Will she or won't she?

I'm not sleeping well. Caroline's in Singapore and says she is not sleeping well either, blaming the heat. Is she worried about what I'm worried about, or worried about something different?

Caroline has been behaving out of character, which psychologists say is either a) a sign of an undiagnosed physical condition or b) a pending relationship breakdown and divorce, aka a new squeeze.

"Of course you're worried," you say. "Any man would be, in your position."

Ah yes, but there's a complicating factor. It has been a lifelong dream of mine to go to the World Cup final. Unfortunately FIFA keep awarding the finals to far-away places like Brazil, Russia and Qatar and not somewhere convenient like England or Germany.

But Caroline bumped into a business acquaintance when she was in Italy recently, who re-introduced her to the European football supremo, Bertrand Cottoneau. And he has promised her two tickets to the final. I'm finding it hard not to put that in large type capitals, bold, and underlined. I'm sure there's a catch, and that's what I'm worried about. That, and pending relationship breakdown etc.

Will she or won't she? Will she get the tickets from Bertrand, and if she does, will it be me who gets the second ticket?

"What is strange about Caroline's behaviour?" you ask. "I reckon you're being paranoid; like men are when they have a dynamic, attractive, successful wife who earns more than they do."

Have I mentioned the gambling? Having nagged me constantly for four years for 'wasting money' on betting on football scores, Caroline has taken a keen interest in learning all the casino games and has been spending her nights with the high-rollers in Singapore. When she could choose a different night out, she went to the Kranji racetrack to back horses. But what is really out of character is that she is losing money. She always makes it. She's a finance director. She hates losing. That's why her rise to the top of Monsaint Medical Instruments has been so meteoric.

You can see why I'm worried now. Whose money is she losing? I know it isn't mine, because I live my life in a balanced cash flow. It comes in, it goes out, balance = zero.

And now she wants me to funnel about half a million euros, borrowed from a Chinese gentleman, to Cottoneau's account. She say's it's very urgent. My suspicions are well and truly aroused. That's an awful lot to pay for two tickets to a football game, even the World Cup final. Now do you understand why I'm not sleeping well?

I will be in a better position to give you the full story in three weeks time when  Shameless Corruption is published by Steam eReads , global publishers of quality ebooks.

Blurb

You can tell the same story a hundred different ways. And that is what happened when I sat down to write the cover blurb for Shameless Corruption. Or should I call it 'product description'? Either way, it's the bit that people might read first and think, "Wow, I want to read that," or, "I don't think so!"

Writing blurbs is teaching me more about writing novels than any other practice. It forces me to get to the essence, to cut through the waffle and say out loud, "This is about..."

It should be simple, and like most things that should be simple, it's a difficult process to mistress. I might start with a synopsis, something written to inform a potential publisher, or even myself, who the characters are and what happens in their story.

Then I write the novel, which does take a little time. Then I edit it a few times, which takes a while too. When I go back and look at the synopsis, I realise I have written a different book to the one outlined in the synopsis. I rewrite the synopsis to reflect the completed novel, and send it to the publisher, fingers crossed. I then enter the shadow of the valley of doubt while I await a response. The publisher won't like it. The whole project is misconceived. I have completely failed to tell the story I wanted to tell etc. etc.

I give up hope and start working on a new project. My energy starts to return. I don't care anymore about Shameless Corruption. 

Then an email arrives accepting the novel for epublication, and a date is agreed. Way-hay! I need a blurb now, and I need it fast. I read Shameless Corruption (yet) again. I ask myself, 'what is it about'? I consult the synopsis. Useless. I go through the book, picking out key events, change points for the main characters, emotional highs and lows, choices faced. I cut 65,000 words down to 400, then 300, then 200. Still none of the 20 versions completely satisfy but I have narrowed it down to three main angles. Is it:

   a) To help some business colleagues, Caroline infiltrates a plot to fix the result of the World Cup and ends up in the thrall of the syndicate leader;
   b) To her surprise, Caroline finds the casino exciting, and her reckless gambling takes her to a dark place;
   c) Caroline has until the final whistle of the World Cup to choose between two men, one a dangerously wealthy gambler, the other her husband.

I consult a friend who has worked in films and on games, and she reads my blurbs, confirming they don't cut the mustard. She helps me find the key point, the crux, the choice Caroline makes to go this way or that way. Another ten versions, and I'm still not sure which one will appeal to 'readers', whoever they may be. So I test the blurbs out with a group of writing friends, getting them to tell me which blurbs and phrases work for them. That was REALLY helpful.  And even more helpful, they told me which phrases were likely to make them give the book a miss. Of course, one 200 word piece is not going to impress everybody, but at last I was getting close to something I was happy with.

They told me that angle (c) is the way to go, especially since the choice is not as obvious as it seems. If she chooses to turn down the wealthy man, she risks a lifetime of servitude in a Macau brothel.

I sent the new blurb off to the publisher. Almost by return, I got an enthusiastic, "fantastic. That's great, Robert, but could you get that down to one sentence?"

Bangs head on desk.

The 200 word version is HERE on my author website. Does my blurb work for you? If you have blurb experiences to recount, or snappy blurbs to share, just hit the comment button.

Fashion show

You look back and you think, 'How did that happen?' How did Caroline get addicted to gambling? With a bit of perspective, I can see that she was bored at work. She normally puts every ounce of her energy into her career, and I guess that energy found a new outlet when she agreed to help some business colleagues that she met at a Milan fashion show. Here's a sneak preview from Shameless Corruption which will be published in June.

With the third wave of models, lights flashed on and off and dry ice swirled across the stage, giving the stunned audience glimpses of the fashion future. Nipples poked through holes in flimsy bras or were brazenly displayed on a balcony quarter cups. Thongs framed perfect bottoms and only half concealed the models’ shaven crotches. Assorted chokers, bracelets, anklets and chains hinted at dungeons and danger.

Caroline was on the edge of her seat, staring open mouthed at the parade of near naked women. She couldn’t relate to the women or the clothing. There was nothing real about it. Cosimo leaned over and spoke into her ear above the loud music, pointing at a pair of knickers constructed of loops of material which followed the contours of the model’s arse.

“I would like to see that piece on you. Your derriere would do it justice.”

“In your dreams, Cosimo. They only make this stuff in tiny sizes.” Caroline imagined the loops of silver material gracing her rear, but then saw herself getting caught on a door handle and pulling the whole thing off.

Cosimo poured more champagne into Caroline’s glass and harangued the ex-footballer turned fashionista. “Such a waste, Giovanni. Why can’t you make clothes for a normal, beautiful woman?”

Giovanni laughed. “Patience, my friend. We have a short break now, then you will see the exotic range. Those models have a real woman’s figure.”

...Before Bertrand could drag Caroline off for a private meeting, lights started flashing and a drum roll built to a crescendo. While the audience fixed their eyes expectantly on the stage, ten models appeared on the floor of the hall, one for each of the tables. Photographers crowded in to capture the moment the models climbed on the tables, firing a frenzy of rapid flashes. The stunt allowed the audience a close up view of Giovanni’s exotic range as the models turned, bent, and gyrated to the beat of the drums.

As Giovanni had promised, the models had breasts, thighs, and hips, of sufficient curvature to display the sculpted underwear. A scientist would have marvelled at the properties of modern fabrics, infused with exactly the correct percentage of Lycra to stay intimate with the skin. An economist would have been impressed at the use of such a small amount of material in an expensive item of clothing. An artist would have been proud to have painted such designs straight on to the models’ bodies.

Close to their audience, the models engaged the eyes of the watchers. They put on a burlesque show, hooking their fingers into the magic fabric and sliding the bottoms down a little way, and pushing out their breasts. The ten models in different outfits moved from table to table, giving each party an eyeful of the latest exotic fashions. Cosimo insisted on helping the models down from their table, chattering away to them in Italian; anxious, he explained to Giovanni, that they should not sprain an ankle.

One very attractive model had red hair like Caroline’s, only cut in a bob. She smiled at Caroline and gave her a wink. Her outfit was black, with high waisted bottoms and a full cupped bra, but with sheer triangular cut outs in random places, figure shaping but hinting at availability. It was Caroline’s turn to lean over to Cosimo.

“Now that’s more my thing. I could even wear it under a business suit.”

Cosimo pointed at Caroline and then at the model. “Giovanni, she likes this one. Can she have it?”

“Of course, but she must try it for size first.” Giovanni stood and spoke in the model Letizia’s ear. “Please take my guest Caroline to the changing area when you have circled every table.”

Small Fortune

Some people have commented via social media that I can't be a real lawyer because I never blog about my work*. That supposition is what we lawyers call a non sequitur. Let me demonstrate. Some of my clients also accuse me, when a case is lost, that I'm not a real lawyer. I counter with the correction that incompetence is every bit as real as competence. What they mean is qualified. It is perfectly possible to be incompetent and qualified at the same time. I'm not saying I'm incompetent, not at all, but that quality is all around for us to see. I choose to write about other people's incompetence and not my own, not from a position of superiority, but because we can derive amusement, and even comfort, from the trials of others.

Of course, people will also ask, "Is Robert Fanshaw a real writer?" or, "Is his wife really the finance director of Monsaint Medical Instruments?" Or, as somebody remarked yesterday, "If Caroline didn't realise that gambling is dangerously addictive then she's pretty stupid."

I to leapt to her defence at this criticism. There's a lot you could say about Caroline, but she's no more stupid than you or I. She's very good with numbers and can calculate odds quicker than I can. So stupidity does not explain her sudden fascination with different forms of gambling. She started with a little light roulette, moved onto blackjack, learnt to play high-stakes poker, and then she texted me from the Kranji racecourse, the HQ of the Singapore Turf Club. She gave me a tip she had received from a Chinese acquaintance, a certain Mr Nim, for a guaranteed winner in the last race. Mr Nim was so certain that Caroline placed a small fortune on it.


The horse's name, in case you follow racing, is Oceans Flow. Look out for it. Really, it's a good horse. I hope it wins you some money. If you want to find out how it ran on that fateful evening in Singapore, you can look up the racing results, or wait until June for the full story, when Shameless Corruption storms up the straight of the Amazon ebook charts.

I've been drafting up some 'blurbs' for the publisher. Here's part of one...

Caroline’s marriage is already in trouble when she infiltrates a gambling syndicate that is planning to fix the result of the World Cup. Introduced to the suave Mr Nim, she learns to gamble with the high rollers, but when beginner's luck runs out, loses far more than just her money...

*The reason I don't write about commercial law is that if it bores me, it would bore you even more.

Shameless Corruption

I have some news for followers of the adventures of my wife, Caroline. Shameless Corruption, the third novel in the Shameless series, will be published by Steam eReads in June this year. The publishers also handled the first two novels, Shameless Ambition and Shameless Exposure , all available as reasonably priced ebooks from Amazon . Each novel stands alone  and you don't have to read them in any particular order. But Ambition and Exposure are a useful, lightly fictionalised background to the current predicament Caroline and I find ourselves in. If you want to experience the full impact of Shameless Corruption, you are advised to get reading.

As I have hinted in previous posts, Caroline and I are having problems with our relationship. Between you and me, I'm not sure we will still be living together by the end of the World Cup tournament in Brazil. The 'D' word is in the air. My instinct is not to talk about it, but the counsellor at Marital Solutions said it would be good if I discussed things more with trusted friends. I know I can trust you, dear reader, but please bear in mind this is only one side of the story. Caroline would probably explain it differently.

Neither of us have been saints during the four years we have been married (to which a quick glance at the books above will attest). But when Caroline was promoted to Finance Director of Monsaint Medical Instruments, it was not the job either of us expected. We both thought she would be crunching numbers at their HQ in Stratford, East London. But Ivan, the former FD of Monsaint, who got the top job, wouldn't let go of the numbers, and has used Caroline as a kind of deputy chief executive, sending her on all the trips abroad he didn't want to make himself. Monsaint has operations in Europe and South America, and next on the agenda is China and the Far East, so I have hardly seen Caroline for three days in a row over the last six months, and when I do, she is 'too tired' for the things most married people do. My work is based in London, a commute from where we live in Guildford, and I generally get my clients to come to me because I work in the London courts. I'm just saying it's not me who is away all the time.

When Caroline gets tired she struggles to control her tendency to pick faults with others, i.e. me. I try not to accuse her of nagging, but that is what it is. For years she has complained about me going to football matches (Manchester United - there's no need to feel sorry for me) and having modest wagers, nothing more than a hundred pounds, on the outcome of certain matches and the occasional horse race.

So it's a little ironic, isn't it, that she called me the other day from Italy, where she was meant to be renegotiating Monsaint's bank loans, to say she was staying another few days to learn how to play high-stakes poker from her 'friend' and casino owner, Prince Lippi?

Always Read the Brochure

I didn’t dare risk revealing my ignorance by asking a question. I was still wondering what I had been so honest about in the profile that Caroline must have completed for me. Was it the football or the jealousy? Or did I have a failing of which I was not yet aware?

“No? So let’s start with what matters. How long is it since you last had sex? With each other, I mean.”

Caroline stared straight ahead. “I think it was when we were on holiday in the Caribbean. Last October.”

“Is that your recollection, Robert?”

I looked at Caroline. “What about that time in December you came home drunk from the Monsaint Christmas party?”

“If you say we did, then we did. But it’s not proper sex if I don’t remember it, is it?”

“Let’s not worry about details,” said Valerie. “It’s clear from what both of you are saying that your sexual relationship has ground to a halt. You’ve both been very brave to admit that by coming here. Can you tell me, one at a time, why you think that has happened? Caroline first.”

“I think… Of course we’re both very busy at work and the opportunities have been limited.”

“Go on.”

“I think Robert’s gone off me. He’s more interested in Manchester United. He keeps making hurtful comments about my appearance, my weight.”

“What comments?” I said, but got no further. Valerie told me to wait my turn.

“Go on, Caroline.”

“Robert makes no allowance for the pressures of my job. He thinks I swan off abroad for the fun of it when actually I’m working really, really hard. He expects me to jump into bed the minute I get back home but I need time to relax first.”

Valerie nodded. “I understand. Now you, Robert. How do you explain the recent lack of sex in your relationship with Caroline?”

I looked at Caroline and wondered if I dared tell the truth, that I was wracked by a crippling jealousy, the image of Caroline in the arms of another man. The lack of opportunity was a smokescreen; it hadn’t stopped us in the first few years of our marriage. I had no idea which comments about Caroline’s appearance she had misunderstood. I thought she was drop-dead gorgeous. The trouble was, so did certain other men in her life.

“I can’t explain it.” Well, I couldn’t. I couldn’t explain how she had allowed herself to be seduced by an old boyfriend. Not just seduced, but painted naked in loving detail for the whole world to see. How she brushed off my concerns as me being old-fashioned, and how even now she went all misty-eyed when recalling those evenings in his studio in Whitechapel. Valerie fixed me with her sympathetic smile and told me not to worry; that most men find it hard to talk about their difficulties in the bedroom.

“No, you misunderstand. I don’t have difficulties in the bedroom, I…”

“Yes?”

“I mean, everything works all right. It’s just that Caroline’s mind seems to be somewhere else. She doesn’t seem interested.”

“I see. Thank you, Robert. Thank you Caroline. I know this isn’t easy. But as you know from the literature, we don’t focus too much on analysing the past. The most important thing is the present and the future. And we know from our research that the key is to re-establish physical intimacy, starting from today. But not with each other. First we must rule out any physical, organic or behavioural problems. Are you happy to proceed with the session?” Caroline nodded. I wished, not for the first time, that I’d read the brochure, but I nodded assent.

Caroline drags me to marital therapy

The trees on Fulham Broadway had a sprinkle of white blossom, but it was with little hope that I climbed the stairs behind Caroline up to the first floor office of the Marital Solutions Counselling and Therapy Clinic. The place had been recommended to Caroline by her friend Xena, and Caroline had dragged me there for what she described as my last chance.

We were met by a receptionist in a white coat and directed towards a waiting room, the walls decorated with posters about erectile dysfunction. Clinic literature showing naked couples having air-brushsed sex was scattered on occasional tables beside the pale green chairs. Thankfully we were the only couple in the waiting room, but I still felt I had to talk in a whisper.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Caroline? In my experience talking about things makes things worse, not better.”

“According to Xena, it’s not just about talking. They have male and female therapists who help you overcome problems with a physical or emotional cause. They say they can get you started again.”

“Couldn’t we go to an expensive hotel for the weekend? Wouldn’t a couple of days in bed with room service do the trick?”

“And what happened when we tried to find a weekend in between my business trips? You said you were going to a football match.”

“It wasn’t any football match. It’s the one that will decide the season.”

“You don’t have any insight, do you? We have to do something now or there’s no point in living together any longer.”

“I don’t know how you can say…” The sense of injustice that surged in me every time Caroline spoke was thankfully stemmed by the appearance of a woman with a mass of frizzy hair held up with a colourful headband.

“Good morning,” she announced, like she really believed it. “My name is Sheila Mavistock and I will be your counselor for the initial diagnostic sessions. You must be Caroline and Robert? I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you. You sound like wonderful people from your profiles.” Profiles? I didn’t recall completing a profile. Caroline gave me the look which said, Don’t say anything.

Sheila gave me a warm smile. “It’s unusual for a man to be so honest. That’s a good sign. I’m sure we’ll be able to help. Come this way.”  She led us to a room which was a cross between a lounge and a library. Shelves with psychology books lined the walls, heavy curtains framed the windows, and musty old sofas completed the look of Carl Jung’s study. She pointed us to a deep red damask three-seater sofa. We sat at either end.

“Time is precious so I’m going to assume you’ve read about our programme. It’s designed for busy, successful people and is proven to work by our own dedicated research team. The references are in the brochure at the back. Do you have any questions before we start?”

For more Shameless stories go to My author page