Say It Like You Mean It

By

Chambers Mars

Copyright © 2016 Chambers Mars

Written by Chambers Mars - http://chambersmars.weebly.com

Cover Design by The Carter Seagrove Project LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and contains graphic content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by

The Carter Seagrove Project LLC

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First Edition 2016

Contents

Contents

Author’s Note

Contact Information

Say It Like You Mean It

About the Author

Also by this Author

The Carter Seagrove Project

Author’s Note

I sincerely hope that you enjoy the story. Feedback is especially welcome, and I'm thrilled with the feedback I have received so far, thank you! I would be delighted to hear from you.

Please email me at: chambers.mars@gmail.com

And visit the website, www.chambersmars.weebly.com, for updates on the Johnny series, Zac Tremble Investigates series and other projects.

Thank you!

Chambers Mars

Contact Information

www.carterseagrove.weebly.com

carterseagrove@outlook.com

www.alpmortal.weebly.com

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

alpmortal@hotmail.com

chambers.mars@gmail.com

@carterseagrove

www.facebook.com/thecarterseagroveproject

IMDb

Say It Like You Mean It

“Lucy; I don’t know if I can go through with this.”

“But you have to. Everyone wants to say thank you for what you’ve done. Saint Mark’s wouldn’t exist if it hadn’t been for you.”

“I raised some money; it was nothing very imaginative.”

“Ten million, Tom ... you’ve lived and breathed Saint Mark’s for the last five years. It’s time to celebrate ...”

Maybe I did, and maybe it is. But nothing is going to bring Brook back. It all came too late for him.

“... Shake hands, say a few words and enjoy yourself - and then move on, Tom.”

“Closure?”

“Of a sort. He’d be so proud.”

“He loved nothing more than getting up on the stage and making a complete fool of himself ... anything to make you laugh.”

“He was special - no mistake. It was damn cruel what happened but something good came out of it.”

“Saint Mark’s?”

“Not just that ... hope. Well; maybe not for everyone, but at least they’ll pass away in peace, knowing that it wasn’t for the want of trying.”

“I guess. Okay. And then I want to slip away quietly.”

“Fine. You need a tux.”

“I have a tux.”

“The one you got married in?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll need to get it altered ...”

We battled the cancer for five years until it finally overtook him and then it was all over before we had a chance to say everything that needed to be said. I didn’t believe it would win - we were stronger. And we were for the most part. The last six months were absolute purgatory - we never gave up hope, and we made a valiant effort. Denial was the strongest medicine, but it also meant that we didn’t face up to the reality until it was too late, and suddenly, I was putting him in the ground.

Just some advice on how to say goodbye would have been really useful. It was that which gave me the idea to raise the money to build the hospice. The doors opened three weeks ago. The gala to which Lucy is insisting that I go is in two weeks’ time.

I want to let go but I don’t know how. And who will Tom Chisholm be after all is said and done? When I needed to be up and out, hammering on doors and thumping on tables, I had a reason to drag my arse out of bed in the morning.

What the fuck am I meant to do now?

oOo

“It would probably be quicker and cheaper if you bought a new one, Mr Chisholm.”

“Please call me Tom. No; it has to be this suit. I don’t care what it costs, but it has to be ready by the 24th.”

“Two weeks ... I’m going to have to practically rip apart every seam and re-line the jacket ...”

Lucy told me about a new place that had opened in the precinct - A Stitch In Time.

“... I’ll need to take some measurements but I don’t do that here - this is really just a glorified counter. Could you come by the workroom?”

“Yes. When?”

“Tomorrow evening, say at around 6 o’clock?”

“Fine ...”

Winterbourne Aldercote. That’s the name on the sign. Neither young nor old; blessed with jet-black hair and green eyes - quite the Celtic Prince. Though there is nothing regal about him - a rather solid, quiet, mild-mannered, and handsome fellow. Brook was brash - but all heart. At the last event we went to before the diagnosis - Lucy’s littlun’s birthday - he was just as happy to play with the kids on the bouncy castle as he was to waltz her gran around the makeshift dance floor - he just had a quality. I wish I could have bottled it because I could seriously do with some of it now.

I spend the evening fruitlessly trying to write the speech that I have to give. Everything I write sounds either stuffy or crass. Brook would know exactly what to say. He could have you laughing one minute and crying the next, begging for more. Abandoning the task, I head to bed. I want to dream of Brook tonight - it’s the only place where I find him these days. My Brook, that is. Not the wasted, skeletal remains that I buried. The young, carefree, slightly dangerous, alluring and sexy musketeer who sold me some life assurance in the morning on the day we first met, and bedded me that evening.

Whenever there were two choices, he’d ask, “Heads or tails?”

“But you don’t have a coin.”

“Heads or tails?” he’d insist.

“Heads ...”

He’d flip the imaginary coin and call it heads every time.

“... You’re such an idiot ...”

Then he’d step up and snake his arms around my neck and press his lips against mine, murmuring, “but an adorable one ...” When he broke off, he’d trail his hands across my neck just beneath my ears, inviting me to come to bed while distracting me with the pound coin that he’d be holding between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

“How-the-fuck?”

He never told me.

I collected ten million - I’d trade them all for the chance to see him do that trick again.

oOo

“Please come in ... Can I offer you a drink?”

“Oh; just some water, please.”

The address that he had written on the back of his business card was not easy to find. I know Compton but not this corner of it. The large Victorian house that I was brought to is mostly hidden from the road by the impressive display of rhododendrons. The neat driveway, which ends at the double garage, is bordered on both sides by laurel. Just where the driveway widens out, a sign, which simply says, ‘The Studio’, points to a path that goes around the corner of the garages and disappears into a conifer jungle. Having parked up and followed the sign, I am lead to a conservatory-style addition to the rear of the house. Another sign, identical to the first, informs me that I have arrived. I ring the quaint old bell and wait for someone to appear.

“Impressive,” I say, trailing him through the conservatory into a kind of day room, which is accessed by double French doors.

“Early Victorian ... I inherited it from my aunt. I would sell it had the batty old bird not written a protective covenant into her will that prevents me from parting with it, and on my death, the house shall be turned into an artists’ retreat ...”

Sharing such intimate personal details seems both odd and seductive at the same time.

“Must cost a fortune to maintain ...”

“She left an annuity for the sole purpose of maintaining the house. Rents being what they are in London, I decided to set up shop here ...”

I am handed a glass of water and invited to step into the studio, which is kitted out as one might expect a tailor’s studio to be, and three tailor’s dummies dominate the space - each is draped in a suit fabric of some kind or another. They look like old school teachers, and when he moves to their side of the big work table, I swear they step forward and peer over his shoulder, seconds away from pointing out the basic error in some algebraic equation.

“I am exceptionally busy right now but I am willing to take your job on and deliver by the 24th ... I realised who you were when you introduced yourself; I take it the suit is for the gala?”

“You know about that?”

“There has been a lot of coverage in the local newspaper ...”

“Yes; it’s for the gala ... I can’t say that I am looking forward to it very much.”

“That’s a pity ... but I think I would feel exactly the same way.”

“It was never about me - I can’t stand being the centre of attention.”

There’s an odd pause - ten seconds is a very long time when you find yourself with nothing to say and you feel as though you are being audited.

“What will you do now?”

The sixty-four trillion dollar question.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“What did you do before?”

“I worked in the Treasurer’s Department at the local council ... I definitely don’t want to go back there.”

I take a sip of the water, wondering if the old school teachers were not, in fact, checking my equation and not his.

“Shall we make a start? And if I’m going to basically take the whole thing apart, I could do whatever you want.”

“I hadn’t given it much thought; I just wanted it to fit properly.”

“Either way, I need your measurements; shall we begin there?”

“Yes, okay.”

“If you could take your jacket off for me ...”

I place the tumbler on the corner of the worktable and take off my jacket, handing it to Winterbourne, who places it on a hanger and pops it on a rail beside the table. His tape measure is strategically - and elegantly - draped around his neck.

“Are those your normal shoes? By that I mean, do the shoes you plan to wear have the same heel?”

“Uhm; about the same.”

“I want to get the break in the trousers just right ... Can you hold out your arms to the side for me, please?”

I was measured for the suit in the first place so I know the format. However, at that time, a crusty old tailor in Guildford measured me for it. Winterbourne is quicker, the pressure of his fingertips is firmer, his breath is sweeter and his shoulders are not heaped with dandruff.

“Just the inside leg-”

“Thirty-one ...”

I cannot contemplate the sensation of his fingers pressing the tip of the tape anywhere near that space. Brook had a way of massaging the zone to bring about a release that resembled champagne exploding from a well-shaken bottle - like those Formula 1 drivers on the podium after the race.

“Are you positive? It’s very important to get-”

“I’m positive ... thank you.”

Normally, Brook would be crouched over me, massaging the bulbs - his term - with his thumbs, his fingers laced together, forming a cradle for my sac, sucking on my crown hard, all the while, smiling with his eyes, occasionally quirking an eyebrow; and when the moment came - literally - he would close his eyes and moan loudly as he sucked me dry - it was as erotic as anything else he used to do to me.

Winterbourne retreats to the far side of the worktable.

“Any preference for the lining?”

Brook and I both had linings of silver grey silk embroidered all over with tiny black Fleur de Lys.

“Could I change it for something plainer?”

“Yes, of course ... I have literally every colour you can imagine ... may I suggest nothing too bright?”

“Why?” I had no plan for anything brighter than maybe oxblood or even a plain grey, but I’m curious as to why Winterbourne should have suggested it.

“An accent on, say, the cummerbund, would be infinitely more elegant ... You’ll forgive me, but a bright lining just reminds me of a poorly-dressed magician on some entertainment show on the television ...”

“I definitely don’t want to be mistaken for Paul Daniels - God rest his soul ... plain, and a cummerbund with some accent or other.”

“Oxblood lining, and I’ll do one of the pleats of the cummerbund in the same colour.”

“What about the bowtie?”

“Black - without question ... or you’ll look like a pretentious Oxford Don ...”

“God forbid ... Is that where you hail from?”

“Oxford? No; I was previously in business in Paris - in Rue Marbeuf ...”

“Is that like Saville Row?”

“A little. Men’s tailoring in Paris does not have the same prominence as it does in London.”

“Why did you leave?”

I’m expecting a complaint about rents, taxes or, based on the last comment, a lack of business. I am totally unprepared for his reply.

“My partner died.”

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, wondering if my presence - and the backstory - has made him recall something that he’d rather have kept to himself.

“No; well ... thank you. He was much older than me, and in poor health ... it was not such a shock when it happened.”

“How long had you been together?”

“Twenty years ... How long were you with yours?”

“Fifteen ... five before we got married, five in wedded bliss, and five in relative purgatory until he was taken from me, which was five years ago ... Actually, for the last five years - since he died - I have felt as if I have still been living with him ... I see his name and photographs everywhere.”

“The campaign to raise money for the hospice?”

“Yes ... the gala will - I hope - finally put him to rest and let me move on.”

Revelations being what they are, we retreat a little. Winterbourne busies himself with writing things down. I look through the swatches of silk for the exact shade of oxblood that I want.

“May I have this one?”

I chose a mid-range shade, one tending towards burgundy rather than maroon.

“Of course; a perfect choice ... I can make a shirt for you ...”

“Oh; I have a dress shirt ... but I expect it’s a little big on me now.”

“A slim-fitting shirt will do you better; anything that doesn’t fit well will simply highlight ...”

“What? Highlight what?”

“How much weight you’ve lost - I’m sorry; that was too personal of me.”

“No; it’s okay ... I have lost weight ... it doesn’t suit me, I know.”

“I wake up at two in the morning with a real craving for cookies - I can demolish a packet of Oreos with no trouble at all ... then I feel guilty and starve myself all day. Pierre was a diabetic; his blood sugar levels were hardly ever stable, and I began to hate the regime, but above all, the yo-yoing between cramming sweet stuff and injecting insulin - I don’t think I have gone out to dinner since he died without automatically looking for his meds to put in my bag.”

“It took me three years after Brook died to stop looking for the ashtray to empty ... he died of liver cancer, not lung cancer.”

“Does it matter?”

“It did to some who assumed because he smoked, that the cancer was self-inflicted and he only had himself to blame.”

“That sounds pretty callous.”

“People are - some people are.”

“So?”

“What?”

“Did you want me to make you a shirt?”

“Oh ... yes; why not?”

“In which case, can I measure your neck for the collar?”

“Sure ...”

Winterbourne grabs the tape measure and steps smartly to my side of the table.

As he slips the tape around my neck, he says, “The most comfortable fit will permit you to slip a finger under your collar without any difficulty ... a fifteen; just as I thought - and a point collar and French cuffs ... cufflinks add a certain maturity and ... well ... panache - that sounds rather pretentious, definitely antiquated ... perhaps I meant style ...”

“I have some cufflinks, the same ones that I - Brook - bought for the wedding ... simple black onyx studs.”

“Sometimes I think that I would have been better ... I mean ... it’s just hard to cope sometimes ...”

He is standing quite close and the tape measure is still around my neck. If he had a mind, he could tug - probably not that hard - and I’d have no choice but to fall against him and probably kiss his mouth. His breath betrays the fact that he had a cigarette about an hour ago, after which he drank a glass of wine - a heavy Bordeaux - and treated himself to a piece of chocolate - there’s a trace of it in the corner of his mouth - a little flake. A piece of mint chocolate, and if I am not mistaken, an Elizabeth Shaw’s mint crisp ... Brook’s favourite.

I see him so clearly. I was walking through the precinct on my way to work. He says, “Why the frown? Is life that bad?”

If it hadn’t been raining, I would have ducked out from under the arcade and scurried off. He approached confidently but not in a way that threatened my space.

“Let’s grab a coffee and I can show you some worked examples that will prove that you can afford a decent life assurance policy - fixed term with bonuses, which I guarantee will put a smile on those lips.” He’d guided me towards the coffee shop without touching me - like he was corralling an errant sheep. “A strong, flat white - am I right? I know how people take their coffee - it’s an instinct ... I’m Brook.”

“Tom-”

“Why don’t you grab a seat in the window and I’ll fetch the coffee ... You’re not going to regret this ...”

I was too far gone to back out at that point. I’d watched as he seduced the barista and the girl on the cash register. I’d found myself wondering all kinds of things as he grabbed sugar and topped off his own Americano with a dash of milk. I’d felt the knot in my stomach begin to unravel as he sat down and slipped a file out of his bag.

“... For little more than the price of a decent pizza a month, you can have complete peace of mind - do you eat pizza?”

“I ... I eat pizza.”

“Excellent! The new Italian in Braithwaite Street does a first rate pizza. No one wants to think about death, do they? We’re all far too young and busy getting on with the serious business of living our lives to worry about what will happen in fifty years’ time ... Do you have plans tonight?”

“Nnnno ... Why do you ask?”

“Well; there would be no point making a reservation for seven-thirty if you were already busy, would there?”

“I suppose not ...”

I was beginning to laugh inside, convinced he was a clown while getting hotter under my collar and tighter in the groin by the second.

“... I don’t know if I’m ready to make a commitment-”

“Fifteen pounds a month - and if you need to take a contribution break, we allow you to stop making the monthly payment for up to three months in each eighteen-month period, as long as you make the first six months’ payments ... no medical and no embarrassing questions - you’re guaranteed to be accepted. They also have an excellent selection of fresh pasta ...”

“What level of cover are you offering?”

“Fifty thousand pounds - and after five years, you can cancel the policy and get your premiums back subject to a small administration fee. However, you would also lose any accrued bonuses ... The tiramisu is to die for - I say that figuratively; I have yet to taste a tiramisu that was actually worth dying for but theirs comes pretty close ... All I need is a signature on this form and a completed direct debit mandate ... What do you say?”

He knew I was hooked. Even if I could suppress the smile, my eyes betrayed my lust.

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course! There’s a cooling off period of fourteen days. If you decide to go ahead, we’ll take the first payment on day fifteen, and monthly thereafter ... you will also receive a state of the art clock radio and a very handsome leather-bound week to view diary ... I don’t think it’s real leather ... It is - at least, I’m pretty sure - the only restaurant in town that serves a genuine Elizabeth Shaw mint crisp with the coffee ... I could throw in a rather attractive Parker fountain pen - in my experience, that usually clinches it.”

“Okay; I’ll go for it.”

“I’ll meet you in Rupert’s at seven ...”

I asked him later what he would have done had I ducked out and had avoided him. He said that he had never considered the possibility.

“Tom?”

“I’m sorry; I have to go.”

“I’ll call you in about a week to arrange the fitting.”

“Yes; fine ...”

I slipped out of the noose that he had around my neck, and escaped, bolting out of the door, and drove like a madman to get home as quickly as possible, only daring to breathe once I was inside and the door was locked.

oOo

“The oxblood worked much better than I had hoped. I think you’re going to really like the result ...”

“I’m sorry that I left rather abruptly last time ...”

“It’s fine.”

I spent the week in a constant state of turmoil. On the one hand, I tried so hard to conjuror up Brook to help me to write the speech, even recruiting Lucy for three consecutive nights to assist, but eventually ripping up the sheets of paper after she had left, confused and angry at not being able to find the words that expressed just what I wanted to say. But every time I tried to think of Brook, I thought of Winterbourne and felt so guilty for doing so. Crucified equally by lust and disloyalty; hot nails of need driven through my palms while thorns of sorrow and regret punctured my sides and brought me to my knees yet I could not stop myself from masturbating even though the pain choked me. I wanted to tear my mind into pieces, rip the heart out of my chest, castrate myself, penetrate myself with broken glass and drown my sorrows in my own blood and burst my lungs so the screams would be silent. I cried for one whole day. When I hurled the toaster through the TV screen, I seriously thought I was totally losing my grip. The doorbell rang. It was next door’s lad. They’re chavs but nice. Brook was on very friendly terms with Daryl, who serviced the car for us. Cindy is the organiser for a weight loss group locally, and yo-yos between roughly 80 and 200 pounds, depending on the season and if Daryl has been playing away from home.

“I think the puppy has crawled under your fence ...”

“What?”

“Derek; he’s crawled under your fence ...”

Ignoring me, the lad - name of Fiennes (criminally pretentious) - walked through to the back and opened the door to belt out the unforgettable, “Derek! Get your arse back home now!”

The baby, blue-coated Staffie had indeed crawled through, and he leapt out from under the shrubbery, looking mightily pleased with himself. Fiennes ripped into the poor little bleeder, who then crumpled in a pitiful heap.

“Gotta say it like you mean it else they’ll try it on every fucking chance they get - Derek; HOME!”

“Say-it-like-you-mean-it ... thank you, Fiennes!”

“Whatever. Mum says to keep the noise down or she’ll be round ...”

After Fiennes and Derek had left, I sat down at the laptop and began the speech afresh. “Good evening, everyone. My husband would know exactly what to say at times like this but unfortunately, he is otherwise engaged ... If you knew Brook, you would know that he was really just the sweetest man who had ever lived - Prince Charming in a clown’s suit ...”

I was off, flying, ready and willing to share the memories of the man I loved in the hopes of explaining why it was so important for me to honour his memory.

oOo

Winterbourne’s face betrays his concern, but it is mingled with something else, and I remember that look now, which I had forgotten for so long.

“I’m looking forward to trying it on ...”

“I’ve put it in the changing area, along with the shirt ... when you’re ready.”

There’s a curtained-off area in the corner of the workroom. I say curtained-off; it’s more like a theatre stage. The curtains are presently drawn and tied back with heavy gold braided cords.

“Kind of theatrical.”

“How often do we wear our best?”

“Not often enough as a rule ...”

Tactfully, Winterbourne lets the curtains down as I enter the space, which is lit from above by a cluster of LEDs. The shirt is hanging on a hanger, along with the suit on its own hanger, both of which are suspended from a short rail, which is affixed to the wall by two ornamental brackets.

I remembered to bring my dress shoes. Kicking off my loafers, I am treated to the sensation of inch-deep shag pile under my stockinged feet - not really stockings ... cashmere and cotton blend socks from M&S. While I’m slipping off my trousers and shirt, I hear Winterbourne moving around the studio and the pop of a cork.

“Wine?”

“Habit - probably a bad one, judging by the number of bottles that I put out for recycling ... I’m just going to iron the pleats in the cummerbund ...”

“Okay ...”

I reach for the shirt and find that it’s silk. I don’t know why, but I thought it would be cotton.

“Oh ...”

“Tom?”

“It’s silk ...”

No reply but I sense that he is smiling at my discovery, and the deep joy that it creates within me - I’ve never owned a silk shirt.

Buttoning the shirt, leaving the top one undone, I have to agree that the fit is perfect; anything baggier would just have highlighted the fact that, these days, I can afford to put on a little weight.

The colour of the lining of the suit is a little lighter than the swatch - but it could also be a function of the brighter lights above my head. It was a wise choice. I slip on the trousers first, finding the seat quite snug but not uncomfortable. There is now a black - yes, silk too - stripe covering both outer seams. The front of the trousers is flat - no pleats - and they taper just so, and once I slip my dress shoes on, break perfectly. It is going to be essential to wear the trunk-style briefs like I have on today to flatten the profile - a bulge is going to be unsightly. The jacket used to have a notch lapel - Winterbourne has changed it to a shawl-style one - the lapels are silk-faced in the same black silk as the seam cover. The jacket is fitted, and ventless like the best Italian suits. The pockets are jetted - classic; the cuff buttons, of which there are three, are stacked. Because the shawl lapel is quite narrow, there is no button hole. I wore a white rose on my wedding day - Brook wore a red one. I forbade him to wear one that squirted water like he threatened to.

I button the jacket and take advantage of the mirror to give myself the once over.

“Tom; everything okay?”

“I should say; I look like a movie star.”

“The cummerbund is ready - did you bring a bowtie?”

“Shit! I forgot.”

“No worries; I made one for you ... Let’s have a look at you then ...”

As I step through the curtains, he gasps ever so slightly, and his eyes - the tailor’s eyes - audit the overall effect. Seemingly, I - and the suit - pass some kind of test.

“Turn round for me; I went for ventless because the boxier look will give you depth ... Okay; let’s finish it off with the cummerbund and the tie ...”

He steps forward; in one hand, he holds the cummerbund. I unbutton the jacket and reach for the band, which is of the type that is tied, not clipped in place, like the old one.

“Take off the jacket; it’ll be easier, and I’ll do you up,” he says, slipping the ends of the band through his fingers as he waits for me to divest myself of the jacket, which I place on an adjacent chair. He steps behind me, encircling my waist with the band, pulling it up to tie off the ends. Once the ends are tied off, he adjusts how the band sits, fidgeting with it so that it lies flatter and is squared off.

“Before you put your jacket back on, I’ll get you to pop the tie on. Without insulting you, can you tie your own?”

“I have to admit to only ever having a clip-style one.”

“I can teach you how to tie it; it’s nothing like as complicated as people would lead you to believe ... stand in front of the mirror for me and relax your shoulders - could you do your top button up for me first?”

“Sure ...”

The collar is snug but I can slip a finger in under the collar and that feels comfortable. After doing up the top button, I turn to face the mirror and purposefully relax my shoulders. When he steps up behind me, my heart skips a beat. Like it used to when Brook would step up behind me when I was at the kitchen counter, making dinner. His hands would sneak around my waist, and before I could protest, his mitts would be inside my trousers and I’d be powerless to resist his guaranteed invasion - I don’t think we ever had dinner on time.

With fingers as slender as pencils, he lifts the collar of the shirt and drapes the tie around my neck, letting it hang, giving me a debonair, if not a slightly raunchy look to feast on for a few seconds before he picks up the ends and adjusts their relative position for the beginning of the lesson. His breath is hot against my neck but I am transfixed by his fingertips as they caress the silk.

“Right ... long end over short end ... pass long end back up behind the short end to form the basis of the knot. Fold the short end to form the first part of the bow, drop the long end back down over the centre, fold the end and pass through the loop that you have just made ... and square up ... easy!”

“Oh my God ... seriously?”

“You try ...”

He pulls it apart before I can stop him.

“Okay ...”

After seven attempts, it still looks like a seven year old did it.

“Maybe I should just wear the old one ...”

“I have a better idea ... I’ll dress you on the night ...”

Throughout the seven attempts, he remained behind me, looking over my shoulder, eyes fixed on my hands, rarely straying to my face, and when they did, they smiled in a sort of benign way, but maybe there was also a pleading in those emerald green pools. Had they been blue, they would have been a little off-putting; brown, too sad.

I seek out those eyes in the mirror; they are downcast.

“Would you ... would you consider being my guest?”

About the Author

I am French and the author of 'Zac Tremble Investigates', the case files of Zachary Tremble, the gay PI, and the series - The Life & Times of Johnny Santé.

I also collaborate with Alp Mortal and we publish as Carter Seagrove, the author of Dust Jacket and The Inspector Fenchurch Mysteries.

Together with Shannon M. Kirkland we are The Carter Seagrove Project LLC an independent book publisher.

I come from a small village called St. Hilaire in the department of Haute Saone. I'm currently living in St Tropez with my dog Pinocchio.

A world travelling, art collecting/dealing, dog loving, vegan, Buddhist!

I am always happy to receive your feedback and if you wish to email me direct, you can at chambers.mars@gmail.com.

Visit the website, chambersmars.weebly.com, for updates on the next publication which I am working on and The Carter Seagrove Project website, for updates on our joint projects as well as collaborations with other artists.

Find us at www.carterseagrove.weebly.com, on Twitter @carterseagrove and on Facebook www.facebook.com/thecarterseagroveproject.

Also by this Author

Thank you for choosing to read this story. You may be interested in reading other stories which I have written.

Click the Book Cover to view on The Carter Seagrove Project book gallery where you will find the link for all of the eBookstores where it is currently available.

Some of the titles written with Alp Mortal:

The Carter Seagrove Project

The Carter Seagrove Project LLC, created by authors, Alp Mortal and Chambers Mars and Shannon M. Kirkland is a creative space within which authors and artists are invited to collaborate ... any project is considered which furthers the boundaries of the indie dream. Whether you are an artist/illustrator, author/poet, editor, cover/text designer, webmaster or involved in independent film-making, there are limitless opportunities to get involved and do something amazing.

The Carter Seagrove Project LLC is also an independent book publisher, publishing eBooks, print and audiobooks - available through all leading eRetailers.

The Carter Seagrove Project LLC was incorporated in the State of Indiana on 4th February 2015 and is a member of the Independent Book Publishers Association.

Find Us

On the web: www.carterseagrove.weebly.com

On Twitter: @carterseagrove

On Facebook: www.facebook.com/thecarterseagroveproject

Contact Us

Via email: thecarterseagroveproject@gmail.com

Proud supporters of

Jake Robbins

ASPD Films

Executive Producers of

Tonight It’s You