Facts and Fiction. (standard:drama, 2534 words)
Author: red1hols	Added: Sep 17 2003	Views/Reads: 3582/2325	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.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“You're shaking. Are you OK?” I leant forward and enveloped her shaking
hand in mine. 

“It's just... just that this is the first time I've interviewed someone
famous and important.” The words were almost a whisper. “Actually, I've 
never met anyone famous before.” 

I gave a modest laugh. The idea that this pretty young thing considered
me important felt good. It was almost like seeing the cover of my book 
festooned over the side of a bus for the first time and reading the 
fantastic reviews in the broadsheets. I slowly let go of her trembling 
hand. 

“I tell you what. You finish that drink and we'll have a walk around the
garden for a while. It will help us both relax and get to know each 
other a bit better. That will make the interview less daunting.” 

Pippa nodded and drained her drink. She coughed again and placed her
hand on her flat stomach. The pressure on the material of her blouse 
revealed enough cleavage to hint at the perfection of her breasts. 

I took her hand again and led her down the steps to the lawn. As we
walked I pointed out the few flowers that I knew and made rather 
one-sided small talk. When we reached the brook at the bottom of the 
garden I paused. 

“Look!” I whispered as I gently stretched my arm around her shoulder and
pointed. “On that branch, a Kingfisher! Can you see?” 

Pippa nodded and blushed, but didn't remove my arm. We stood and watched
the bird until it flew off downstream. Then I used the arm around her 
shoulder to guide her back towards the house. 

“It would probably be easier if we did the interview inside.” I scooped
up the whisky and glasses and guided her through the French Windows 
into the lounge. 

“What a lovely house.” Pippa walked over to my desk by the window and
idly ran a finger across my keyboard. “The view is wonderful. Weren't 
you tempted to move though? To London I mean.” 

It was the view that clinched me on the house. From my desk the whole
town was spread before me. When I needed to add passion to my writing I 
could look down on the places that brought me nothing but pain and 
humiliation. 

“I didn't want to move too far from my roots.” I looked over her
shoulder towards the house I once shared with Marion and found my 
fingernails biting into my palms. “I have a lot of friends here. There 
are a lot of memories. It is a place full of inspiration.” 

Delicately, I guided Pippa over to the sofa where we both settled. I
poured her a larger drink. Pippa swept a strand of her wayward brown 
hair behind her ear. As she took a sip of whisky it escaped again. 
Ignoring it, she gathered up her pen and notebook. There then followed 
a series of questions about my previous life. My answers were 
mechanical while I concentrated on making eye contact and maintaining 
my smile. 

“So, Simon, what made you decide to suddenly write a book?” Pippa read
from her notes. 

It was Toby Weaver and his sycophantic and sanitised biographies of the
rich and famous who gave me the idea. Not that we have met since 
school. There was an over-referential splash about him in the gossip 
column of the paper I was eating my supper from. 

Toby had beaten me at everything at school except English. His family
had money and influence; mine lived on a sinkhole estate after being 
re-located from the London slums. Toby stayed on at school and went on 
to a prestigious university; I left school at sixteen and went to work 
in the abattoir. The papers were full of the eligible bachelor Toby 
while I was shoved up the aisle with Marion by a false alarm. By the 
time that Toby eventually gave up his bachelorhood to marry the 
youngest daughter of an earl, Marion had run off with a shop-fitter 
from Bolton. She left behind a trite note, an almost empty house and a 
mountain of debt. 

“Well I suppose the credit must go to me friends.” I swept an open palm
in the general direction of the town and dipped my head in modesty. “I 
have always been a bit of a story teller and I wasn't bad at English 
and school. One evening, a friend convinced me that my stories were 
good enough to publish, so I gave it a go. It was great to be 
published.  The money was a nice bonus.” 

“Where did you get the idea for ‘The disastrous loves of Gavin
Merridew?'” 

Eight months went into constructing a plot and defining characters.
Three more spent refining it between shifts inspecting the pigs at the 
abattoir. The only visitors to my bed-sit seemed to be Bailiffs. Nearly 
two years of my life in which I became a virtual recluse. Determination 
to succeed meant I shunned living and forced myself to write. 

“A good question, my dear!” I gave her arm a stroke of reward and
relished the coy smile she returned. “The muse is a strange thing. You 
sit down with a blank screen and before you know it you have five 
thousand words of outline. Then you just have to muster the discipline 
to turn the outline into a story. After that it is a matter of hard 
work to make it something that people will want to read.” 

“Do you use episodes from your life for some of the scenes?” She leans
forward in anticipation causing her blouse to gape gloriously to reveal 
her plain white bra. 

“You mean am I Gavin Merridew?” I try out my worldly laugh. 

It was a question designed to fluster the innocent reporter. The
character in my book was trying to recapture the happiness and 
innocence of his childhood love. Instead he comes under the spell of an 
older man who entices him to move from sexual conquest to sexual 
conquest. Each affair brings promises of happiness, but in the end each 
corrupted him further. In the book, Gavin does eventually find the 
happiness in a celibate relationship with his first love. That wasn't 
in the first draft. The book was intended to catalogue his decent into 
shallowness and despair. 

“Well, not exactly.” Pippa blushed and took another sip of whisky. 

“No, I don't base Gavin on myself. He is based on a man I knew once, a
long time ago.” I took a sip of my own drink and freshened both glass. 
“Have you read the book?” 

“Yes.” She nodded. “I've read it several times. My mum doesn't know. She
thinks it an aberration. She was the one who spoke against you on 
Newsnight with Jeremy Paxman” 

Of course! Phelps, the daughter of my most successful publicist sat
before me. By campaigning against my book being put on library shelves 
her mother added tens of thousands to sales and resulted in invitations 
to countless TV shows. The beautiful irony and memories of the night 
with her attractive and surprisingly adventurous mother raised a warm 
glow. 

“The trouble with censorship is that someone has to decide where to draw
the line.” I chose to make her uncomfortable about the part her mother 
played in my success. “The censor becomes the guardian of the perceived 
truth. Suddenly you have a person who has the power of life and death 
over ideas, whatever the good intentions of the censor. Besides, I 
believe my book is highly moral tale disguised as erotica. Do you think 
that?” 

How I dared mention morals with regard to the book I have no idea. The
book bore no comparison to what I first submitted. Jennifer Forrest had 
been the only agent to respond. It was on her insistence that I spiced 
up Gavin's encounters. She had even expensed a visit to a club in 
Amsterdam for research. I could barely walk for a week afterwards. 

“Yes.” Pippa blushed again and took yet another sip of the whisky. 

“Yes the book is a moral tale or yes the book is disguised erotica?” It
was difficult to stay calm as the conversation moved in my chosen 
direction. 

“Yes to both, I think.” As she waited for my response, Pippa put a long
and elegant finger to her mouth and gently sucked the tip. 

I had to clench my fists to quell my growing excitement. 

“So, who is the villain of the piece?” I took a sip of whisky to stop my
voice betraying me. “Is the young girl's uncle to blame for leading 
Gavin down the path of depravity? Is Gavin himself to blame for 
allowing himself to be led? Or is it perhaps the girls own fault for 
insisting that her uncle show Gavin what life has to offer out of fear 
that her injuries will mean that she can never fulfil his needs?” 

What a question to ask. I didn't know the answer and I wrote the book. 

The mannerisms she displayed as she struggled to answer the question
were a delight to behold. The finger was sucked again and then she 
slowly and languidly ran her hand down her thigh to smooth the tailored 
skirt. It was so hard to control my breathing that I was unable to say 
anything that might help her. 

“It must be the uncle I suppose.” The girl seemed close to tears again. 

With practiced ease I put one arm around her shoulders and with my free
hand smoothed her skirt. Pippa took a big gulp of whisky, but made no 
move to break free. 

“That's OK, my dear.” I moved my lips close to her ear and drank in a
simple scent of apples and vanilla. “A lot of eminent critics have been 
arguing over that and every last one of them has a different answer. Of 
course, as the writer, I mustn't tell. So tell me, what is your 
favourite part of the book?” 

“When the Uncle seduces the young social worker he fears will persuade
Gavin to go back to his niece.” The answer came from beautiful lips 
instantly and eagerly. 

It was almost an anti-climax. Almost too easy, her mother had resisted
far longer. 

The passage was burned on my brain as it was based on memories. Memories
of how Marion seduced me while reading me the diaries of Anias Nin. 

My eyes stayed riveted on Pippa. A small gasp escaped her lips as I
described the uncle plying the young girl with red wine. I restarted 
stroking her thigh and she closed her eyes. 

My words from the book played over her. With a skill that I perfected
only after publication, I timed my own actions to coincide with those 
of my character. I gently kissed her cheek. When I sucked upon her 
simple stud earring, she moaned. My words were weaving their magic. 

Not daring to pause too long in my recitation, I used my arm across her
shoulder to gently turn her to face me. Those green eyes stayed lightly 
closed and only fluttered slightly as I planted the first fleeting kiss 
upon those inviting lips. 

As my fictional character became bolder so did I. My hands explored the
firmness of her body under her silken blouse until at last I dared cup 
a breast and delight at her nipple under my thumb. Pippa sighed as my 
fingers moved to her neck. My lips followed and Pippa pushed back her 
head. 

With practiced timing, I kept the words flowing. As my lips spoke the
words they danced across her neck. My fingers stroked her, caressed 
her, and then nimbly undid the buttons on her blouse.  I stoked her 
firm stomach, describing arcs and circles that traced the contours of 
her delicate ribs and smooth shoulders. Then I kissed her. 

It was a deep and passionate kiss that muffled the fiction. My tongue
pressed deep in her mouth as I pulled her closer and enjoyed her heat 
through my thin shirt. The time for words had passed. I slipped her 
blouse off her shoulders and slender arms, and then undid her skirt. 

Pippa reached to undo my shirt, but I cupped her hand and gently shook
my head. 

“That isn't what happened.” I whispered as I gently nibbled at her ear.
“Stand up.” 

There was a gasp in response. Pippa stood up. Her slim pale body was
quivering as her skirt fell to the floor. As she bent over to pick it 
up, I stopped her. Perfect white teeth nibbled her bottom lip as she 
reached back, undid her bra and discarded it to confirm that her 
breasts were indeed perfect in form, if a little small. 

My recitation continued. Pippa synchronised her actions to my plot. The
plain white panties were discarded as I stood and produced two silk 
scarves from behind a cushion. I allowed myself to pause and consider 
my prize. When I restarted Pippa hung her head allowing me to tie the 
blindfold. On cue, she placed her hands behind her back so I could 
secure them. There was a delightful air of total submission about her 
as I picked her up and carried her to my bedroom. 

The sun was streaming through my curtains when I awoke. A distant
electrical buzzing was coming from downstairs. Pippa was still asleep, 
an innocent smile played on her lips. As I reached over for the phone, 
I briefly considered untying the scarf securing her right arm to the 
bedpost. Instead, I contented myself by playing with the leather collar 
around her neck. Pippa started to stir, so reluctantly I picked up the 
‘phone and went into the bathroom. 

“Hello” I gave an angered whisper to whoever was disturbing me. 

“Hi, Simon. It's Jennifer.” My agent sounded bright and breezy for so
early in the morning. “Have you seen the tabloids this morning?” 

“It's barely seven O'clock. Of course I haven't seen the bloody papers.”


“Well it looks like we will get our price on the film deal. That girl
from the York book signing has done a kiss and tell job on you. Don't 
worry, she is very complimentary about your performance.” 

“Of course.” I replied smugly. “I keep telling you that satisfaction is
guaranteed. You ought to try it some time.” 

Jennifer laughed. “No thanks, you know I don't mix business with
pleasure. Anyway, I'm going to get some breakfast to set me up for my 
chat with those producers. You look after yourself and see if you can't 
spend some time on your next best seller.” 

I looked back into the bedroom at Pippa. “I'm working on the research
today. I don't suppose you could do me a favour could you?” 

“Depends.” Jennifer responded with caution. 

“I need you to send a hamper and a bottle of Scotch to Dave Wilmot, the
Editor of the Argus. I need to thank him for a favour.” 


Tweet