Castles in the Sky
Apologies for the long delay between submissions. It takes time to craft the story to read at a level I am happy with.
A very big thank you to Demosthenes384bc for his work as an editor. The suggestions that he made have significantly impacted the story. Any mistakes, inconsistencies or things you don't like are my fault and not a reflection upon his sterling work.
For me, this is a story most like The French Exit in terms of tone and style. People at the fringes of RAAC and BTB are likely to be frustrated by this story. I am sorry, I strive to write a different story each time and vary who I upset. I don't feel there are any willing cucks here, but as with previous stories, my definition might be different to yours.
The story is set in the UK and is written using English terminology, slang and cultural references. Apologies to readers from different countries but if there is something that makes little sense in the story, that is probably why.
This is a free story, the coin I wish to be paid in is constructive criticism. What do you like? What works well? The plot, the characters, the dialogue, the pacing, the language, the humour. And on the flip side, what frustrates you? What didn't I do well? Where could I improve? What could be tighter? What made no sense? Where did the story jar? I appreciate your thoughts, all comments are read and considered.
Castles in the Sky
Chapter One -- Trouble in Paradise
The Buddhists say life is suffering with brief interludes of respite. This, to James Houghton, upstanding citizen of Letchworth Garden City, seemed an unjustifiably negative view. Sure, life could deliver a kick, but it handed out sweet, sweet kisses as well.
He took a sip of his beer, smacking his lips as he let his mind wander. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark. There was trouble on the home front. He'd played his defence high; a striker had timed his run and was now in on goal with the ball at his feet and the wind at his back. Shit was going down in his distinctly suburban 'hood.
He was calm, not calm. He was experiencing a veritable welter of emotions. But outwardly he was a chap, a rather rakish chap enjoying a pint on his Todd at the local watering hole. Life had knocked him on his ass before and without doubt, would do so again. This was not the worst day of his life. It may feel like it, but he knew it wasn't. He had lived through a worse day than this already in his life and survived. He would manage this one as well.
You don't control what's going to happen, but you damn well choose how you respond to it. That's where you have your power. His father's oft repeated aphorism. He lifted his beer and silently toasted the memory of his father. There's no situation in the world that's helped by losing your cool. Every situation, every happening, benefits from the presence of calm.
There were emotions; there were questions. And these emotions and questions came close to overwhelming his calm. But this wasn't the time for a hot head. Not the time to be ruled by what he was feeling. This was time to be the Fonz. Time to be cool; as cool as ice. Time to put space, some distance, physical distance between him and the pain. Physical space would buy him the emotional space he needed. Give him time to understand and to cogitate.
There was a best solution to this problem. A way of winning. He couldn't see it now. Not right here, right now with the shitstorm of emotions and questions. But he knew; self-taught by experience, that in this situation there was a win. He just had to find it and it wouldn't be found in the bottom of a pint glass. He'd need to use the old grey matter. To ruminate, to comprehend, to consider this little three-pipe problem and work through to find the win.
It wasn't easy. There were waves that swept through him. Threatening to upend his precious calm. He named them and watched them. Anger, Jealousy, Rage, Fury, Contempt, Anger again. He tried to study the emotions as they came upon him. As he realised what he was feeling. He felt where each emotion was in his body. He paid attention to them and enjoyed the rollercoaster. He wasn't the emotions; he was the watcher.
This was easy; easy when he was focussed. But there'd be other times when he was distracted, where it wouldn't be so easy. But he focussed on the task right now. He slowly sipped his beer; he watched the room. Now that he knew the truth, he could see what a mug he'd been. Inconsequential comments, random occurrences connected showing him his marriage in a new and unwelcome way. At the time, in love with and trusting his wife, he'd ignored them. Not seen them. Now he could and he didn't like the picture they painted.
He needed to escape. This problem, this whole situation was too much for him to think through in an afternoon. Dealing with the anger and the betrayal would take longer than a day. He'd go back up to Manchester. Run away. He'd tell her that there was a work problem, and he was needed there. He'd never done that before, but she knew that problems came up. He'd had issues but been able to resolve them over the phone. This time there would be a situation at the factory that he had to be there for.
That would give him distance, the space to think. Get his first reactions out of the way and work up options. Find his win. He looked at his pint, he'd not even got a quarter through. He stopped drinking and mind made up, went to his car. He fired a quick text to his wife, Louise.
'Big problem at the factory. I need to be there. Will call later if I can. XXX'
Neither elegant nor expansive, but fuck her, he wasn't feeling a lot of love. Text sent; he began the drive. He switched on the car stereo as he eased into the traffic. The roads on a Saturday afternoon were quiet and he didn't race. He was thinking and planning. He had everything he needed at his house in Manchester. That was the advantage of splitting his life between two homes, he was set up in both.
He heard the beep an incoming text. He ignored it until he stopped for a coffee, a shade over halfway there.
'Drive safely. Ring me when you can. Love you XXX'
Lying bitch, he thought as he dropped his phone back onto the passenger seat. He continued his drive, getting to Manchester in the early evening. He went into the house and flipped the light on. He kicked the door closed with a satisfying bang. He didn't have any food in. But there were enough local places to eat, dinner wasn't a concern.
The drive hadn't yielded any profound insights. He put the kettle on and brewed a cup of tea. The milk in the fridge wasn't old enough to kill him. He liked his tea strong and sweet. Two heaped spoons of sugar and a burnt orange colour. He was banging around, not deliberately, more out of clumsiness. There was a rap at the front door. He walked down the hall to open it.
'Come in, Nita.' He said stepping back to allow her in.
'Kettle on?'
'Just boiled.'
She walked down the hall into the kitchen, he watched the sway of her buttocks appreciatively as he followed. Men would go to war over her ass. She went over to the cupboards and made herself a cup before sitting down opposite him.
'Well?'
He shrugged. He knew what she was asking.
'Why aren't you at home?'
He smiled at her challenge and the incongruity between her exotic looks and the strong Mancunian accent.
'Save the smiles. You've got a cuppa and an audience. Dance or get off the stage.'
He rubbed his face tiredly. 'I saw Lou kiss Briony. They were in the garden; I was in the house. They couldn't see me. I caught them by luck, sheer luck. It wasn't a friend kiss; this was full on.'
'A few bits and pieces clicked into place and old Donald Dumbfuck here, woke up to the fact that my missus is a ... well, let's say she's been keeping a few secrets about herself from me.'
A look of puzzlement flashed across her face. 'We're talking ...?'
He nodded 'Yep.'
Nita snorted, 'Some guys have all the luck. You've said Briony's hot, right?'
