Carruthers' Demise (standard:drama, 2710 words) [1/24] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Updated: Jan 23 2014	Views/Reads: 3942/2360	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Martin Carruthers acts as agent for his wife Chelsey, who is a well-known writer. When the publisher rejects her latest offering his troubles begin.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

No thoughts crossed her mind that he couldn't swim, despite his
desperate cries for help – and even though that fact was known to her. 
He'd copied her story and now he'd paid the price. That was all that 
mattered to her when all said and done. 

The girl stood there expressionless before smacking her hands together
and making her way home. 

Chapter One 

‘I'm telling you Martin, I can't do it. Not this time.' Alexander
Goldhawk stood up, turned his back on Carruthers, and gazed out of the 
fifth floor window at the panorama of lean office blocks. He stood for 
several seconds, hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets and then 
turned and sighed. ‘Look, times are hard, Martin. Sales are falling and 
let's face it, Chelsey's in particular. The old man won't buy it. We 
have to make cutbacks somewhere, and  I'm afraid that  ‘A Woman's 
Jungle,' isn't what he'll want.' 

Carruthers crouched forward in his chair, examining his fingers for some
imaginary blemish before staring up at the tall, slim, silver-haired 
figure of Goldhawk. ‘Stop blaming Goddard, Alex, we both know who calls 
the shots here. You mean you won't buy it. You're the editor for 
heaven's sake – what the blazes am I going to tell Chelsey?' 

‘I'm afraid Chelsey's your problem, Martin.' Goldhawk's lips developed a
sympathetic twist as he strode back to his desk, placing his hands flat 
upon it. ‘Martin, you're a fine agent – and you know well enough the 
fact that I'm not taking Chelsey's new work doesn't mean it won't be 
accepted elsewhere. Another publishing house might take it, probably 
will. I simply can't fit it into my budget. Sorry.' 

‘So that's it?' 

‘Yes, I'm afraid it is.' 

Carruthers stood, shaken and angry, refused Goldhawk's outstretched hand
and headed for the door. ‘Martin, wait...' Goldhawk called but 
Carruthers was having none of it. He hurried down the stairs not 
bothering to wait for the lift. He needed a smoke and time to cool his 
sizzling mind before returning home with the bad tidings. 

Outside he found a small park, an oasis of quiet in bustling Kensington.
He sat on a vacant bench, drew a cigarette from his pocket and lit one. 
He considered whether he should have heeded Goldhawk's plea to wait, 
but his instinct told him to have done so would have served no purpose. 
His own impression prior to seeing Goldhawk was that Chelsey's latest 
offering was short of her strongest work, but Chelsey could be 
headstrong at times and volatile, so he hadn't ventured his opinion. 
Nonetheless, he hadn't expected an outright rejection from Goldhawk – 
if nothing else, Chelsey's reputation should have guaranteed a good 
sale, true there had been a slight downturn in demand but that was true 
of the industry in general. He'd found himself questioning more often 
of late, whether the publisher was really in tune with what the public 
wanted, and a far-from-her -best Chelsey Carruthers could still engross 
the public. He sighed, jiggled his hand in his suit jacket. No sooner 
had he switched on his mobile phone than it rang. 

‘So, Martin...' Chelsey's voice, loud and expectant. ‘What's the deal?' 

Carruthers took two giant puffs on his cigarette. ‘There isn't one,' he
said flatly. ‘Look there's no point in speaking here; we'll talk when I 
get back.' He curtailed the call before his wife had a chance to 
answer. 

He felt double his thirty seven years as he anticipated the reaction
that was sure to follow. His relationship with Chelsey had become 
increasingly capricious of late, and it hadn't been helped by the fact 
that Casey Jennings, also on Carruthers' books was gaining in 
popularity. 

He was aware of the friction that existed between the two, though
mystified as to why it existed. One thing was for sure, this 
development wasn't going to make his life any easier. Chelsey was sure 
to find a way of pinning blame on him for lavishing too much attention 
to Casey's career and not enough on her own. Nothing could be further 
from the truth but he 

would struggle to make her see as much. Carruthers wouldn't describe
himself as being amongst the most placid of people; he could rise to an 
argument easily enough, but Chelsey's mood swings had increased in 
volume and intensity of late,  and he viewed his coming confrontation 
with his wife with some trepidation. 

He'd no doubt that given time and effort he could find another publisher
to accept her work but his promise to do so was unlikely to pacify her 
in the slightest. 

Thus with a strong sense of foreboding Carruthers extinguished his
cigarette and headed for the car. 

*                        * 

Twenty minutes later Carruthers arrived back home. Gathering his case
from the back of his Range Rover he unlatched the gate to his detached 
mews house, a stone's throw from the river at Chiswick. 

Before he was halfway up the path the door was flung open and Chelsey
stood there; a tall, lithe figure with tumbling locks of golden hair, 
and a scowl which obliterated her natural beauty. 

‘What the hell have you done, Martin? How have you managed to botch this
up?' 

‘Cool it Chelsey, just cool it, right?' Carruthers pushed his way past
her, placed his case in the hall. ‘Let's go through to the lounge and 
talk this out sensibly.' 

Chelsey leaned on the door jamb, arms crossed, fingers tapping furiously
on forearms as her eyes followed him. ‘So why is there no deal, Martin; 
what did he say?' 

Carruthers sighed, lowering himself into a chair, trying to appear calm
in the face of a simmering volcano. ‘Let's face it love, you're not 
producing the same standard of writing you were a few years back – and 
the economic downturn isn't helping, either.' Carruthers compressed his 
hands, interlocked his fingers. ‘I think Goldhawk's a fool to reject 
you, he knows another leading house will snap you up...' 

‘Oh they might, Martin.' Chelsey tossed her head back, eyes all
defiance, but I know I'm producing quality stuff; it's you who's not up 
to scratch. I'll present my own case from now on.' 

‘Fine, if that's the way you want it!' Carruthers flushed, aware that he
was about to utter something he didn't feel but unable to stop himself: 
 ‘I can't deliver on what you're producing. I'm tired of carrying the 
can for your falling standards.' 

‘Oh! When have you ever done anything that wasn't in your own interests,
Martin?' Chelsey whirled round, snatched Carruthers' case from the 
hall, rifled through it for her manuscript, and removing it, flung the 
case across the lounge where it struck his shielding arm. 

‘Chelsey, for God's sake, what's got into you lately?' 

Veins stood rigid in Chelsey's neck as she clenched her teeth.
‘Concentrate on your main aim, why don't you? Like promoting Jennings' 
interests.' 

Chelsey stormed out, a heavy thud reverberating throughout the ground
floor as she slammed the oak door shut. 

Carruthers sunk forward, digging fingertips into his furrowed brow. Was
that it? Had that been at the heart of Chelsey's fluctuating moods and 
deteriorating writing? The fact that Casey Jennings, also on his books, 
had come to be regarded in a higher vein than she? 

Well it wasn't his fault, he'd toiled for Chelsey, devoted more time to
her cause over the years than to anyone else. And he couldn't have 
foreseen that Goldhawk would choose to give her work the thumbs down. 

He should be getting on with things; there were other writers deserving
of his attention and he'd wasted too much time of late fretting over 
her. But even though only mid-afternoon he needed a drink; a stiff 
scotch. Was that what Chelsey was driving him to? 

Pouring a double measure, he took it out to the patio, and placing it on
the table, lit a cigarette. From the elevated decking he had a view 
down the sloping mews to the Thames. On a peaceful, balmy afternoon 
with a soft breeze invigorating the air he might have been at ease. 
Carruthers, however, was far from that enviable state of mind. After 
ten minutes slouched in his chair he replenished his glass and stared 
vacantly at the distant river. 

It was sometime later that a hand on his shoulder restored Carruthers to
consciousness. He squinted into Chelsey's face. No longer angry, her 
apologetic stance enhancing her beauty where before her fury had 
blemished it. 

‘I'm sorry Martin, I know you try your best for me, I let things get to
me sometimes. I simply don't know what's got into me of late.' Chelsey 
placed an arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek.  ‘Though I 
can't accept the quality of my writing has declined in any way.'  Her 
gaze slipping from Carruthers to his glass she added, ‘And there's 
really no need to resort to the booze darling. Go upstairs and sleep it 
off properly.' 

‘I've done all the sleeping I'm going to.' Carruthers got to his feet,
took Chelsey in his arms. ‘I'll be okay love. What time is it?' 

‘Around six I think. I left my watch in the lounge.' 

‘You mean I've been slouched there for three hours... Carruthers
frowned. 

‘Where have you been?' 

‘Oh...' Chelsey shrugged, gazed down towards the river. ‘Nowhere much;
just for a walk along the towpath, trying to cool myself down. It's so 
hot today.' She swung back quickly, her face suddenly animated.  ‘Say, 
we could both do with a break, you know,' and then wrapping her arms 
around his neck. ‘Perhaps if we turned our back on London for just a 
few days? It'll give me a chance to put things in perspective.' 

‘What – you mean with your writing?' 

‘Yes, of course,' she said narrowing her eyes. ‘What else could I mean?'


Carruthers cast an eye down the mews, catching sight of a cruiser
ferrying day-trippers along the river. ‘I can only manage a few days,' 
he said, stroking his chin. 

‘Oh I fully understand,' she said, breaking away. ‘After all, Jennings
will need mentoring.' 

Carruthers sighed. There was a smile on her generous lips, but it was
tight, forced. 

‘Chelsey, please don't...' 

‘No, it's okay honey.' She waved his protestation aside, dropped onto a
garden lounger and resting her back against the canvas, raised her long 
legs effortlessly onto it. ‘I can only manage a few days myself. Now be 
a darling and fetch me an orange squash.' 

Carruthers went into the kitchen, prepared Chelsey's drink and returned
to her. ‘So, have anything in mind?' 

‘Sure I have.' Chelsey nodded, taking a sip from her drink and placing
it on the table. ‘Somewhere close by – Hampshire. The New Forest would 
be ideal. We could take our cycles, or better still, hire a couple 
while we're there. What do you say?' 

‘We haven't ridden in ages,' Carruthers scoffed, but thought on
reflection it might be the change in habit they both needed. ‘On second 
thoughts, perhaps you've got something there – though it hardly seems 
your style, my love.' 

‘I've already told you I haven't time for anything more exotic. Please
listen, Martin,' she said, a touch of animosity back in her voice. 

Carruthers knew when to call it quits – the fingers of her left hand
were wrestling those of her right, a sign of mounting irritation. 
‘Okay, I can find decent accommodation online.' 

'No need to bother, honey. I'll call Adrian. Adrian will know of
somewhere.' 

Adrian Frampton-Williams was Chelsey's half brother and the mere mention
of his name these days sent Carruthers' stomach into freefall; not that 
he wasn't supportive – to her at least – but it seemed that Adrian's 
attitude towards her extended beyond the bounds of brotherly love. And 
that wasn't all, he'd felt a hostility, both in Adrian's eyes and his 
tone of voice. He'd been a frequent visitor throughout their marriage 
and had at times made Carruthers feel like a third, unwanted party, 
though of late his callings had been more spasmodic; at the same time 
however, Chelsey's ramblings had seemed to increase. The realisation of 
that had given Carruthers uncomfortable food for thought. 

Making a big effort to curb his resentment, Carruthers placed a hand on
Chelsey's shoulder. ‘I'll leave you to call him then.' He escaped into 
the house, away from the sweet accent Chelsey adopted when conversing 
with her half-brother. 

He couldn't escape the sound of Chelsey's voice, but that wasn't his
problem, that came along with his misgivings whenever her voice became 
hushed. 


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