Sweet Success

By Dave Jeanes

Book 3 to the stories of "Every Wednesday Fortnight". The, by-now, familiar characters continue their travels...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244809720

Book preview

Sweet Success

Sweet Success

Dave Jeanes

1. By Dave Jeanes

2. BEFOREHAND

3. WEDNESDAY

4. THURSDAY

5. FRIDAY

6. SATURDAY

7. SUNDAY

8. MONDAY

9. TUESDAY

10. WEDNESDAY

11. THURSDAY

12. FRIDAY

13. SATURDAY

14. SUNDAY

15. MONDAY

16. TUESDAY

17. WEDNESDAY

18. AFTERWARDS

1.By Dave Jeanes:

EVERY WEDNESDAY FORTNIGHT

Book one; Andrea’s Place

Available from: http://lulu.com/spotlight/davejeanes

SWEET DREAMS

(The sequel to EVERY WEDNESDAY FORTNIGHT)

Book two; Hazel’s Place

Available from: http://lulu.com/spotlight/davejeanes

THE GODS

Available from: http://lulu.com/spotlight/davejeanes

SWIPE

A city opera

Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Swipe-City-Opera-Dave-Jeanes/dp/1848974736/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1400182175&sr=8-2&keywords=dave+jeanes

KING DAVID (& BATHSHEBA)

A Musical

Available from: https://www.smithscripts.co.uk

Pantomimes, Plays, & Scripts. Available from: http://www.lazybeescripts.co.uk/

DAVE JEANES – Singer/Songwriter

http://www.davejeanes.net

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0Y9hnqVayU&t=15s

SWEET SUCCESS is published by ONE2ONE Studios. New Cheltenham, Bristol. UK

www.one2onestudios.co.uk   *   [e-mail]   *   [e-mail]

2019

2.BEFOREHAND

The vice-president looked back at her, incredulously.

‘Prove it?’

She held his gaze. The rest of the boardroom watched and waited. Unsure; as a tennis crowd, which side to look to first.

‘Yes. Prove it.’

The vice-president was a seasoned campaigner; one of their own. They knew where they stood with him…

On the other hand, Monique was the darling wife of their recently-retired CEO. They knew her equally well: Knew her well enough to know that she knew how to get what she wanted. And how…

Slowly the leaves blew through the courtyards outside the imposing, lead-glazed windows but Monique Sweetman was in no hurry. It had taken her a good deal of time and effort to get to the position where she now stood; arms folded in defiance, before the entire array of stockholders and shareholders of the Sweetman Pickles empire. This was not a situation to back down from.

‘My dear,’ began the vice-president. All eyes turned.

Monique gave him one of her flattest smiles. ‘Yes?’

‘Well, it’s just that, ah…’

‘I need hardly re-iterate,’ she interrupted, ‘that the actual events of the birth of the twins were, as recorded. Even if that were not the case, I should be the last person on God’s clean Earth to suggest that the two infants were born in anything other than the order previously stated. I was in no position to observe.’ She left a silence for them to imagine her in that position.

‘Ah! Good.’

‘Even so,’

‘Oh.’

‘I should like to make it quite clear that both my children do have an equal share in their grandfather’s, and your, fortune. Fortunes.’

The treasurer cut in. ‘Yes, I know, but, Hell’s teeth, Moni, we should have agenda-ed anything like this weeks ago! We’ve racked up more air-miles between us all this last week than the England cricket team. Why didn’t the old man tip us the wink about this before we all got here?’

‘I imagine it will be as much news to him as it is to all of you. I am not entirely sure where he is these days, as it goes. Burma, one assumes. Myanmar. He had always a hankering for the place and his passport is no longer where he usually keeps it; under the standard lamp base in his study.’

There was a scribbling on notepads. These things could be vital sometimes.

‘And now gentlemen, I will leave any further discussions to you. I have said my piece. The twins have both asked me to act on their behalf. I am hopeful that the family’s wishes are honoured. If there is nothing further, I bid you all a very good day.’

Her high heels click-clacked across the hardwood flooring. The boardroom door was opened for her and she passed through into the hallway. It closed quietly behind her.

‘Well.’ said the vice-president.

The treasurer nodded. ‘No need to minute that.’

‘Don’t suppose it’ll make too much difference which twin is in the driving seat.’

‘Wouldn’t have thought so, Cyril. Not much actual driving to do, is there?’

‘No. Votes on share issues. Final say over this and that. Child has a name, I take it?’

‘Hardly a child anymore. Mid-twenties, the pair of them, if memory serves.’

‘And does it?’

‘Yes. Both twenty-five, aren’t they. Monique will be fifty. August.’

‘Who?’

‘No. The month. August.’

‘Ah. Big party, I imagine?’

‘Should be. Should do.’

‘Sorry, didn’t catch the name. The other boy. Man.’

‘The twin? Oh, the twin is not a man, Cyril.’

‘No? What is he then?’

The treasure ignored the remark and went on. ‘Hard to see what she expects from kicking up a fuss over the proprietorial reins.’

‘Oh, quite.’

‘Makes no real difference whose name is on the door. Does it?’

‘As long as there is a Sweetman.’

It was a short walk to her car. Gently, the early summer breeze blew stray beech leaves and odd scraps of litter down the quiet city street, but she moved calmly and casually.

The driver had the door of the Bentley open for her. ‘Careful.’

She smiled at her own reflection in the gleaming burgundy paintwork. She looked relaxed and happy. She eased herself into the sumptuous upholstery of the cream leather passenger seat and fastened her seatbelt. ‘Careful? Always am.’

‘Indeed you are, madam.’ He pulled the car out into a space in the dwindling traffic. ‘Any problems?’

‘No. All as planned.’

‘Great. Well done, you. Everyone there?’

‘Pretty much. One absentee; Parsons from Columbia. He did send a message saying it was unlikely that he’d get to Yorkshire in the time, but we don’t need him to ratify anything. There’s no voting procedure.’

‘As long as they all play ball.’

‘You wouldn’t want to play ball games with any of those fellows. They make the rules up as they go.’

‘All good then. No heart attacks? No apoplexy?’

‘No. None at all. Paper tigers; all of those shareholders. They know it’s family money and they’re not family. It is as simple as that. They have their seats on the board; think of themselves as partners, but that’s it. There’s no bones of contention. They’ll pick a side, as they do usually. After that, it’s up to the twins what happens.’

‘Fine. Rest of the day to ourselves then.’

‘Seems so, yes. At last.’

‘Good.’

‘What do you want to do now? There’s a new vegetarian patisserie open on the east side, supposed to be very good. The crepes aren’t great but what can you expect when there’s no wild animals inside? Their wine list is extensive; still concentrating on the pinot noir, so you’ll be quite at home.’

‘Other things on my mind, as it goes.’

‘What would you like to do then?’

‘I’d like to take you back home and undress you again.’

‘Early closing, in some places. Not in Venezuela though.’

‘Place got famous for its name; Angel Falls. Nine hundred and seventy-nine metres. Call it a thousand. Everything’s a thousand over here.’

‘Why, Angel though?’ she asked.

‘American flying ace; Jimmy Angel. First man to ever fly over here. Bush pilot; looking for gold ore. Crashed his Flamingo here. Took him eleven days to hike back down. His ashes were scattered over the falls.’

‘Have to rename it Tom’s Falls after this.’ Angela looked up, and then down, at the Falls. ‘A natural wonder,’ she mused. ‘At the same time; a wholly un-natural wonder. Amazing. To think, some Charlie said to his friends once, Tell you what, chums. Buy me a round of drinks and a plateful of Coronation chicken sandwiches and I’ll dive off there, just for the craic!’

Tom shook his head sadly. ‘The things we do to impress our friends.’

She smiled. ‘Did it though!’

He smiled too.’ Sure did. And so will I. How do I look?’

He wore only swimming trunks and a blue skull cap.

‘Like a ballpoint pen.’ she decided.

‘Oh. In a nice way?’

‘If you like.’ she teased. ‘If you need that to get you over the edge.’

A small crowd had gathered. It was a fairly normal event, but the sight would draw gasps of astonishment at his bravery and, hopefully, at the end, a round of applause. Not that he’d hear it. She would though.

He settled himself on the rock’s edge, toes pointing straight ahead, trying not to look down into the churning mass of water but knowing that he would have to, eventually. He was aware of the sound of the water crashing down over the rocks, but it was an eerie sound; somehow far removed from the spot where he now stood. He flashed her a smile.

‘Oh well. Nothing for it. Now or never!’

‘Good luck! Brave white hunter!’ she yelled.

He grinned and dived.

She stepped forward and watched his body fall, as graceful as any bird, like a tiny bronze thing, defenceless. The blue skull cap was torn away by the terrific currents of air. He fell like a stone.

She wondered if she would ever see him again.

Rosie turned heads when she walked down the street. She had developed from being a girl into a young woman, virtually overnight and liked the look of herself in the bedroom mirror when she was turning sixteen.

She was not the only one…

In a small town, it wasn’t something she could do that often. She had been educated at an all girls’ school, deep in the heart of the Yorkshire countryside and she and her classmates had grown up in a carefully-planned seclusion from members of the opposite gender. That is, until they hit puberty, - all at the same time.

Her class contained fifteen girls; various shapes and sizes, but the boys from the villages surrounding them began to take notice.

Rosie knew these things happened and try as she might, the temptations of the flesh were all too obvious. Not only that, but the more, well, experienced girls were beginning to wonder about all the rest of them.

‘It’s only a matter of time.’ said Dulcie; one of the ringleaders. ‘May as well get it over with. Got to happen sooner or later. Can’t be a virgin all your life. What would be the point of that?’

Rosie agreed wholeheartedly with at least some of Dulcie’s remarks. She knew that there was a life already mapped out for her and that certain conventions still had to be obeyed and observed. Still, she was on the pill, and it didn’t seem to have done any of her classmates any real harm. One or two had left the school early and could now be seen pushing at prams and pushchairs through the streets of the nearby town but they had got what they thought they wanted and that was the main thing.

‘May as well grab one while you’re hot!’ enthused Dulcie. Rosie agreed.

Which one though?

‘Don’t worry too much about the finer details. Nobody’s all that good at sex anyway. Just get yourself in a position where you’re enjoying yourself and hope it lasts as long as possible. Never does, of course,’ continued Dulcie, a tad bitterly. ‘Still, if you want all night-sex, get another woman in. Do you myself if you fancy it.’

‘Do me?’

‘Just an expression. You’ll be doing me too.’

Dulcie was a well-built girl. A bit too well-built, Rosie thought. Still, she smiled and said, Thanks anyway. And continued with the selection process.

‘Giles is my favourite.’

Dulcie shook her head. ‘Too rich. Father’s a lord. You’d never be home. Social engagements. Self thought about it. Reckoned I’d be out three hundred nights of the year. Too much.’

‘Then there’s Andrew?’

‘Too poor.’

‘What about Garth?’

‘Too queer.’

Rosie bit her lip in an agitated way. ‘That’s half the boys in Startburn already.’ she complained.

‘Doesn’t have to matter. You have a car. Sometimes better in a car; more comfortable. Easier to get yourself home afterwards too.’

‘Afterwards.’ said Rosie. ‘Yes.’

‘Worse thing of all; the walk of shame, the following morning.’ Dulcie grimaced. ‘Especially in heels.’

The sun was setting over the south of France and she thought she would never tire of it. He watched it with his back to her, - like a sentry on duty, she thought. Eventually the red glow over the sea seemed to satisfy him and he turned.

‘Beautiful tonight.’

She smiled at him. ‘Another glass?’

‘Got one already, thanks.’

She smiled, they both smiled. ‘Can I top you up, you know I meant. Here.’ She poured him another glass of red wine and he thanked her again.

‘Corbieres. Another good year.’

‘Seem to have got the hang of it.’

‘Where was I?’

‘Talking over sunsets.’

‘Oh, yes. Cro-Magnon man used to think it was the end of the world.’

‘Don’t get many of those up here. How about you?’

‘Not many, no. One or two, - Bastille day. Turned out they were Geordies. That in England?’

‘Tyne and Wear.’

‘Newcastle, I think he was saying. Couldn’t really understand.’

‘Watch the hands. That’s what I do.’

‘Case of having to, some nights.’

‘Strange sort of belief system. Some sort of Divine intervention. Same thing every night, virtually. S’pose things were different then.’

He agreed. ‘Probably as much as you could do; or hope for, to live through an entire day.’ He gazed again beyond the low terrace wall and watched the sun boiling away into the Mediterranean. ‘Always that red menace in the sky.’

‘Or the promise of Paradise.’

‘Not clear. Pre-history so we can only surmise.’

‘Surmise away.’

‘May have frightened them. Some unholy end.’

‘May’ve been glad of it. Didn’t know they were born, back then.’

‘Good point. You nearly done?’

‘Few more. Rosita’s on washing duties so we’ll be shut before twelve.’

‘Shut. Like that.’

‘Why?’

‘Dunno. Just like the way you say it. Westcountry.’

‘Daft.’

‘Daft. Like the way you say that too. In fact, now I come to think of it, there’s not a lot I don’t like about you.’

‘Oh yes? What is it you want, you great-bearded Australian? Sounds liked I’m being buttered-up for something.’

‘No, you’re alright. Just hoped I could spend some time with you. Not seen you, just you, for a long time. Ages, seems like.’

‘Seems so, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, - I was thinking of you only this morning.’

‘Only? Oh. Shame. I think about you all of the time.’

‘How terribly inconvenient that must be.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m down to the street market in the morning. How about I pop in for coffee?’

‘Pop away.’

‘Got one or two plans I need to make.’

‘Involving me?’

‘Of course, involving you. Who else is there? For me, I meant.’

‘Any number of close friends, last time I looked.’

‘Well, look again some time. Date?’

‘Date.’

‘Mind the stone.’

‘Never known a day like it, my friend. I’ll tell you that for a start.’

‘Friend?’ Plod bristled uneasily. ‘Never known you call me friend unless you wanted something. What is it this time?’

Maurice sighed into his pint in The Feathers. ‘Oh, you know, you must know, - work, work, work. I’m up to my eyes in it.’

‘Alright if you’re an optician?’ suggested Plod.

‘As I’m not, Robert. As well you know.’

‘Just saying.’

‘Whole country’s the same, seems to me.’

‘Well, in parts…’

‘All of us trying to find the next brand-new thing. Something new and original. Pointless, of course.’

‘On every day.’

‘True what they say though; there’s nothing new under the sun. All we’re all doing is just filling in time before the big sleep. Makes you wonder what it’s all about sometimes.’

‘You’re always saying that. Been saying it for years.’

‘Well, there you are then. Must be some truth to it all. No sense me banging away about it day after day and not ever doing something constructive. One of these days I’m just going to be up sticks and out of here. You’ll see if I don’t.’

‘Empty words, friend. You should write a book about it. Tales of Maurice you could call it.’

‘Could do too. Why though? What for? Who’d read it? Not you, for a start off.’

‘Depends. Would I be in it?’

Maurice sneered. ‘No, of course not. Who’d want to read anything about you? What have you ever done?’

Plod agreed. ‘Not much. Not me. Right there.’

‘I’d read it.’ said Michaela; polishing nearby tables. ‘I love anything like that. Any work of outlandish fiction.’

‘Bearing that in mind, young thing. Now, put that dishcloth away and bring two more stout and bitters. And if you see our old friend Jack Daniels, tell him to stand by. This could be a long lunchtime.’

3.WEDNESDAY

Roger finished adjusting his fencing uniform and ambled into the gymnasium. Rosie was practicing sweeps and thrusts. She had fenced for the school and the county, and very nearly got to represent her country at the Olympics. The two of them had fought constantly during their upbringing but it was one of the things that Roger could never beat her at.

He himself moved with grandeur and grace; imagining himself as one of King Arthur’s knights of old.

She moved like a dancer; was all poise and control. Seemed to be able to think quicker; or more quickly, than him, and beat him hands down, time after time: One minute it was, En garde!, the next, Tu es mort., and she was off to the showers.

Once, in their teens, he had made the joke about pricking another hole in her! She had put down the practice sword and boxed his ears for him. They never joked during their bouts anymore.

They thrusted and parried for a good half hour and he left the gym, soundly beaten as usual. She never rubbed his nose in it, but he could almost tell how satisfied it made her to win.

Wednesday being a quiet, off-duty kind of day, he made his thoughtful way along the dandelion-strewn pathway to his mother’s ‘outdoor’ garden, where she was pricking out strawberries; or Stray berries, their correct name, and one she insisted on referring them to as, until they reached her table.

‘Lost again, d’Artagnan?’ she enquired, looking up at him from her kneeling position. ‘Never mind. She loves to win sometimes. You know that.’

‘I love winning sometimes too.’ complained Roger darkly.

‘So do I. Look at it