Watch a Novel Grow - Chapter 1

Chapter One

The queue snaking ahead of Juliette promised to gobble up the rest of her morning – but, given that it was necessary to take her to France, there was not a shred of resentment in her heart. Not, at least, until the gunmen burst through the double doors behind her.

She’d got to the French Embassy at eight that morning, thinking that the early bird catches a place in the queue reasonably close to the front. No such luck. She learned from the man in front of her in the queue that the first visa applicants had arrived at six thirty if not earlier.

“Sign of the times,” he’d said. “Exponential growth in tourist numbers. That delightful little Greek island with the unspoiled beaches and the undiscovered taverna that serves the best grilled calamari in the world? Forget it. The beach is now knee-deep in Brits, the taverna’s been joined by a dozen others, and they all serve indifferent moussaka and no calamari, because the calamari’s all being exported to Japan.”

“You’re very cynical,” an amused Juliette said.

“A tad, I suppose,” he said.

“And if you’re going to Greece, what are you doing in the French Embassy?”

“I would be going to Greece if I had any choice in the matter…”

“Beaches knee-deep in Brits notwithstanding?”

“… Beaches knee-deep in Brits notwithstanding, because there are still a couple of unexploited islands, with just one or two absolutely deserted beaches.”

“Islands like…?” Juliette asked with a trace, she realized, of coquettishness.

“Now that,” he said with a boyish grin, “would be telling, wouldn’t it? And before I know it, you and your two hundred closest friends would be staking their claim to the last bits of my pristine beach!”

She found herself responding to him with unexpected relief. Relief because he was so very different from Rob, who would somehow have managed to drench every word of their interchange with self-pity.

“So where are you going?” she asked.

“Paris,” he said, as the queue shuffled a foot forward.

“Oh, so am I,” she said.

“But I’m going on business, and doing business in Paris is like going to Pisa without bothering to check out the tower.”

Juliette was about to tell him that on the agenda of her trip was just one word – pleasure – when the three men sporting AK47s burst in through the doors besides the lifts and ordered everyone to get down and empty their wallets or purses onto the floor at their side.

For a moment the words didn’t penetrate. Lie on the floor, thought Juliette – whatever for?

But then she felt herself being pulled to the ground by the man ahead of her – she found herself thinking, stupidly, that she still didn’t know his name. Someone screamed, a shrill cry of sheer terror, just ahead of her in the queue. And suddenly she felt her own heart in her chest beating like a jack-hammer.

A burst of gunfire silenced the scream, and Juliette found herself trying in vain to sink through the institutional carpet beneath her, and thinking (stupidly, again) that surely, surely the French of all people should have carpeted their embassy in a more attractive material than the mottled chocolate brown and beige industrial strength carpet on which she, and the ninety three other victims of the armed robbery were lying prostrate. (She found out there were 93 of them when she read the newspaper reports of the robbery later.)

Her neighbour, the man with strong views about the downside of tourism, was whispering to her.

“They want the cash you brought to pay for your visa. It’s not worth arguing. Just give it to them.”

Juliette found herself scrabbling in her handbag for her purse. She unzipped it and slipped out the wad of banknotes she’d retrieved only an hour before from an ATM.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” she hissed at her neighbour.

“Just put it on the carpet.”

She did. A moment later a hand dipped into her field of view, snapped up the banknotes, and disappeared. She risked a peek upwards, and saw the two balaclava’d men systematically working their way along the lines of slumped bodies, picking up cash at every step, stuffing the money into a couple of bank bags. The third man, also anonymous in a black balaclava, was standing at the counter behind which three or four French officials were cowering, his weapon sweeping nervously from one to the other.

“Did they hit anyone?” she whispered to her confidante whose trousers had risen up on his calves revealing a pair of rather fetching scarlet socks.

“Shot into the ceiling,” he whispered back.

“That was thoughtful of them… What are we going to do?”

“Wait until they’re gone. They won’t be long I shouldn’t imagine.”

And, indeed, they weren’t. A minute later there was a whispered interchange between the three men and then, as suddenly as they’d arrived, they disappeared. A moment later and one of the terrified French officials had pressed a panic button, and an alarm was wailing urgently and dozens of dazed robbery victims were picking themselves up off the floor, complaining in increasingly strident tones about the fact that it was now impossible for them to apply for their visas, and that it was a shame that the French insisted on being paid in cash, and that in any event…

Which last grumble was interrupted by the senior French official emerging from their glass cage and announcing that the visa section of the embassy would be closing forthwith, but that all of the people who’d just been robbed should leave their names and contact details with an official who’d be setting up a table at the lift. The embassy apologised for any inconvenience travelers would suffer from the delay, but pointed out that the robbery was hardly of their making.

***

“The French have a talent for shrugging off their responsibilities,” Jonathan Nesbit said an hour later as he swirled the dregs of his second cappuccino around his coffee cup.

He and Juliette were setting in the nearest branch of Vida. After they’d scrawled their names on a sheet of paper, together with mobile and landline numbers, he’d introduced himself and suggested a restorative cup of coffee. Juliette had been quick to agree.

“Actually,” she said, “after that initial shock, there wasn’t anything really too terrible about the experience. ”

“The burst of automatic gunfire had me going for a moment, there,” Jonathan said.

“It didn’t sound as loud as it generally is in the movies,” Juliette said. “So it didn’t seem quite as real.” She mused for a moment. “Paradox, right?”

“Actually,” Jonathan said, dipping his teaspoon into what remained of his froth, “I thought you were pretty brave.”

“Brave? Me? I’m the most cowardly person in the world!” said Juliette. “The only reason I wasn’t wetting my pants is, it all seemed so… ordinary.”

“That’s my point. Now, take that woman who screamed…”

“Oh,” said Juliette, “she was probably only the one there who really appreciated the significance of what was going on. We should all be praising her for responding appropriately… Anyway, coffee was a good idea. Thank you for thinking of it.” She dipped into her handbag and came up with her purse. Then realized. “Oh. I don’t actually have any money… although if there’s an ATM around…”

“No, no, no, no, no,” said Jonathan. “This is on me, really. I invited you, remember?”

“And you didn’t give them your money?”

“Well, not all of it, actually.”

He slipped a note out onto the table and caught the eye of a waitress.

“Listen, I think something good might come of this…”

“What? We’ll rethink our plans of going to France and save ourselves a packet in the process?”

“Not exactly,” he said, laying a business card down on the table in front of her, but covering it with his hand while he continued. “I’m a television producer, as it happens, and we’re looking for someone to play a new character we’re introducing in one of our drama series in the next month or so, and it strikes me, chatting to you, that you’d make a really good Charlize.”

“Charlize?”

“Well, we do tend to borrow names from the world of stage and screen,” he said, with a slight air of apology.

“She wouldn’t mind if she found out?”

“I doubt that it would occupy her mind for a split second if she did. Anyway, my point is, why don’t you give it a try? Here are my contact details.”

He uncovered the card and she examined it. Jonathan Nesbit. Executive Producer. Millenium Film and Television. Then she looked across at him quizzically.

“How do you know I’m not a frantically busy… eye surgeon? Or the marketing director of some fabulously new age range of beauty products? Or a trapeze artist…?”

“Well, in an hour of conversation you haven’t once touched on what you actually do for a living, so I drew my own conclusions.”

“Which are?”

“That you are someone who…” He pursed his lips.

“You’d better be very careful,” she said.

“Oh, I am being extremely careful l!”

“Well, go on, then.”

“… Someone in search of a vocation.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t mean to sound… paternalistic…”

“I should hope not!”

“… but perhaps this might be it. You’re fresh and you’ve got a great sense of energy that I think would come across well on the screen – and of course you’re extremely attractive…”

“Pardon me, but that’s the wildest exaggeration I’ve heard all day,” Juliette said. But her curiosity was piqued, there was no doubt about that. “What television series are we talking about here?”

“The Parks.”

Juliette’s mouth dropped open involuntarily. “The Parks?”

“I know it’s only a soap opera, but…”

“Only a soap opera!” she said. “It’s the biggest thing on television. The whole country watches it!”

“Well,” he said, modestly, “we do have good audience ratings, that’s true, but…”

“Ohmigod,” Juliette said, aware even as she continued breathlessly that she must be coming across, “it’s the only television programme I watch! It’s the only television programme my friends watch!
You’re not serious!?”

“Serious about what, exactly?”

“You think I’d stand a chance? Of being cast? I’m not an actress! Hundreds of professionals must be standing in line!”

“Actually, quite often we find the best people to play the parts of soapie characters aren’t professionals at all. And any suggestion of professional gloss on the character I have in mind would kill it stone dead. So, yes, I do think you stand a chance.” He pushed his chair away from the table. “Look, think about it, and if you decide you want to do the audition, just give me a ring.”

He was on his feet now. He stuck out a hand at her. “It’s been a pleasure being robbed with you,” he said, as she shook it. And then he was gone, leaving Juliette in something of a daze.
The Parks? It was of course, impossible. He was being flattering in the way that some men couldn’t help being. But for once she actually felt flattered. In a good way, she told herself, reaching for her coffee, then grimacing as she realized it was cold. She weighed his little blue and gold business card. It was a hopeless thought. He was being flattering and kind. Impulsively she dropped the card into her nearly-empty coffee cup, then rose to go.

She was out of the door and back into winter sunshine. Then she turned and dashed back into the shop, startling a waitress who’d piled their coffee cups atop each other and was turning to take them to the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Juliette said. I’ve left something behind… Excuse me…” She peered into the cup of coffee on the waitress’s tray. Nothing there. It must be the one beneath. She lifted the top cup. Ah. There it was. She reached in, past the startled waitress. “Excuse me. Silly mistake. Got it.”

She tucked the stained calling card into her bag and, without catching the disapproving eye of the waitress, hurried out.

***

“It smells of coffee. Why does it smell of coffee?” asked Bronwyn, later.

“It’s a long story. But the point isn’t the smell of coffee—the point is, he’s asked me to audition for The Parks! Isn’t that the most fabulous thing that’s ever happened to anyone?” said Juliette.

She was back in her flat with her oldest friend in all the world, someone who, Juliette knew, would appreciate more than anyone else the truly remarkable events of the morning.

Naturally, Bronwyn was much less interested in the armed robbery than she was in the encounter with Jonathan Nesbit.

“But if he carries around little coffee-stained calling cards in his wallet, then I doubt he’s quite the flawless producer you seem to think he is,” said Bronwyn. Juliette had forgotten just how obstinate and dogged she could be.

“He doesn’t keep coffee-stained cards in his wallet!”

“Then why is this card coffee-stained?”

“Oh, Bronwyn, please, just accept that it wasn’t coffee-stained when he gave it to me!”

“You stained it?”

“I dropped it in my coffee cup…”

“Deliberately?”

“Well, I didn’t think there was any point in phoning him. I mean, I’m not an actress…”

“But you said he said they liked non-professionals?”

“He did. But I didn’t think he meant it.”

“You thought he was hitting on you?”

“Well,” said Juliette cautiously, “perhaps I did, at one point.”

“Is he dishy?”

“Quite, I suppose. But a little older. Not too old, but older.”

“So?”

“So, what, Bronwyn? We’re not talking about a producer who may or may not be dishy – we’re talking about my career!”

“Your career? I thought you said you didn’t think you could do it?”

“I can’t. Obviously. I’ve never acted in anything since we were angels in that Christmas thingymajig in nursery school.”

“But now it’s your career?”

“Stop it, Bron. I’m confused…”

“And so you should be. I might be your best friend, but I can’t stand by when I see you deluding yourself like this. Look at it logically. You’re not an actress. And you know and I know and Jonathan Nesbit knew that you’re not about to become a television star. All his talk about The Parks is just so much baloney.”

“So he was just trying to get into my pants?” asked Juliette.

“Sadly, yes. So I’m going to throw this card in the bin, and then we’re going to sit down and have some tea and talk about where on earth we’re going to get the cash to replace the money you so carelessly allowed to be stolen from you this morning.”

Bronwyn could be infuriating. And the worst thing about her was that she was almost always right. Juliette sighed and handed her friend the coffee-stained business card.

“All right. You win,” she said.

“Come on, it’s half past six,” said Bronwyn.

“Ohmigod,” said Juliette, “where’s the remote.”

A minute later, they were ensconced in front of the television set watching the latest goings on in The Parks.

***

Later that night, though, after Bronwyn was fast asleep – Juliette knew, because even though Bronwyn always slept with her door very firmly closed, her snore, though genteel, was for some reason very penetrating – she crept through to the kitchen, opened the bin, and with pursed lips forced herself to dig through the detritus of the evening meal. It didn’t take long to find the card – although now the coffee stains were joined by a large gravy blotch and what looked suspiciously like blood. Then she remembered that Bronwyn had cut herself with the potato peeler. Yuch.  Juliette carefully wiped off the worst of the congealing gravy – the blood appeared to be indelible – checked that Jonathan Nesbit’s number was still readable, and returned hurriedly to her room where she tucked the card into her underwear drawer.

***

She was lying awake thinking about the audition when the alarm went off at five the next morning, and all the way to the indoor pool she trained in religiously every morning she continued to consider the possibilities of life in front of the cameras.

She supposed that she was a modest person, although she loved the limelight as much as any normal twenty four-year-old. But acting? With a bunch of people who really knew what they were doing? How did that compare with what she had done in her life thus far? She’d modeled lingerie briefly, until she realized that half of the shots the eager-beaver photographer had taken of her were ending up on a website whose prime objective was most definitely not selling ladies’ underwear… She’d waited in half a dozen restaurants. She’d worked briefly for a website design house, writing content for a range of ho-hum oh-so-boring company magazines. She’d enjoyed the work though – and had tried always to inject more drama into her descriptions of her clients’ activities than they really deserved. Come to think of it, that’s why, in the end, she’d been politely asked to take a hike. She’d worked on a cruise ship once for a couple of months, as an assistant to the pilates instructor. Bronwyn had warned her that half the crew would be all over her within minutes of leaving port – but actually only the pilates instructor had got at all steamy with her, and that would have been fine except that the pilates instructor’s name was Heather Crowshaw, and whatever else Juliette was happy to try – once – a shipboard romance with an over-eager lesbian musclewoman was not one of them.
What, she wondered, as she made her way down to the pool house, swathed in a nimbus of pre-dawn mist, was the common denominator in all that? Nothing that she could see. Except for a pathological inability to identify whatever it was she really wanted to do with her life.

She tugged at one of the large sliding doors that led into the pool area. It slid open silently. She closed it behind her, went to the bench on which she customarily left her kitbag, towel and the rest of it, and noted that she was not alone.

The heated Linden swimming pool would be crowded with early morning swimmers by seven – but at six she was often the only swimmer. Bronwyn, who claimed to be allergic to chlorinated water, said that it would give her the creeps to swim all on her own in a large pool covered, as the Linden pool was at this time of the morning, in a shroud of mist.

She didn’t think much of the kitbag. It was gold and brown. Impractical, she thought – and rather too honeybee-ish. The sandals were better. Leather and well-worn. A size ten or eleven, she thought. So the invisible swimmer – she could hear the sound of his progress up and down one of the central lanes in the pool, but the mist was thick enough to obscure a whole squadron of aquanauts – was male.
She left her stuff on a more distant bench nearer the shallow end, donned her goggles, and dived in, hoping that she wouldn’t meet up with the owner of the honey-bee kitbag. She realized a few seconds later that he was in the next lane, catching sight of a lean body powering past her.

She settled into her routine: five lengths of breast-strike, five of crawl, until she’d completed the forty that was her daily goal: a full kilometer. She was distantly aware at some point that her solitary companion had left the pool – and when she eventually pulled herself out, there was no evidence that he’d ever existed but for a set of wet footprints.

***

“I’ve made up my mind,” she told Bronwyn half an hour later as she sipped at a cup of coffee at the breakfast table. “No more silly ideas. They’ve got me into enough trouble already.”

“What are you thinking of? Heather Crowshaw?”

“Among other things. It’s time for me to be sensible.”

“So you’ll get rid of the card that you fished out of the rubbish bin last night?” Bronwyn asked sweetly.

“How did you know? You’ve been snooping again, haven’t you? Well, I think it’s… it’s… it’s no more than I deserve. Yes, of course I’ll get rid of it. It was a momentary weakness, soon overcome.”

“I don’t believe you,” Bronwyn said.

“Believe me or believe me not,” Juliette said loftily, “it is the true. I have made up my mind. I am adamant.”

“Then where’s the card?”

“The card? What card? Oh, that card. Did I say, I will get rid of it? More accurately, I have already got rid of it. I have…discarded it. There. That was clever, wasn’t it? Not throwing it away, although that was also clever, but the way I put it.” But before Bronwyn could demand any further details, she added, “On the way to the pool. I thought, what am I doing with this bloody, gravy’d, coffee’d card? It is a chapter in my life that I have chosen to cancel.”

“So what did you do with it?”

“I threw it out the window. Oh, I know there are laws, and I know I should be ashamed of myself, but then, there you are. A possible chapter of my life lies in the gutter somewhere between here and Linden pool. So sad.”

She smiled brightly at Bronwyn, who continued to look at her suspiciously, and would undoubtedly have continued her interrogation had the front doorbell not rang at that precise second.

“I’ll get it,” Juliette said, on her feet and heading for the door in an instant.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Bronwyn called after her. “Rob called to say he was popping round…”

“Rob?!”

But the door was already open and there stood the sorry figure of Juliette’s ex, Rob Whelan.

“Hello, Julie,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” she asked without much grace, she had to admit, but then the sight of Rob didn’t inspire graciousness of any sort in her.

“I came to see you,” he said.

“Well, that’s kinda obvious, I’d’ve thought. But what did you come to see me for?”

“You know,” he said.

One of the things that had initially charmed her about Rob, and later driven her to distraction, was his habit of assuming that she understood him.

“I do not know,” she said now. “Explain.”

“To patch things up.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Rob, there’s nothing to patch up. We are defunct. Extinct. Non-existent. We are everything thing those guys said about the parrot.”

“The Goons.”

“No, not the Goons. Monty Python.”

“I’d swear it was the Goons.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, it doesn’t matter. The point is, there is nada to patch up, okay.”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked with that disarming grin that, like his assumption she would always understand him, began by charming her, and ended by driving her up the wall.

“Actually, no, I’m not going to invite you in. If your only object is to ‘patch things up’, then there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Well, then, perhaps we could talk about something else?” Another flash of that boyish grin. Fuck, hadn’t he developed any other strategies?

“And then again,” she said coolly, “perhaps we couldn’t.”

And she shut the door in his startled face. And found herself experiencing a minor panic attack as she stumbled back to the table.

“You all right?” asked Bronwyn.

“No, I’m not. I wish you’d told me he was coming!”

“But I did, I did,” Bronwyn cried.

“Like, ten seconds earlier, Bronwyn!”

“I’m sorry.”

“He’s such an arsehole.”

“I know.”

“An emotional parasite, that’s all he is.”

“Who you don’t have to see ever again.”

“A miserable little weasel who just feeds off anyone who’s got an ounce of real energy. The Goons?! How could he even think the Goons did the parrot sketch?”

“Don’t think about him again, Juliette. He’s not worth it.”

“What if all men are like him? Have you thought of that?” Juliette said, as the thought struck her.

“Of course they aren’t,” said Bronwyn stoutly.

“How would you know, Bron?” And then, realizing the cruelty of the remark, instantly added: “The only man in the world who isn’t a bloody psychic leech probably has your name inscribed on him.” And
then, a moment later: “God, I can’t wait to get to Paris!”

To read the blog about the writing of this novel, click here.