Tangled In Time: Tangled In Time, #0

By Caroline Corvin

A free-spirited artist, a wandering astronomer, and an instant connection.

Is their future painted in the stars?

 

Perhaps. But landscape painter Blair Silvestri hasn't time for stargazing—or love. It's her immediate, more precarious situation that she needs to focus on for now. Without a job or money, she faces a one-way trip back home to New Zealand to face her father's smug 'I told you so'. And a cheating ex hasn't left her confident in her judgments about men.

 

Daniel Tremayne spends his life looking skyward. Maybe that's why he's made such a mess of all his relationships so far. And why he's decided it's probably best to accept living the lonely life of a nomadic scientist—until the night at a remote Scottish castle, when a beautiful stranger literally falls at his feet.

But what if the same trick of time that so abruptly throws them together also threatens to tear them apart?

 

Tangled In Time is a time travel romance with a difference, exploring the challenges of navigating love across two parallel lives, and learning to trust the truth, even when that truth seems impossible.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grenwyvern Publishing
• Release date: Aug 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738598120

Book preview

Part One: Here

Chapter 1

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London, England – May 1990

You think you’re about to let me down gently, but it’s still going to hurt. Blair had seen it enough times in the highs and lows of her working life to know when she was about to get the sack. When her boss walked towards her, small brown envelope in hand, and it wasn’t even payday, she knew something was up. Even if it was Marcus who was more than the boss—he was not only a fellow artist, but in the past months had become a regular drinking buddy, her occasional emergency plus-one, a sympathetic confidante, and a damn good friend.

Blair, I’m really sorry. Of course Marcus was sorry. But she understood. She wouldn’t expect him to push his often precarious business over the edge on her behalf. That was taking friendship one step too far. Over the five months she’d worked in the Riversend Gallery, he’d hinted that this day might come. She’d often heard him lament the annual exodus of Londoners escaping the city for the summer and how it precipitated a slow time in the gallery. Even her small wage wasn’t sustainable unless they made regular sales.

Things will pick up in the autumn. Always do, Marcus said, but the tentative note in his voice suggested it was as much an attempt to reassure himself as assure her of reemployment. Come September, I should be able to give you at least two days a week, maybe more. Behind the kind smile, the wariness of the offer and his inability to maintain eye contact didn’t inspire hope.

Despite that, she must cling to hope, because the alternative sent a shudder of dread through her. She had few resources. Living in London was expensive. September was over four months away. No, it would take more than hope to keep her from begging her parents for an airfare back to New Zealand. It would take action, and as Marcus released her from his angular hug of consolation, she vowed to do whatever it took, as long as it was legal.

Hey, I understand Marcus. It’s OK. You never promised me forever, she said, offering him a smile. She knew how he would have struggled over this decision. The touch of mauve in the crepey skin beneath his eyes suggested he’d lost sleep these past nights. And I’m not one to expect that kind of commitment. God knows that was one thing she’d learned from her disastrous failed marriage. Forever was a delusion.

Why don’t you take an early lunch? he suggested. And don’t hurry back. I can manage.

She nodded, seeing relief in his face. Happy to offer Marcus a reprieve from the awkward situation, and time for both of them to process what it might mean in light of their friendship, she grabbed her backpack and headed for the park.

Down by the Thames, she found her favourite lunchtime bench seat unoccupied and decided it was a good omen—then promptly changed her mind as she wrestled a soggy tuna sandwich from its brown paper bag. Why the hell they insisted on drowning everything in mayo was beyond comprehension. It had looked appetising when she’d perused the plastic cabinets of the modest bakery two doors down from her flat before jumping on the tube this morning. On another day, she might have tossed the sad sandwich to the cluster of ducks who surveyed her optimistically. Here in Richmond, where the gallery nestled amongst cute cafes and a couple of pubs, a decent replacement was only a short walk away. But today, her uncertain future made her wary of unnecessary spending. She reluctantly bit into it, chewing mechanically, while considering her future.

The insipid spring sun had encouraged a bed of crocuses into bloom. A faint, fresh sweetness hung in the air. An elegant swan glided by, herding six floating grey balls of fluff—her unlikely offspring—towards a small area of reeds. This was a beautiful part of the city. With a sigh, she pushed aside her recent thoughts of finding somewhere to live in this comfortable neighbourhood, tucked in on a lazy meander of the river. That was no longer an option.

The prospect of spending all day every day in her Shepherd's Bush flat was rather depressing. For a start, it wasn’t the most salubrious part of the city to live in. And being an area packed with dozens of other young people from the antipodes was more of a drawback than an attraction. She could never understand why people would travel all that way across the world to only hang out with people just like the ones you’d left at home.

But she and her Australian friend, Kylie, had gotten lucky finding the small rental above a hairdresser’s, even if it wasn’t an escape from their own kind. The interior was old, the decor tired, but she’d lived in far worse. At least this one had functioning plumbing and was a handy walk to the tube station. And between them, the rent was reasonable—for someone with a job. Which now she didn’t have. She calculated that her meagre savings would get her through two weeks, possibly three, but after that, she might have to investigate what squatting involved.

In the absence of a job, spending all day in the flat might allow her endless hours to paint, but she knew from experience that without the energy of other people to feed off, her creativity slumped. With Kylie currently working days as assistant manager in an upmarket bar in Kensington, the house would simply be sad and quiet. Without the motivation of getting to the gallery by nine each morning, she couldn’t imagine summoning the enthusiasm to get out of bed, let alone find inspiration for creating.

Her wristwatch showed almost one o’clock, so she made a move to head back and face the last few hours of work before she became officially unemployed. Trying to show Marcus there were no hard feelings, and as an impulsive gesture of faith in her future ability to earn money, she spent two pounds she didn’t need to and bought them both a coffee from a little deli that served genuine Italian espresso.

As she opened the glossy black painted door of the gallery, he looked up from the desk, and his face lit up in a broad toothy smile. The sight and smell of coffee always perked Marcus up, but today, perhaps because he really needed it after having to do the shitty task of laying her off, he was positively radiant.

Long black, two sugars. She placed the cup down on his desk and summoned a smile for him. After all, he hated this situation almost as much as she did. Marcus was Mr Nice Guy. He’d probably make more money if he wasn’t, but he could never be hard-arsed about anything, including driving sharp deals on commission with artists. He’d have agonised for days over telling her the news.

I’ve had an idea, he said, beaming at her with pride. Do you think you could give me twenty pieces by the end of the month? To replace the cancelled Galbraith exhibition? She’d taken the phone call herself only this morning; an artist unable to meet their commitment to a three-week exhibition slot in a few weeks’ time.

What are you looking for? She racked her brains thinking of which artists on their books might have sufficient work and of a style that might sit sympathetically between the current exhibition and the one booked after it.

Just more of the same, really. You know I love those landscapes, and while they don’t turn over quickly, I think clustering them together in an exhibition will give them impact. Draw people’s attention to how unique they are.

It must be the shock of this morning’s events, because she stared at him as if through a fog. What landscapes? Which artist? Finally, deciding she looked as stupid by saying nothing as by asking, she asked.

Sorry Marcus? Which landscapes?

Yours, of course. Her brain stalled completely, unable to withstand the second blast of overwhelm in one day. She knew Marcus admired her work. That’s how she’d got the gallery job. While roving Camden Market scouting for talent, as he often did, he’d spotted her paintings. It had been a fortunate encounter with a fellow New Zealand artist that led her to be standing behind a market stall one day a week, in exchange for some space for her own work. Luck had been on her side that she’d been the one there on that particular day, when a slight man with a wild shock of hair gone prematurely silver, and intense, intelligent eyes had struck up conversation.

Really? Are you sure? At any one time, a couple of her paintings graced the walls of the gallery, and yes, while her work didn’t turn over as quickly as some, it did sell.

The chance for her to take that exhibition slot wasn’t a totally unselfish move on Marcus’s part. Finding a replacement at such short notice would be difficult. And leaving the space blank for two weeks would be very bad for business. A half empty gallery didn’t instil confidence in prospective purchasers. In offering her this lifeline, he’d get himself out of a tight spot, too. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t an opportunity.

Of course, he said. It’s the least I can do, and it’s a total win-win.

She flung her arms around his bony body, and he returned the hug in his usual awkward way. The very British Marcus didn’t do public displays of affection, even in the company of his boyfriend, the exuberant Stefan.

Marcus, you are my favourite person in the whole of London.

I know, he said with a throaty chuckle before making his escape from the embrace.

Trudging home to the flat, after the crush of the thirty-minute tube ride, it should have cheered her that at five o’clock the sky was light, an indicator that Britain had truly thrown off the shackles of a hard winter and a fickle spring. But the reality of the work ahead of her was beginning to sink in.

She had a few pieces stashed in the wardrobe and propped against wall spaces in their tiny lounge. There would be some there that were good enough. And she could pull in the two already hanging in the back alcove of the gallery as long as Marcus was happy. However, she didn’t need to be a whiz at maths to know she needed to complete one new piece a day, every day, for two weeks solid if she was to reach the magic twenty.

Could she do this? Yes, she could. She channelled the words of an influential art tutor she’d had back in her early twenties: Don’t just drift around waiting for the muse to turn up. She’s an unreliable bitch, but she hates missing out. Get that brush in your hand, that canvas in front of you, and start. She’ll show up, I guarantee.

It wasn’t what Blair had expected when she’d signed up for the month-long course based at a farm in Tuscany. Her romantic notions of what the life of a full-time artist entailed suddenly blew out the window on hearing such unexpected fighting talk from the lips of ethereal Sondra Hale, a gifted artist and teacher. But Blair had not forgotten them.

She whisked a new canvas from the pile under her bed and propped it on her easel. It was time to do exactly as Sondra had taught her.

Chapter 2

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London, England – May 1990

For the first time in eleven years, the spectre of returning to New Zealand that always hovered in the shadows pressed forward, but with every dab of paint Blair pushed it back, wielding her brush like a lightsaber. She smiled as the remembered buzz of movie sound effects resonated in her brain. She loved the Star Wars movies, and while Carrie Fisher was superb, she’d always imagined herself more Hans Solo than Princess Leia. Now she wondered if a Jedi knight lurked inside her.

Two hours later, she stood back, surveying the completed picture with a satisfied smile before flipping open a packet of Marlboro Lights. She lit up and inhaled the soothing smoke. Six days and this sixth canvas was ready to take its place alongside the others propped up here in her bedroom. Although she’d snared the bigger room, the space was getting optimistically overcrowded.

She did the maths: six new works, two already in the gallery, and three she’d pulled aside from the stack leaning against the wall of the lounge. Today’s milestone, surpassing the halfway mark, made her target of twenty by the end of May realistic—as long as her creativity didn’t desert her now when she absolutely needed it most.

The prospect of the exhibition didn’t solve her immediate cash flow problems, but she’d survive. Kylie, her staunch friend and flatmate, had offered to pitch in extra to help in the short term. Once this furious painting frenzy was done, she’d look for another job. Something, anything really, as long as it covered rent and food. And then, hopefully, her work would sell. She dreamed that she’d rise phoenix-like out of an apparent disaster, the exhibition a stepping stone to greater things, a chance for the voice of this artist to be heard amongst the noise of so many others.

With a deft flourish of her brush, she scrawled her signature, a slash of indigo, across the bottom left of the canvas, placing a full stop on hours of work. ‘Blair Silvestri’. With a quickie divorce in the US, she’d excised charming but cheating Luca Silvestri from her life two years ago, but she wasn’t quite ready to abandon his name.

This was her least fond memory of Tuscany, this reminder of her gullibility in affairs of the heart. Both of them in love with the idea of the other, rather than truly in love, it was destined to end in disaster. She’d found her handsome, hot-blooded and passionate Italian lover wasn’t prepared to shower that passion on her alone. And Luca had discovered his impulsive and free-spirited artist wife wasn’t enamoured of him enough to tolerate his chasing after other women. But ‘Blair Silvestri’ projected a more exotic artist persona than ‘Blair Thorne’, so she’d stuck with it. At least she’d salvaged one thing of worth from the whole sorry experience.

The front door slammed, triggering a shudder through the ageing walls. Kylie’s handbag and keys hit the kitchen counter with a thwack, followed by a click of the stereo, and loud, angry Australian rock music blasted from the speakers. Beds Are Burning. That wasn’t a good sign. Kylie tended to revert to Midnight Oil when she was pissed off, their hard-edged protest songs providing a voice for her own dissatisfaction with the world.

Blair opened her bedroom door, and a tentative peek confirmed her suspicions. Kylie sprawled on the tiny couch, head on one armrest, feet dangling over the other. Her arms crossed over her chest and the belligerent scowl on her normally amiable face spoke of trouble.

Bad day?

That’s an understatement, darl, she said, her Queensland drawl thicker than usual. It’s a complete fucking disaster.

Oh, hun, what’s wrong? Blair edged her butt onto a sliver of couch and stared into a set of blue eyes welling with tears.

I’ve lost my fucking job. The tears spilled over and a small choked sob pushed out. A crying Kylie was a new and disturbing sight.

It’s OK sweetie, there’s life after that. Believe me, even I’ve got possibilities and you are way more employable than me. Something will come up.

Although Kylie was four years younger, she was savvy enough to have gathered references while working her way around the world in hospitality jobs. Surely she would pick up something else.

It’s not only that I got fired, it’s how it happened that’s really upset me. What’s wrong with the world that even in 1990 you tell some sleaze to remove his hands from your arse and you’re the one that is made out as the baddie?

That is totally fucked up.

I know. If the manager hadn’t fired me, I’d probably have quit. That place, the money was good, but no one, not the management, not the punters, had any respect. I should have seen it coming and looked for something else. But you know, the money…

And poor Kylie had the added pressure of a flatmate with little of that. She’d always been so generous putting a little extra into the kitty when Blair was broke, happy to extend a helping hand until Blair could pay her back with her next pay packet or the sale of a painting. Now, when she might need her to return the favour, things were the worst they’d ever been. She genuinely hoped that both of their bad luck might be purely temporary.

Let me get you a glass of wine, she offered. Marcus dropped in with a nice bottle of red.

Dear Marcus: he was trying not to hover or show a lack of faith in her ability to deliver by the deadline, but he couldn’t help but call in every couple of days to check. Today, it was on the pretext of sharing a gift from a grateful client who’d sent an entire case of Chateau Neuf de Pape. And also, although he’d not put it into words, he missed her; a slow day in the gallery without company would be tough. He’d lingered to chat before bustling off in his awkward way, mumbling about being late for meeting up with Stefan, but his sidelong glances at the unfinished painting showed where his actual concern lay.

Don’t worry about a glass. I think I need the whole fucking bottle. Kylie summoned a wry smile.

"You will find another job, hun. Take a day to chill out, then pick yourself up and get out there. Any place would be lucky to have you with that CV."

Except for this large blemish on it. Fired. I can’t believe it. Not only have I lost my job, the bastard has made it hard for me to get another one.

Nope. You don’t need to say a thing when you apply for another. Tell a little white lie: you’ve been travelling the last six months, you didn't need to work.

That lie has a high chance of discovery, she said. This city is smaller than you think. People talk. If I lie and then get found out…

OK. Bad idea. Let’s just park all of this and tomorrow we’ll make a plan. Things always seemed better in the morning. Tell you what, go have a soak in the bath. You’ll feel so much better. Help yourself to that glass of wine. And I’ll nip down and grab us a curry. She couldn’t afford it, but what the hell—neither of them would want to cook tonight.

Posh wine goes with curry? Kylie arched a doubtful brow.

Posh wine goes with everything.

She fixed a smile on her face and tugged on a coat. Outside, it staved off the chill from the breeze that whisked along the narrow side street. But tucking into its woollen depths didn’t dispel the cold, hard reality of their situation: both of them jobless, and in a couple of weeks they would be homeless too. She sucked in a deep breath of the cool air, trying to summon calm. She told herself that, like every other time her situation had appeared dire, something would come to save her from the ending she dreaded. You’ll have to go home. She pounced on the rogue thought and flung it into the gutter. New Zealand wasn’t home any longer. And she wasn’t going back. She strode towards the cluster of