|Facts and Fiction. (standard:drama, 2534 words)|
|Author: red1hols||Added: Sep 17 2003||Views/Reads: 2560/1581||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|An updated response to Cyrano's ego thread in the forum. If you are easily shocked and offended this is not the story for you.|
This is dedicated to Cyrano. It was his idea in the forum that burst the dam and got the words to flow again. In the end too many words came out for a forum entry! Thank you Cyrano. Thanks you all for the feedback both in the forum and by email. As a result, I have a story that I am really pleased with. --ooo000ooo--- Facts and Fiction. Being in debt is like swimming fully clothed in icy water and against the tide. Creditors are the guys who come alongside in fancy boats and put rocks in your pockets. The book was my last throw of the dice to try and get out before I went under. The dice came up all sixes. When Dave Wilmot asked me to give an interview for his paper, I was in no position to refuse. Without Dave the book would never have been written. He gave me help and encouragement and in exchange I provided alibis for his extra-marital adventures. When he read the book he laughed and made me promise never tell anyone on whom I based my characters. When I opened the door, I was almost disappointed to find it wasn't Dave but a young girl. Mr Merridew?" her voice was trill and shaky. "No." I sighed. "Mr. Merridew is a fictional character, from a book. My book" "Oh dear. I'm sorry." She tried to consult her notebook causing a sheaf of papers to drop onto the step. Taking pity on the pretty young thing, I knelt down and helped retrieve them. "I'm Pippa Phelps. From the Argus?" she gave me a forlorn look. "I was expecting David Wilmot, the editor." There was something vaguely familiar about the girl and the name, which I couldn't quite place. Pippa became increasingly flustered and garbled out an excuse about a big fire on the Industrial Estate, which the Editor had given priority. I took her through the house and out into the garden. Expecting David, I had a bottle of whisky and two glasses waiting. We sat down at the table overlooking the garden. While I waited for what seemed an age for her to get organised, I poured two whiskies, making sure that hers was the largest. When at last she was ready to start, her face was flushed pink and her green eyes glistened as if close to tears. “Sorry about all of this.” She gave a nervous smile that showed perfect teeth between such perfect lips. “Take your time. Everything's fine.” I tried to give a sympathetic smile while inwardly enjoying the way her nervousness kept her body moving. “Thank you, Mr. Err...” She hastily consulted her notes, took a swig of the spirit and coughed. “Call me Simon and I'll call you Pippa.” I rested a hand on her left arm for a second. The opening gambit was predictable. Nervousness meant she didn't query why I had cosmetically shaved a few years from the age stated in my biography. They also stemmed any self-consciousness about the erotic way she wrapped her lips around the top of her pen as she considered each question. “Where did you get the idea for your book, Mr... I mean, Simon.” She had her pencil poised over the notebook, but it shook so much that I doubt she was capable of writing. Click here to read the rest of this story (283 more lines)
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