Climax

By L. Norman Chambers

The world’s condition is worsening. Ineffectual leadership. Rampant greed. Increasing indifference.

“Do something!” six students protest continually.

At last, graduation from the elitist prep-school. Time to put up or shut up.

How to generate raging torrents of cash? ‘Bettering’ the planet won’t come cheap.

Intuitive Molly asks, “What sells, always has and always will?”

She proposes a possible new invention complete with a name. Her genius cousin and four best friends feel she is so right. They join in, faithfully spending fifteen years and seventy million pounds of their own money successfully strategizing their product into a world powerhouse.

Molly has it all; a child, extended family and her life’s work. Things are going great. And then suddenly they are not. Molly thought she and her cousin had left their cultish family behind long ago but she is wrong. She is unaware of their lurking intent and the depth of pure evil.

Deep emotional loss sets Molly on a dramatic path. It takes a strong mind to deter from one’s upbringing and conditioning. Does Molly have what it takes to literally save mankind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781398410978

L. Norman Chambers

An eye for detail allowed L. Norman Chambers’ accomplishments in both creative and fine arts. Her portraits and other works can be found in private and public collections. A vivid imagination also allowed her an enjoyable transition to writing. Climax is Lorreen’s first published book of fiction. She is currently editing her other writings. Lorreen enjoys time with family and friends. Her creative side comes out the most in quiet solitude.

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About the Author

An eye for detail allowed L. Norman Chambers’ accomplishments in both creative and fine arts. Her portraits and other works can be found in private and public collections. A vivid imagination also allowed her an enjoyable transition to writing. Climax is Lorreen’s first published book of fiction. She is currently editing her other writings. Lorreen enjoys time with family and friends. Her creative side comes out the most in quiet solitude.

Dedication

To family and friends who have always believed in me.

Copyright Information ©

L. Norman Chambers 2021

The right of L. Norman Chambers to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398410961 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398410978 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2021

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Six women vow to change the way of the world in their own lifetime. All are rich but not rich enough.

All have the brain, the will and the patience.

Together they birth the source that generates a world powerhouse.

They say power corrupts. Perhaps, in reality, the corruption was already there.

They say that power yields a deadly force. What if the deadly force came before the power?

Forward – Nouveau

It takes a strong will to deter from one’s own upbringing and conditioning. To parents paying the outrageous yearly tuition went the Nouveau guarantee. At the centuries’ old school in Geneva, Switzerland, their daughters would grow strong and confident in themselves and their own abilities. Girls enrolled from age nine would graduate with honours, fluent in four languages of their own choosing. They would live the school motto, patientia est omnia sincere, patience and timing are everything. Finally, their child would graduate scholastically and socially capable. On her own merit, she could gain entry into any school of higher learning and sit comfortably at any table in the world. Crème de la crème, guaranteed.

Academics for females was the goal of the founders of this school with the unusual title. The name, Nouveau, had been chosen because it was a concept both unthinkable and unheard of in the 17th century. Geneva had been cited for the beginning all those years ago because the town was viewed then as a metropolis of new thinking by those in power.

During the 18th century, a young lady of means could be, and many were, sent to Switzerland for the good air and to attend what was called a finishing school. These schools underplayed scholarship and instead pushed forward social graces and upper-class cultural rites. Preparing for the rigours of entering high society was important. They learned to be charming, play music and games, to be dainty and to hostess a good table. But the important goal in those days, of course, was to acquire husbands.

Nouveau was never a finishing school but always a preparatory one. In the 1960s, there came a change in the ideas of women’s role in society. When the concept of the finishing school went into decline, Nouveau continued, even emphasising the importance of etiquette. Good manners are essential to all aspects of life. Nouveau taught good manners in business show your competence and compel respect.

Among the elite this all-girl prep school has always been the bona fide choice, a school where some of the mega rich have taken the extreme measure of financially ensuring the enrolment of their daughters, even before their conception.

The weather had been warm and sunny on that first orientation day when the English girl and her French cousin crossed paths with two others, one from India and the other, an American from the United States. Minutes later, the four were approached by a set of Swedish identical twins.

After only one half hour together, despite different ethnic backgrounds, considerable differences in looks, tastes and attitudes, the six highly intelligent nine-year-olds knew they were destined to become best friends.

By age 12, the girls had formed a tight knit club called Better and Better. The six members often combined their allowances and then spent the monies in support of what they considered good children’s works outside. The outside being anywhere outside Nouveau.

Then came even greater changes and childhoods left behind. In class, they studied sociology, environment, politics, war, diseases, hunger, poverty and abuse. Strangely affected by these lessons, the girls mentally fed off each other. As growing teens, even with money to burn, these girls did not become overly absorbed in themselves, as do some, but were far more interested in the world they and their generation would inherit. On their own time, they studied their THEN world. WHAT A FREAKING MESS. By age 15, all became angry, obsessed, pissed off with world’s bullshit, with the actions and inactions, the inhumanities, excuses, the truly un-united nations posing ineffectual meetings and important global issues discarded, thrown in a heap and left unfinished, rotting in a dump of despair.

The girls list went on and on, their frustration plainly visible, a trait not allowed nor tolerated at Nouveau. The girls were kept separated for a month, a discipline and punishment mentally severe, until the school motto, patience, was once more brought front and centre. And the girls’ bond grew tighter.

By age 18, the six had surpassed sisterhood. They were of one mind, vowing complete dedication to their new goal. In their own lifetime they would change the way of the world, make wrongs in the world right again. To do that, they needed more money, a lot more money, a dramatic, never-ending flow. They could get it. They simply needed the perfect plan. How hard could that be?

At graduation, six identically gowned young women wore identical slim silver bracelets inscribed in Latin, Viridi Lux, Green Light.

Chapter 1 – Molly

15 Years Later

Predawn reaches the Cotswold and fallow deer begin rising from a large bed of thick fallen leaves. The handsome herd take their time shaking off a cold night before slowly stretching, enjoying the warming streaks of an early sun. Patches of grey cloud linger low. Damp ears perk up and twitch. Noses signal, warning snorts of snot flecked fog. They hear the thick pounding hooves and the relaxed rhythmical blowing, one breath per stride. The group are familiar with the deep throaty sound made by the huge cantering hunter. They soon see its hammered metal shoes flinging high small hunks of frosted mud. When the horse and its bareheaded rider pass by closer than usual, there is no panic. There is only the raising of deer noses, smelling her toothpaste breath.

The rider is Molly Margaret Jones. Dark, moss-coloured eyes dominate a sculptured face, cut fine, sharp like her mind. Moisture laden air expands natural red curls, its thickness rivalling the wool on her Cotswold sheep.

Every morning, Molly rides, rain or shine, and now with the more recent addition of the old nunnery property, she commands nearly six hundred acres. Two ancient, hand-ditched streams, diverted in Roman times, run through her lands into one dammed, very large lily pond, before joining again into a single, widened creek. The area is home, year round, to a set menagerie of thriving animal and bird life native to the district.

Unlike most, this day’s ride holds no enjoyment for Molly. The horse is not off. It is she who cannot keep her usual expert rhythm. She, whose mouth is blowing harder than the horse. Finally, she turns for home, slowing her mount to a walk so both can cool down. Molly is mentally hot, bloody frustrated, ignoring everything around her. She feels the tension throughout her body and topping that, she has lost her buffer. Megan, Molly’s daughter, has since her birth kept her mother’s multitasking mind in check. Now at age nine, Megan has just begun her own years at Nouveau, in Switzerland. Molly misses her terribly and absence has allowed the weight of world problems to plague her mind with no reprieve. The back of Molly’s head begins its throbbing as she sites her house standing stone-strong among centuries old oak.

Home is twenty parklike acres well hidden between her larger acquired parcels of rolling hills and flatter fields. A small gatehouse at the main road prevents unwanted visitors from traveling the long drive. Privacy is important in the large honey-coloured limestone house, its outer buildings and gardens that over two and a half centuries ago were thought necessary to serve a fine household. Originally, the estate was built by a powerful industrialist as a gift to his mistress. She was a very intelligent woman with masses of curly red hair. This estate has been gifted again and again to women of her lineage and now it belongs to Molly Margaret Jones.

In the courtyard, Molly dismounts, pats her horse and hands the reins to her yard man, Alvin, remembering to thank him, before making her way to the house. At the back door stands Edward, her house steward, purposely waiting, silently scolding, while he holds a small tray in one hand and in the other, Molly’s riding helmet. Molly ignores both the helmet and the look on the face of this safety minded man. Instead, she removes from the little silver tray two migraine tablets and the glass of water.

Molly questions, How did you guess?

I anticipate your every need, Miss, he teases. Actually I saw through the window; you were rubbing the back of your neck.

Two swallows and the glass is handed back with thanks. Walking away down the hall, she hollers her familiar phrase, Christ, Edward, you know me too well. Never leave me, I can’t do without you.

The hollering is returned, That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks, Miss.

Both laugh at that remark. Edward came with the house, is Canadian and dearly loves the currency exchange rates between their two countries. At retirement, he plans to return home to British Columbia. To Molly, Edward is invaluable, taking care of the running of the house and overseeing the farming and the grazing. He hires the workers full-time, part-time and, sometimes he fires. He is smart, honest and fair, worth every Canadian dollar. And then, of course, he makes her laugh.

It is true Edward knows a great deal about Molly and thinks of her as a daughter. He knows she has a brilliant mind and is very well educated. Molly was inheritance wealthy from her father before her marriage, and when her American-born husband died, Edward knows she sold his business for a net after taxes of just over 250 million pounds sterling.

But Edward would admit that he does not know everything. For instance, he does not know what she does those many long hours locked away in her study, where only she has the key, even to the point of hoovering herself. He had heard the suction sounds at least 10 times over the last 10 years. Not for the first time, he chuckles to himself, remembering passing her study one day just as Molly bent to relock that door. She sneezed, then again, saying she was probably coming down with a cold. And he had answered in a stately fashion, Yes, Miss, or perhaps you might simply dust.

They had both laughed, knowing that although not a slob or the least bit snobbish, she hardly ever considered doing anything menial or close to it. Miss Molly is sometimes a contradiction in terms. Last month, out of the blue, she had inquired, Don’t you ever get curious about what I do in there?

Edward thought he wasn’t supposed to know so he simply old joked his way out, No, Miss, none of my business, pausing slightly for effect before, well, I did think once or twice maybe you were writing a very long novel or perhaps just keep rewriting the same, short one.

Molly had snorted a laugh and walked away. This morning, the woman is not laughing. Edward wishes her headache away.

By the time Molly reaches the front of the house and climbs the curved staircase, her headache is subsiding but her mood darkening. Once inside her bedroom, she walks toward her desk and waiting breakfast tray, throwing her riding crop in the corner, quickly followed by two tall boots. Christ, she thinks, smelling one armpit, I need a shower.

Instead, she sips coffee at her desk and clicks on the remotes of three new-wall mounted televisions. Almost instantly appears world news, one live and two pre-recorded. Simultaneously, her mind takes in words spoken in three different languages. She pays particular attention to the overseas network speak on the newest middle eastern crisis. Same old, same old shit. Six minutes later, Molly stands, severing the links, while telling the newscasters, PISS OFF.

The last of her morning coffee is drunk while staring long and hard at the phone lying on the desk. Five other women have the number. Molly twists her slim silver bracelet, thinking, five years of study and three degrees for the goal. In total, 15 years of work for the goal. Patience my arse. 33 years old and Christ I’m tired. To the phone she whispers aloud, Ring, you bastard, ring. Then without fanfare, as if on cue, the red cased phone rings.

Almost afraid, she answers with her usual, Is it done?

This time, the soft voice answers in French, Oui, yes.

How many?

In French, the voice replies, Tous, all, before following even softer in English, will you call the others?

Molly’s deep voice, driven even huskier by her own welling emotion, hesitates, then simply, Of course.

Chapter 2 – Renée

Three Days Later

In any airport, even Heathrow, Britain’s busiest, heads will turn at the site of a beautiful woman. The object of admiration, from both the sexes, is a beauty in very high heels purposely walking through one of the five terminals. She is completely oblivious of several soft whistles. Her left hand pulls a top-of-the-line weekend case. The luggage tag reads Renée Folger Molé. Besides being very beautiful, Renée is very French. A tall slim body, violet eyes and porcelain skin make a sharp and effective contrast to natural black hair she wears cut in a short, stylish bob. Her mode of dress is sophisticated aloofness, definitely haute couture and definitely expensive.

Today, she wears no jewellery, other than her every day slim silver bracelet.

Outside the terminal, the woman hands over a small, printed card and her case to the waiting driver, before putting herself in his car. Only then does she begin to relax for the two plus hour drive to the Cotswolds and Molly. Soon eyes close, her bare head leaning back against the seat. She sleeps. For once, Renée does not dream her secret dreadful images.

Renée Folger Molé, the Folger after her mother’s mother who can trace her roots back as far as the Norman Conquest of 1066.

Gifted with an IQ off the charts, Renée is the sole owner of Pharmaceutical St Clair, not the largest drug producing company in the world, but very respected nonetheless. For the goal, she had worked alone in and out of her private laboratory for the past eight years, leaving others to further company pharmaceutical lines. Skilled management had always and still runs the day-to- day business. Thus far, she has no complaints.

The company began four generations ago and Renée inherited all after the unexpected and tragic death of her mother in an auto accident. Her wealthy father had been lost at sea while cruising on his yacht when Renée was barely a year old. After her mother’s death, the business was kept flowing in trust while at age four, Renée was taken to her grandmother. Her grandmother lived in the ancient chateau standing high above the school Nouveau, where her great aunt held the position of headmistress. A shy, timid Renée had no real friends until the age of nine. Years later, a confident Renée graduated from Nouveau, along with her five best friends, one being her English cousin, Molly.

Her educational plan after Nouveau was universities in Europe. Always finishing early, her degrees and undergraduate degrees now hang in the S. Clair lobby, along with those of her employees. Of them all, her earned degree in mycology remains her favourite. Since childhood, she has been fascinated by the wide spectrum of mushroom studies, finding them most magical, to use a very unscientific term.

At age 26, Renée met and married a very wealthy and titled French bachelor 20 years her senior. 15 months later, shortly after the birth of their daughter Moire, the doting husband and father was killed in a rockslide in Nepal, along with the husband of her cousin Molly.

Their Sherpa guide walked out alive, only to die of a heart attack less than a week later. In their bereavement, both widows had questioned their faith and fate and its timing.

After the reading of his extensive will, her late husband’s disgruntled family set to publicly ridicule Renée referring to her as the gold-digging bitch. No one stopped to consider she already had plenty of money. No matter, the revolving circle of the wealthy do not think that way and Renée could not afford to be ostracised from high society. She chose not to remark or defend herself and simply went about her business with the utmost in widowed decorum. It did not take long before the beautiful young woman was sought after, both socially and romantically.

However, Renée still plays her part well, staying away from trendy clubs and socialite parties, where the ruling elite often get out of hand. Sporadically, Renée is seen at important functions, accompanied by men who are friends and acquaintances, though never intimates.

For right now, Renée’s life centres around her friends and their goal, after, of course, her daughter, Moire. She and Moire can often be seen at children’s functions and on many a children’s playgrounds making the most of their time together. Nouveau years are just around the corner.

Their home is a luxurious Paris apartment overlooking the Seine and Notre Dame. By the time Moire was five, she had given up asking her mother for brothers and sisters, opting instead for one miniature dachshund, then two, then three. Finally, Renée drew a line at a sleek and shiny number four. Moire named them Weiner, Mustard, Relish and Bunny, her Hot Dogs.

Months later, after the designated number four had settled in, a woman case worker arrived at the door with a small bundle in the form of a rescue dog. The under sized dachshund was disabled, having only half its toes on each of its front feet. Moire, at age seven, checking out such rescue sites on her computer had, on her own, arranged for the possible adoption. Moire’s shocked nanny had called Renée home from work, citing a family emergency. This stern-faced mother had arrived home, looked at her daughter and then at mutilated puppy feet that were doing their best to keep up with the bigger dogs. What else could Renée do but welcome the maimed animal to the family? Young Moire had already lovingly named her last Hot Dog, Catchup.

The six caused so much commotion that the large Paris apartment became a shrieking, yapping and running, barking, laughing, hysterical fun house. The elderly couple in the apartment beneath growled loudly. Renée negotiated and then was forced to pay the exorbitant, nothing short of a high ransom for the equally opulent apartment below. Renée’s apartment was, thank goodness, on the top floor; no need to soundproof the ceiling. After, she happily installed her driver bodyguard, her housekeeper and Nanny Liza, all single, in her new addition, their living quarters, a tax-free bonus. Everything had worked out for the best, as if Renée had contrived the plan, all by herself.

In the Cotswolds, the car slows and turns onto an asphalt drive. In the backseat, Renée’s mind finds the present. Violet coloured eyes open as the driver stops alongside a small gate house and rolls down his window. Five seconds later, the wide gate slowly opens at the middle allowing entry. The narrow-inclined drive is paved and flanked on both sides by tall trees and fenced pastures.

The vehicle pulls to a stop in front of the large, three story, blocked limestone house. Molly, wearing a coat, and her house steward, without, are waiting. As the car moves away and Edward carries Renée’s bag to her room, the cousins walk in the boxwood garden, discussing their upcoming weekend. Too soon, their conversation is ended by the sound of an approaching helicopter. Grazing sheep scatter as the chopper is expertly settled on the field-sized front lawn. A composite door is opened. A dark skinned, suited man helps a pretty, petite woman to the ground and lightly kisses her goodbye. Edward appears out of nowhere to fetch her bag. While the man steps back into the helicopter, the woman, followed by Edward, leans slightly forward, rushing from the wind and the noise, towards the waiting women. The chopper rises easily back into the air. After huge hugs, all three women enter the front of the house. Molly closes the highly lacquered ebony wood door, shutting out the rest of the world, at least for a time.

The latest guest, carrying a fine leather briefcase, is Abena April Gandhi of Mumbai, no relation to the famous and renowned Mahatma, but still a daughter born to parents who are also progressive thinkers. Her mother is old India money, an import exporter, and her father remains the wealthiest of the moguls in the Bollywood movie industry. Both are very well known, influential persons in India. Abena’s parents deny her nothing financially, but unfortunately adding to their daughter’s frustration, they positively will not allow her to change her first names. For their generous love and gifts of money, plus her own earned seven-figure salary she has always been grateful, but again, she still feels her own given names have never really belonged to her. They belong to someone else. It is her one vexation that she has never been able to overcome. Apparently, her pregnant mother accompanied her father on a movie shoot to Africa.

She was born three weeks early and they named her Abena, the Akan of Ghana name for girls born on Tuesday. And yes, the month was April. She secretly thinks both her parents were high from smoking grass at the time. Aside from this one obsession, Abena, of the six women, always was and remains the people person. It is she who inspires those around her, has the kindest heart, and positively the best infectious laugh. People have been known to make remarks in order to hear her wonderful and spontaneous, laughing reaction. In both social and business situations, Abena also has the natural qualities to make people truly listen and believe what she has to say, an extremely good asset in her job as an international lawyer.

In the entrance hall, Molly tells her friends that the twins are already in their rooms and that only Georgia has yet to arrive. It is quickly decided the women will go to their usual guest rooms while Molly checks with Edward about dinner. All will meet for a cocktail at seven o’clock in the library.

With an hour to spare, a white luxury rental car parks at the back of the house. Georgia honks hello, before grabbing her case and shortly wheeling it through to the kitchen.

She hugs the steward, Dinner smells delicious, Edward, and so do you. You’re still the best cook and the sexiest man in an apron I know.

Edward never teases Molly’s friends. He answers, Why thank you, Miss Georgia, then anticipating