattered all over the front garden in amongst wooden bench chairs which they’d carved themselves. The door was open, which it permanently remained until they went to bed at night. As usual the front metal gate squeaked when I opened it which caused their dog, a Welsh Springer Spaniel, called Mack, to bark. He came bounding out through the open front door to greet me, initially barking, then when he realised who I was, he ventured towards me whimpering, shaking his chestnut and white body whilst wildly wagging his tail and leaping up asking for his ears to be rubbed. ‘Anybody at home,’ I shouted through the open front door.

‘Where’ve you been all this time, you miserable bugger?’ George responded, from inside the cottage.

‘Can I come in?’ I asked.

‘No, you can fuck off,’ he replied.

Ignoring his remark I stood on the inside front granite step until I could see him at the kitchen table attending to some dire concoction which they both either ate or drank. Mack was at my side and just about ushered me into the room. The one room encapsulated all their daily living. The floor was stone and cold and exposed timbers held up the ceiling. Upstairs via a narrow wooden staircase were their sleeping quarters, a tiny room in the loft which leaked in heavy rain. I never bothered to enquire about their sleeping arrangements and wasn’t encouraged in that respect. Their toilet was in a shed out in the back garden which I had no clue of where it discharged, although I had to use it on some occasions. Inside it there was no light and the toilet paper was discarded newspapers. Somehow it had water to flush it, but God knows how or where it came from or where it went, some of it occasionally spilled out onto the rubble of the uneven rock floor around it.

‘Where have you been this time?’ George asked without looking up from his task. I wasn’t asked to sit, but still I set myself down on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs opposite him. George was a man in his early seventies. He had a protruding gut, scruffy balding hair, which looked as though it hadn’t received a proper comb in years. His face was half covered by an untidy beard and in between was pocked marked. The clothes he wore were dirty, loose and crumpled.

He still didn’t look up but I told him about my new book and my trip to Amsterdam to promote it.

‘You must be making your fortune then?’ he responded sarcastically.

‘Not exactly. Would you want to stay in a stuffy Amsterdam hotel surrounded by a lot of screaming idiots?’ I said.

‘No, I guess not,’ he replied. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘No thanks I’ve got to get back as I’ve got work to do. Where’s Dianna?’

‘Oh he’s upstairs sleeping it off. Somebody’s got to do the work around here.’

For a few minutes we talked some more then I left without us exchanging any pleasantries but that’s how they both were and I set off to complete my circular walk back to my house. There were never any compliments or real feedback from them, but if I desperately needed something they would find a way of getting it for you. So you could never discount them and when we all got drunk together we