Don’t…Don’t You Want Me?

Don’t,…Don’t You Want Me?

Story-based on and a tribute to the hit song “Don’t You Want Me?” by Human League, 1981.

Editor: Alexis picked up my spelling and grammar mistakes, also offered story flow advice thanks. All other mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older, and this is a copyrighted work of fiction.

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PROLOGUE:

Major Thomas Hazlehurst fought beside General John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough, at the Battle of Malplaquet on the French – Belgium border in September 1709, forcing the French army to retreat. The Major saved Churchill’s life during the battle. On Churchill’s return to England, in gratitude, he offered the Major one of his smaller, less used Estates, which carried the title of Earl. In 1711 the first Earl Thomas Hazlehurst renamed the holding to Hazlehurst Estate.

Ten generations of Hazlehurst had occupied the Estate since then. The current Earl is Lord Robert and Lady Christine Hazelhurst. The eldest daughter, Syliva and husband, William Williams, with two young daughters. William and Syliva are teachers at the Hazelhurst Private Girls School. The Earl’s youngest daughter Helen holds an Economics degree and works at the London accounting firm of Prescott and Wharton. Divorced from Rupert Piddington, they have a daughter, Stephanie.

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Peter Hollingsworth Story:

I was a virgin when I met Valerie Stein while playing the piano at the Subway Bar & Grill near St James Park subway station to make ends meet. To me, Valerie was a woman of the world, exuding sexuality and confidence. She was gorgeous and some three years younger than me.

Over the coming months, I couldn’t help but watch her body sway as she waited on tables, catching glimpses of her scantily clad bottom as she bent over. Male patrons were constantly hitting on her. She had a way of putting them off without offending them.

Valerie noticed me watching her and gave me a wink. A short while later, she returned with a soft drink for me. “Thanks,” I say, wishing I could say something clever to impress her.

I realised I had to make more conversation other than just stuttering, “H…hi, Valerie,” whenever we met each work night.

Knowing she used the subway to come and go to the bar, I hung around outside until she finished cleaning tables. I waited for her to exit the Bar’s back door, where we finally met face to face.

I said quickly, “Valerie, can I give you a lift home?”

She replied in a lusty voice, “how do you know where I live?”

Stumbling, I blurted out, “I’m sure it’s near my place, so hop in.”

I held the passenger door open, and she entered the car. Then, giving me directions, I set off. Unfortunately, it was in the opposite direction to my flat. Oh well, that’s the price of infatuation!

Valerie asked, “how long have you been playing the piano? You’re really good at it.” I briefly describe my university years, obtaining a degree in music studies.

“How long have you been waitressing?” I asked.

She replied. “Ever since leaving school. Some four years now.”

My eyes kept darting to her short skirt and long legs, and she caught me looking and gave me a smirk. But, she didn’t do anything about the shortness.

Suddenly she said, “Here we are, that’s my building over there. Thanks for the lift.” She left a kiss on my cheek and disappeared into the building. I waited to see which one was her flat by watching for a light in the window. There she was, standing at the window, giving me a small wave. I waved back, then drove back to my flat with a smile on my face, a soft kiss on my cheek and feeling on top of the world.

On my way home, I reminisced about my University days. I had dated some fellow female students from around my University and had a few kissing sessions. But there were rarely second dates. I was always shy around girls, especially if I fancied them, which made me tongue-tied. Thankfully, I was too busy with my studies to date much, having an ambition of achieving a music degree.

Becoming more confident, Valerie’s and my relationship quickly gathered momentum from there on, and before long, we were dating in our spare time. We were mutually attracted to one another, and it felt like it was impossible to stop, like two magnets.

We were taking time for ourselves – having a picnic lunch in the park, falling asleep under a willow tree in each other’s arms. Riding bicycles around the London cycleways. Nothing expensive, just simple things as long as we are together we found enjoyment.

While lying on a rug in Hyde Park one lazy Sunday afternoon, Valerie told me she had left school at sixteen doing various part-time cafe and bar waitress jobs over the last four years. Last year, she finally got a full-time job working as a cocktail waitress at the Subway Bar & Grill.

I told Valerie my parents scrimped and saved for my university education. While studying, I worked part-time in local pubs to save money to purchase instruments, books and the like. Now I can play the piano, saxophone, clarinet, acoustic guitar. I wanted to do more in life than just teaching music to school children. Getting the job as a pianist playing dinner background music while customers dined was a start.

Our romance blossomed, and within six months, we were a couple. Valerie moved into my bigger flat. Valerie taught me about sex and how to please a woman.

To this day, I still vividly remember our first night together. Valerie took my hand and led me into the bedroom, facing each other. As we kissed, it became more and more passionate. Her arms around my neck, mine around her waist, pulling her into a tight embrace. I felt my penis become erect and Valerie noticed and rubbed her abdomen against me. I had to pull back before I came in my pants, breaking our embrace.

With a knowing smirk on her lips, in a husky voice, she said, “take my clothes off, Peter.”

Stepping behind her using my trembling fingers, I unzipped her dress, dropping it to the floor in a puddle of clothing. Next, I fumbled with the clasp to her bra but finally got it open and tossed it aside. My hand slipped around her chest, cupping her warm breasts in my hands. My thumbs flicked over her now stiff nipples, getting a moan from Valerie.

“All my clothes,” she responded with a groan.

Dropping to my knees, pulling her panties down her long legs, she stepped out of them one leg at a time. I kissed both her bottom cheeks, and then she turned around. I noticed she had a trimmed bush. She was standing with her legs apart enough for me to see her vagina lips and close enough to smell her.

Valerie pulled me to my feet, and we kissed again. My hands went from her waist to her ass, and I pulled Valerie against my groin. I was very, very nervous and aroused, having never embraced a naked woman before.

Breaking the kiss, she started to remove my shirt and then the rest of my clothes. Pulling underpants down, my stiff cock sprang free, pointing upward. Gently taking my cock in her hands, she stroked it up and down slowly – I almost came, but she seemed to know when to stop.

Valerie laid back on the bed, splaying her legs open for me to view her pussy. I stood spellbound, having never seen a naked woman’s vagina before except in pictures. Her fingers slowly caressed her pussy traced her labia lips, and I could see her moisture.

Explaining, “this is my vagina, here is my clitoris,” she gasped when her finger touched and rubbed the small protruding knob of white flesh. “And down here, in my love passage, this is where you fit into me, and we make love. Come now, quickly fill my love hole,” she cried.

Placing my cock at her opening, she gave a small sigh as I slipped past her entrance into her depth, completely filling her until our groins met, and I could no longer go further. The feeling was overwhelmingly wonderful. Then I started sliding my cock back and forth, increasing my speed going faster and faster. I could hear Valerie’s grunting to the rhythm of my thrusts until I came violently. With each spasm, I could feel myself spurting into her. Then I collapsed on top, supporting my weight with my elbows.

Looking onto Valerie’s face and I could see the mirth in her eyes. She knew I would only last a couple of minutes. I kissed her, saying, “I promised to do better next time.”

********

Valerie was intrigued by my artistic nature and enjoyed my serenading her. Recognising my musical capability, she suggested I spend my daytime composing while she worked part-time at the local café, encouraging me to write more sheet music.

But I noticed there is also a hard side to Valerie. She had a ‘sharp tongue’, remembering past events and habitually bringing them up to embarrass people.

One time, after a hard day at the cafe, Valerie arrived home to find me diligently working on sheet music. I had gotten so carried away that I hadn’t done any housework. She let rip, “you’re sitting around all day on your ass at home, playing with your guitar, while I’m out working my ass off!” Verbally abusing me. I struggled to understand why – after all, it was her idea! I’m not good at conflict and shy anyway. She can be a bully at times.

One morning after a particularly satisfying, hot night of sex, I heard her singing in the shower while making morning coffee and realised she had an excellent musical voice.

Now, it was my turn to teach Valerie, in this case, how to sing and hold a note. We spent three months working on Valerie’s singing, training her voice. I also taught her the basics of how to read sheet music. Finally, I persuaded my old retired high school music and choir teacher to help Valerie fine-tune her singing voice for a small cash gratuity.

While I continued to write music scores, Valerie helped with the lyrics. We churned out six songs. But Valerie’s favourite was the first song I wrote while at University. ‘The Cuckoo Cries’ is a mother’s lament for the loss of a young child.

We auditioned for the Subway Bar & Grill owner. I played the piano while Valerie sang. He offered us a thirty-minute musical gig each weeknight. Valerie still waitressed, and I continued to play dinner music, but we got to perform together on stage for a captured audience each weeknight. Some patrons dance on the small dance floor in front of the stage. Friday and Saturday night, they have pop bands in and don’t need Valerie or me.

I made recordings of our nightly performances, which I edited later. I took the finished recordings to various London music recording companies but cannot break into the musical world. However, that didn’t stop us from getting small singing gigs at weddings, parties, dinners and the like through the London area.

We were doing okay money-wise and decided to paint the inside of the flat, enjoying the challenge side by side. Together, we managed to assemble an Ikea bookshelf. I purchased a new lounge and a big screen TV. We spent a weekend hiking in the Surry Hills south of London, staying in a pub overnight. Our favourite was visiting the Brighton seaside running along the beach, getting wet by the waves, making love in the cove.

It was late one night together in bed; I asked about her family. She told me she had left home two years before turning eighteen. A year later, her Mum and Dad were killed in a car accident – her Dad was drunk. After that, Valerie’s siblings were farmed off to various relatives, none of whom she had seen since.

It was the following Saturday night when I asked Valerie to marry me. She nearly shagged (fucked) me to death. I guess that was her answer. We did a simple registry office ceremony, much to my Mum’s dislike. But times were tough, and we love each other. Our future looked promising.

We were still playing at the Subway Bar & Grill weeknights when I heard of a once a month job playing dinner music at a Gentlemen’s Club for members and their wives. The regular piano musician, an acquaintance from Uni, became seriously ill, so he suggested I apply for the job. It paid very well, and it so happened Saturday nights we were free. However, the club manager wanted an audition, so I brought Valerie along to make a duet. The manager is impressed with our performance after perfecting it over the past year. He hires us and explains the dress code required. So we needed to make some clothing purchases.

********

After six Gentlemen’s club performances – one evening, while we were taking a break, a five-thousand-pound suit approached us. He claimed to be the CEO of EMI Music. He complimented Valerie on her singing and saw possibilities for her in the music industry. He gave her the name and number of the EMI music manager and suggested she should call him first thing Monday to set up a demo session.

We rehearsed most of Sunday on several songs I had written and a few others for backup. Valerie called at ten in the morning and connected to Don Thomas, music manager. They talked for a while, where Valerie outlined her singing experience of the past eighteen months. A date for two in the afternoon on Wednesday.

His Refrain:

‘You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar…When I met you’.

They are surprised when Valerie turned up with me in tow. We were escorted to the recording studio’s control room. I was relegated to a stool in the corner and dismissed. At University, I used big audio production desks similar in size and was familiar with their features and attributes. But I kept my counsel.

After Valerie discussed various songs, she was taken to a small booth with headphones and a microphone. Valerie made several demo recordings, and then she requested a musical piece she is very familiar with. The song was titled, ‘The Cuckoo Cries’. Valerie explains the music’s written to suit her vocal range.

Suitably impressed with the song and recording of it. Don suggests laying it down as the demo track. When they discovered I wrote the music and lyrics, they invited me to lay down both the piano and guitar tracks. The sound engineer (Bob) spent the next few hours working the song, adding double-tracking and some of me harmonising with Valerie.

Finally, we were thanked and told the song will go before a committee to establish if it’s worth releasing to radio stations as a single. Don said he would be in touch, “don’t call us. We’ll call you.”

A month later, Valerie was called and asked to re-record ‘The Cuckoo Cries’ with an orchestra accompaniment. I wasn’t needed during the recording, But they offered me a position as a studio session musician, and I’d be called when required.

‘The Cuckoo Cries’ surprised everyone and shot to the top of the charts in three weeks, staying there for two weeks. Valerie’s career had taken off. Six months later, following up on her top hit single, Valerie recorded an album of my songs with our lyrics, which went to number one.

Valerie’s money was pouring in. Mine was not so lucrative. So I kept writing sheet music and playing solo dinner music at the Subway Bar & Grill weeknights and Gentlemen’s Club once a month. Valerie became too big of a star to play there anymore, so I started doing it independently as I still enjoyed entering people and having fun doing it.

His Refrain:

‘I picked you out, I shook you up…And turned you around…Turned you into someone new’.

We moved into a penthouse apartment big enough for six people. Her manager insisted she needed it for parties and guests staying over. However, most of the time, I’m the only one there. She was always off to be interviewed on TV or Radio. Partying with the likes of Elton Johns, Paul McCartney, Bobbie Williams and other celebrities

Impressed with my musical ability, EMI studio’s offered me a full-time studio session musician at an outrageous rate per session, which I could refuse. Bob, the audio engineer and I became good friends. He was impressed with my musical credentials and recommended me to other artists as a songwriter. We spent many hours together over the following months with other musicians creating backing music for many artists.

I quickly wrote a song for a relatively unknown male singer who is visiting the USA. The song goes on to be his first big hit in the States. So session music has become my primary source of revenue. But I still enjoy my monthly Gentleman’s Club gig, and all I need now is a female voice to accompany me.

********

The best way to find what Valerie is doing was to watch the TV, society news. I couldn’t contact her on the mobile phone anymore as her personal assistant (PA) intercepted all her calls and told me Valerie will call me back. But I hear Valerie’s voice in the background, saying. “I haven’t got time to talk to him now.”

His Refrain:

‘You know I can’t believe it when I hear that you won’t see me….Don’t. Don’t you want me’?

Valerie rolled in at seven in the morning without any explanation of where she stayed the night before. She didn’t offer me a kiss or hug, off for a quick shower before a light breakfast – a change of clothes for a working lunch, with some music director for her first live concert. Valerie told me with some pride that she would earn some one-half-million pounds for three hours on stage. Ted Wild’s band was the second billing. Valerie was the star attraction.

I asked, “Do you need any help?”

Only to be bluntly told, “It’s all in the hands of the concert director. They don’t need or want your help.”

“Can you get me a ticket for the concert?”

She replied half-heartedly, “sure, darling.”

Her next question was, “Where’s my next song?”

We hadn’t had sex for three months, and she wants a song, ah!

I didn’t see Valerie for a week before the live concert in Edinburgh and then a week of after-parties. It’s a waste of time trying to phone Valerie; her PA just put me off. So who knew where she was?

I never did get that concert ticket. The concert was a huge success and lucky me I got to watch it on TV. I noticed her voice could not hit some of the higher notes, maybe a stage tension? Her ego was so big now – there wasn’t any room for me.

His Refrain:

‘Don’t,…Don’t you want me…Don’t you want me…Baby’.

Now, some fifteen months after her first hit song with three follow singles off the album, all in the top ten of the Top 40 charts, written by me, I might add. Valerie’s first song had been nominated for the British Music Awards.

Two months later, we attended the awards where she was honoured for her first gold disc. It appears I’m allowed to accompany her because I wrote all of her top hit songs.

His Refrain:

‘Now, three years later on, you’ve got the world at your feet…Success has been so easy for you.’

That night we attended a party in her honour with all the other celebrities and hangers-on all full of their own bullshit. It just wasn’t my scene. No one here was interested in what I might have to say, so I’m left to wander independently. Being a warm summer evening, I moved out of the way into the garden.

While sitting on the bench, I found myself humming a tune that had been in my head for the past few days when I heard a female say, “are you humming to yourself. Or are you just happy?” when I heard a female say, “Why are you humming to yourself, or are you just happy?”

Her well-modulated female voice caught me by surprise, bringing me out of my state of reverie. Not only did she have a great sounding voice, she looked beautiful as well. Not as strikingly attractive as Valerie, but I could see by her face that she had inner beauty.

I stood up and said, “Hi, I’m Peter,” holding out my hand. She was around five foot seven, brown hair, well figured with smallish breasts and a trim waist.

“Helen,” she returned, shaking my hand. “Who are you here with?”

I blurt out, “Valerie.” Then ask, “Who are you accompanying?”

Without answering the question, Helen surmises, “it would appear we are both ducks out of water!”

Running out of conversation, we sit quietly. Looking into the main ballroom, I see Valerie hanging off the arm of a supposedly up and coming songwriter, Bill Been. Valerie was, giving him small touches. Bill had written a minor song for a pop-rock band that Ted Wild is the lead guitarist. The song reached 5th position on the Top 40. Ted has a big ego and boasts Bill is the next top songwriter.

Helen suddenly broke the relative quiet of the garden and said, “Ted Wild was my date, and he’s a right idiot.”

“So, how do you know him and why are you here?”

“Short story, I’m his accountant. I met him for the first time last week to sort out his back taxes. Now he’s making great money; the VAT man is after him. He took a fancy to me and asked me to the Awards.”

I didn’t respond, and Helen continued. “So you’re married to Valerie, and you’re her songwriter?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” in a depressing voice.

“Okay, and that tune you were humming is your next Top 40 chartbuster?”

She appeared to be well informed. So I told her about a new song I was composing.

Helen suggests we use the piano in the music room so she can hear the notes. Leading me down the hallway to the room, Helen explained she did music studies and sang in the school and church choir throughout her school years.

I played the tune on the piano — it took a couple of tries until I got the correct key. Helen quickly caught on to the melody and took over the piano. I picked up a guitar, and we played the refrain together until we got the chorus down pat.

I was impressed with her musical ability. And ask if she would be interested in playing dinner music with me at a London Gentleman’s Club once a month? Getting an affirmative, we swap mobile numbers.

We were still rehearsing when interrupted by Valerie, Ted and Bill.

Valerie announces, “we wondered where you two had got to.”

Bill admonishes me, saying, “you have no idea how to play a guitar.” I let him think what he likes, not willing to argue the toss.

As we all walk out of the room, Ted asks, “what was the instrumental tune you two were playing?”

I replied. “oh…just a melody stuck in my head.”

In the limousine on the way to the apartment, Valerie told me Ted had promised to write a song for her. I replied that it couldn’t hurt to diversify.

She fucked me silly that night, like the old days before we were married. But it’s just sex – there is no lovemaking. I kept wondering if she was bribing me to write her a song or feeling guilty for some reason? I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to our relationship!

The following morning at breakfast, Valerie asked, “Who was that woman playing the piano last night?”

I responded, “That was Helen, Bill’s friend.”

Valerie scolded me, “I hope you were not playing my next song to her? When will the song be ready to record?”

“It still needs a bit of polishing, but soon.”

Again, if Ted was writing her a song, then why does she need mine? So I decided not to hurry to finish it.

With that, she informed me, “I’m off to co-host a Sunday celebrity TV show,” saying, “I still love you,” as she walked out the door in an off-handed way without waiting for a response from me.

I call out, “I love you too.” But I was starting to wonder if I did. She had changed so much.

His Refrain:

‘I turned you around…Turned you into someone new…Don’t,…Don’t you want me’.

I called Helen, asking if she was available to play dinner music at a Gentlemen’s Club next Saturday. I needed a pianist and singer for next Saturday. She said yes, she would love to do that, and we made arrangements.

I didn’t see Valerie for the first half of the week. Then she trooped in with her entourage on Wednesday afternoon. Explaining she would spend the rest of the week, including the weekend at Ted’s country house fine-tuning his song for her. The EMI studios had been booked for Monday morning to do the recording.

Helen was a smashing success at the Gentleman’s Club, getting a round of applause for her singing performance. The club manager praised me for finding a great singer. He only hopes that we don’t lose her to the pop world.

When I turned up at EMI recording studios on Monday afternoon, Bob told me Valerie and Ted had left.

Bob and I had become good friends over the past two years. Having spent many hours together in the studio and quite a few evenings at the pub. He told me the song Ted had written was terrible – it didn’t have any rhyme or rhythm. The lyrics were woeful. They stopped recording at lunchtime. By then, Ted and Valerie were so stoned that Valerie couldn’t hold a tune, and all Ted could do was snigger.

His Refrain:

‘Don’t,…Don’t you want me…Don’t you want me…Baby’.

With a sad face, Bob went on to say, “Peter, we have become good friends, so I can’t leave you in the dark any longer.”

He went on to say, “I went to the men’s toilet at one point, where I could hear Valerie and Ted fucking in the ladies. She was screaming out how good he was.”

He asked, “Am I bigger than him, bitch?”

She replied, “Much bigger and better in every way, lover.”

I was broken-hearted and didn’t want to believe what Bob was telling me, but deep down, I knew it was true.

So I left EMI for our apartment, tears streaming down my cheeks. Arriving, I looked around – there was nothing of me here; it was all plastic and fake. I decided to clear out, packing just a few clothes to keep me going and leaving most, not wanting to alert Valerie of my possible intentions. If she was having a full-blown affair with Ted, there are no second chances in my book. So I checked into a cheap hotel across town.

Call me a sucker, but I still loved her. So I called Valerie that Monday evening to give her a chance to fix our deteriorating relationship.

She answered, ‘Hi Peter,” I could hear snickering in the background, “What can I do for you, PETER?” More sniggering in the background.

I asked, “Valerie, are you coming home tonight?”

She tersely replies, “LISTEN, PETER, I want a life of my own. I don’t answer to you, GOT THAT!” Then hangs-up.

His Refrain:

‘You know I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t need me’.

Valerie didn’t appear to miss me even after not speaking or seeing each other for three weeks. She finally called to tell me that she was off to California for a week to the American Music Awards as the special guest and would be gone for two weeks.

Her Refrain:

‘I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar…That much is true’.

I considered using a private detective, but in the end, their fragrant public display of affection for one another made it plain what was going on, down to sharing a hotel suite.

Her Refrain:

‘But even then, I knew I’d find a much better place…Either with or without you’.

I talked to a lawyer about my missing royalties, which seemed to have stopped while Valerie’s songs were doing well. My lawyer discovered funds were being diverted to her account. I asked him to look into it. I needed money to pay for hotel accommodation because I refused to move back into the apartment.

Her Refrain:

‘The five years we have had have been such, good at times…I still love you’.

I watched the American Music Awards on TV to see Ted accompany Valerie. Photos in the press showed her entering an exclusive hotel on Sunset Boulevard on Ted’s arm.

His Refrain:

‘You know I can’t believe what I am seeing…don’t,…don’t you want me’.

Valerie texted, “I needed downtime, and I’m taking a holiday at the beach.”

So I texted back, just to make sure our marriage was irreparable. “Where? I’ll come over so we can spend some time together,” But she never responded.

Her Refrain:

‘But now I think it’s time I lived my life on my own’. ‘Don’t,…don’t you want me’.

A month later, TV news stories indicated they were in Jamaica, tanning themselves and sharing a hotel room again. In addition, there were rumours of Valerie and Ted engaging in orgies at celebrities’ homes in Kingstown.

Her Refrain:

‘I guess it’s just what I must do. Don’t,…don’t you want me’.

I moved all my stuff out of the apartment, finding a small flat in north London.

Television news reported, Valerie and Ted arrived back in London at Heathrow. Various drugs were found in Valerie’s luggage and, not surprisingly, none in Ted’s baggage. When she objected, saying they aren’t hers, she caused a scene and was strip-searched.

It was big news in all the papers the next day. Top 40 singer Valerie Stein was up on drug charges with a heavy fine. Her manager posted her bail.

When she finally arrived back at her apartment to find I’ve moved out, she called me. “Where are you? Why have you moved out?”

I merely said, “I want a divorce.” She laughed down the phone, saying it was only sex. I disagreed and hung up.

His Refrain:

‘You’d better change it back or we will both be sorry’.

The divorce was messy. Valerie fought ‘tooth and nail’ through her lawyer to reduce how much she had to pay me. However, she couldn’t afford to delay, putting her career on hold. If her name was off the top list for too long, people would start to forget. She settled, and I got my owed royalties back and a fifty per cent marriage settlement.

Valerie and Ted started living together in the apartment. She told everyone that Ted’s next song would put her career back on top. However, when the single was released, the best it did was 20th on the Top 40. It had no solid beat and was the wrong voice range for Valerie. It was a flop for her.

His Refrain:

‘It’s much too late to find…When you think you’ve changed your mind’.

Valerie called me, begging for a song for old time’s sake.

To appease her, I said, “I’ll see what I can come up with.” But I did nothing – SHE destroyed our alliance!

His Refrain:

‘But don’t forget it’s me who put you where you are now…And I can put you back down too’.

********

I carried on with my new single life, waiting for the divorce to be finalised. I was still making studio session music and writing new songs for other artists. As long as I kept busy, I was okay. The only thing I looked forward to these days was when I was performing with Helen.

Speaking of Helen, we were still enjoying our monthly gig at the Gentleman’s Club. It had become so popular that Helen suggested to Club management that we do a roaring twenties theme night with great success. Other themes soon followed with music from the War era of the ’40s through to the swinging ’60s. With Helen in mind, I started writing songs for her voice range which she could sing at the Club.

Valerie’s career had taken a tumble. Ted’s next song was even worse and only made 35th on the top 40. Both his and her careers had peaked, and were on their way down.

One Saturday evening at the Gentleman’s Club after our dinner music session, Helen was approached by a stylishly dressed older woman, praising Helen’s singing. She said, “Helen, that last song suits your voice and type of music.”

Helen called her Aunty Kate and introduced me. She informed her Aunt, “Peter wrote the last song solely for me.”

“Helen, you must come and visit next weekend. I insist you bring your young man as well.” Aunty Kate commanded. Finally, an older gentleman waved to Aunty Kate, pointing to his watch, implying it was time to go.

During the weekend, with Aunty Kate’s help, I persuaded Helen into recording a demo song at my next studio music session the following Wednesday, much to Aunty Kate’s delight.

On Wednesday, Helen arrived at six in the evening after the music session ended. Bob took Helen into a studio booth to do a demo recording. Both Helen and I did the background music recording, her on the piano and me on a guitar. Bob polished it up by adding double-tracking and electronic percussion.

The top brass at EMI listened to the raw recording and agreed that both she and the song could be a hit. After some re-recordings with orchestral backing, a single was released.

Helen decided not to use her real identity and called herself ‘Lady Hellen’. The single did take off and became a top ten hit in a few short weeks.

Helen finally told me her big secret. She has a child from a former marriage, and her parents were Lord Robert and Lady Christine Hazelhurst. They were caretakers of the Hazelhurst family estate in the West Country. I was invited for the weekend to meet her family.

Arriving Saturday mid-morning, I was blown away by how big the house was, or was it a mansion? Definitely a stately home, with twenty-odd rooms. However, the building was one and fifty years old and in need of renovations.

It was a busy Saturday evening at dinner meeting all her family. I finally got introduced to Stephanie, aged five. Stephanie was now living with her grandparents on the Estate and going to Hazelhurst Private Girls School. I was introduced to Helen’s big sister (Syliva), William, her husband and their two daughters.

After much prompting by the assembled family, we got Helen to sing with my accompaniment on Saturday night. The whole family was surprised to find out that she was the latest Top 40 singer, ‘Lady Hellen’, whose single is currently sitting at number 5. All family members encouraged Helen to continue singing. Her mother told Helen that music had been a part of their family history for two hundred years.

Two weeks after meeting her parents, Lady Hellen’s follow-up single was released. Another one of my songs went to the top of the charts in three weeks, holding number one for five weeks.

Over the past nine months, Helen and my relationship had matured to the extent; we had become lovers. Helen invited me to move into her much larger city apartment.

She quit her tedious job as an accountant with Prescott & Wharton* to concentrate on her singing career. Helen skipped having a manager and an accountant doing both herself, hiring a part-time PA to help. With a solid promise to me, she would always take my phone call. Never too big an ego, Helen and I still did the Gentlemen’s Club monthly sessions just for enjoyment.

It was a surprise to ‘all and sundry’ when Steve, Ted Been’s younger brother, took Ted to court for stealing Steve’s songs. He wrote them in music classes during his high school years. Ted was ordered to pay back all royalties to his brother. As a result, Valerie kicked him out of the apartment and her life.

Helen was getting pressure from the EMI music and various fan groups to have a live concert, but she kept putting it off. However, as Helen was one of the year’s top music artists, she was cordially invited to sing at the Royal Christmas Concert at the Royal Albert Hall to be held the weekend before Christmas, this time before the King of England. This was one concert she could not say no to. It would appease her fans and the record company in a small way.

To say our parents were delighted was an understatement. Helen insisted to the organisers that our parents were guests. I was to accompany her with the acoustic guitar while she played the piano and sang centre stage.

********

A month before the actual royal concert, I visited Helens older sister, Syliva. We had set up a date and time that was convenient to her. Syliva lived only ten miles from the Estate in a renovated cottage on the Hazelhurst Private Girls School grounds. Her husband was the school’s headmaster, where she also teaches History and English.

The history of the school’s main building dates back some four hundred years, when Churchill owned the Estate. The school building was the original Estate Home and was given to the school board to help establish the school. It was renovated when the school was established some hundred and fifty years ago. However, the school’s land belongs to the Hazelhurst family estate and receives a yearly land rent. It was the best transaction the current Earl’s five times great grandfather ever made, much to all the following Earl’s delight. As a result, it’s become the primary income for the family.

From what Helen had told me, Syliva is the heir-apparent to the Hazelhurst Estate and, as the eldest daughter, honoured to wear the Hazelhurst Engagement Ring. Her grandmother was the last to wear it. William proposed to Syliva, presenting the ring some five years ago.

Syliva invited me to the lounge room, where we sat facing each other.

“Syliva,” I said, “I’m going to ask Helen to marry me at the Christmas family get together.”

She said, “That’s the best news. I’m so happy for Helen and you. And I won’t breathe a word.”

I went on to say, “Could I borrow the Hazelhurst Engagement Ring to get a likeness made for Helen?”

“What a wonderful idea,” replied Syliva.

Syliva suggested, “Royal & Sons jewellery makers, who made the original Hazelhurst Ring some two hundred years ago.”

Syliva went on to explain the history of the ring, “The Hazelhurst Engagement Ring had been passed down to the eldest daughter or the fiancé of the eldest son throughout family history. The ring had at its centre a large Ruby with eight diamonds surrounding it for eight generations of the Hazelhurst family.”

She continued, “Royal & Sons has contacted me on several occasions, asking to borrow the Ring. It appears all their jewellery drawings were destroyed during WW2, with the bombing of London. They wanted to make an electronic drawing of the Ring for their records.”

She picked up her mobile and made the call there and then. Explaining the situation to the jeweller, they were happy to expedite the matter. She made me an appointment for tomorrow at three in the afternoon.

We stood, Syliva said, “this is so exciting.” Then, in her enthusiasm, she hugged me.

She removed her ring from her finger, returned it to its original enclosure, and handed it over.

********

The Royal Christmas Concert was a roaring success. Helen sang like an angel and received much acclaim and applause. Drinks with His Royal Highness after the event was the icing on the cake.

Two days before Christmas eve, I picked up Helen’s engagement ring from Royal & Sons – who had named it the Hollingsworth Ring. The Ring cost a mere thirty thousand pounds. Money well spent. Royal & Sons only needed the Hazelhurst Ring for a few days to get an electronic copy, then returned it to Silvia. In gratitude, they rejuvenated the ring, making it look like the day it was created, some two hundred years ago.

A surprise for me was that my retired parents were invited to celebrate at the Hazelhurst Estate manor home. We arrived on Christmas eve at lunchtime to stay over the three days.

As a courtesy, I privately approached Lord Hazlehurst and her Ladyship on the afternoon of Christmas eve. I asked for their permission to marry their daughter. Getting approval from them both. Lady Hazelhurst congratulated me with a hug, and the Earl shook my hand, saying, “splendid young man.”

I showed them the ring made by Royal & Sons for Helen. While it looked similar to the Hazelhurst Ring, it was different enough in itself to be original.

On Christmas night after dinner, the entire Hazelhurst and Hollingsworth families were seated in the large living room drinking hot toddies. I got down on one knee in front of Helen and asked for her hand in marriage.

“YES,” was her happy reply. I proudly slipped the engagement ring onto her finger. She then proceeded to hug and kiss lovingly on the lips. I got a small hug from Stephanie.

While Helen was admiring the ring, I told the assembled family how the Hollingsworth Engagement Ring came to be created, including Syliva invaluable assistance. I explained that at the centre was Helen’s birthstone, an emerald with ten diamonds surrounding it as Helen is the tenth generation of the Hazelhurst family. I hoped the ring would be passed on in both families for years to come.

After the jubilation had died down, all the ladies wanted to view the engagement ring, organise the wedding location, date and dresses. Meanwhile, the men adjourned to the billiards room for brandies and cigars.

*********

As Helen already had the big white wedding. She decided to have an intimate family wedding using the chapel at Hazelhurst Private Girls School at the beginning of summer six months later. Helen invited a number of her closest school friends and their spouses’. Including her former boss and mentor from Prescott & Wharton, Tom, and his wife, Mary.**

Stephanie was Helen’s flower girl, and a longtime old school chum (Bethany) was Helen’s matron of honour. Of course, Bob was my best man.

The small reception was held in the Hazelhurst School ballroom and catered by the school’s kitchen. Ever, the entertainers I played the piano while Helen sang a few of her favourite hit songs. Getting rave reviews from our families and friends.

We honeymooned on the small island of Bermuda for two weeks. I insisted that Stephanie come with us on the honeymoon. After all, we were now a family. Besides, with a two-bedroom suite, Helen and I would have enough privacy.

Our flight from Heathrow arrived near ten at night, at Bermuda’s L.F. Wade International Airport. It took another hour to drive to the resort. We were all so tired by then; we just headed off to our bedrooms to sleep.

I opened my eyes to the light tropical breeze and warm sunlight entering through the balcony doorway and felt Helen’s fingers clasping my morning erection. I rolled onto my side to kiss Helen good morning; she responded with a passionate kiss and moaned softly.

“It looks like a beautiful morning,” she said.

“Spectacular,” I replied as she squeezed my cock.

“Do you think we have time?” she whispered between kisses.

I rolled onto my back, Helen moved to straddle me and began to rub her vulva back and forth over my erect cock. I could feel her lubrication start to coat my cock and her sensitised labia with a mixture of my pre-cum. As we continued to kiss and fondle with growing passion. Helen reached down and held my erect cock, pointing upwards. She fitted me into her love passage and slowly lowered herself onto my shaft, sighing all the while.

I groaned out, “oh, you’re so tight,” as my cock sank into her warm wet depth until I was fully immersed into her body.

“Oh…oh…so good, sooo wonderfully good,” moan Helen.

She rocked her body back and forth on me, squashing her cilt on my pubic bone, getting maximum contact and pleasure. Bending forward, she offered her swollen nipples to my mouth and tongue. Then cried out, “Oh…oh…I think I’m in heaven.”

My hands reached around and grasped her bouncing bottom cheeks, and I started to bounce them up and down on my cock while thrusting upwards into her tight pussy increasing our pleasure. Reaching our peak, I ejected my load into her warm tunnel, at the same time, I could feel Helen’s pussy pulsing around my shaft. Then she fell forward onto me with my cock still buried deep in her.

We lay together in each other’s arms for a short time. I started to disengage myself; Helen whispered, “don’t move, leave him in me a bit longer, please.”

We were still coming down from our sexual high when there was a rapping on the door. A small voice called out, “it’s time to get up.”

Helen smirked, whispering, “he has already been up, as far as he can go.” Stephanie continued without hearing, “I have made cups of tea for everyone and cannot open the door with the tray in my hands.”

Calling out to Stephanie, “just a moment, your mother is off to the shower. I am going to open the door.” Slipping on a boxer’s shorts to let Stephanie in. The tea was just what I needed to replenish my recent energy drain. I thanked Stephanie for her thoughtfulness.

Two weeks in Bermuda was all too short, and we were soon winging our way back to merry old England.

Arriving back at the Estate, Helen discovers her new recording was smashing the music charts becoming her fourth Top 40 song that year.

It was only a short time after getting back from our holiday. Helen informed me she was pregnant, and both families were ecstatic.

While we were away, the so-called gatekeeper’s cottage renovation had started. Originally with some eight rooms, the architect planned to turn every second room into an ensuite and finish up with four bedrooms and a large master bedroom with, walk-in wardrobe for each of us on the second floor. Stephanie was ecstatic to have a private bathroom.

A four-car garage was constructed in the same design using similar brickwork to make it compatible with the original cottage. A new modern kitchen, lounge and dining rooms were re-plastered and painted. And a music room for me. The house was decorated by both our mothers using some of Helen’s song earnings. It was a mansion compared to our small two-bedroom apartment in the city. Six months later, we all moved in.

It was a Saturday afternoon just after lunch. I was sitting in my music room when Stephanie came to the door and asked. “Peter, are you doing anything important?

I replied, “got a tune in my head. But, unfortunately, it just won’t come out!”

“Let’s take a horse ride around the Estate.”

“Why?”

“You got Mum’s preggers, so she can’t ride at the moment; therefore, you’re my next choice!” She told me frankly.

Looking at her timidly, “aaaah, I can’t ride.”

“Well, now is a good time to start. Riding will get that tune out.” Stephanie encouraged me.

“Really?” I laughed.

“Come on, Peter, I’ve got just the horse for you,” holding out her hand.

Old Betty was her name, big and round; she looks part dray horse. Stephanie showed me how to saddle up. With some effort, I managed to get into the saddle without going over the other side. Next, Stephanie demonstrated how to turn your horse in the direction you wanted. Advising, “use your knees as well, keeping the reins firm.”

True to her word Betty was easy to ride. She simply followed Stephanie’s horse as we circumnavigated the Estate. Stephanie kept up a constant chatter, what her school friends were doing, the latest Disney movies and other movies her mother had a band. She was thrilled to have joined the school choir and wanted to become a theatre group member.

Arriving back at the barn, Stephanie showed how to wipe Betty down, bush her coat, check her water, and put out some feed.

As we were walking back to the cottage, the melody that I had running around my head just popped into my consciousness. “I got it, thanks, Stephanie.” I hugged her and hurried back to my music room.

The ride became a Saturday afternoon ritual. It was Helen who noticed it first. We had just returned from our weekly father-step-daughter ride, and without me realising it, Stephanie had stopped calling me Peter and now called me DAD.

********

The pressure from fans and the music company on Helen to have a live concert with more hits on the Top 40 charts was overwhelming. Concert organisers hoped to get somewhere around one-hundred-thousand attendees. They offered Helen top billing and three million pounds for a two-hour concert. The organisers suggested that Helen may make as much as a million pounds on CD’s and merchandise sales alone. So we decided to go ahead with a live concert before our baby was due.

We arrived in Leeds Roundhay Park, northern England, on the day we did the usual sound and equipment checks in the morning. Helen was three months pregnant, just starting to show, and would only be on stage for two hours. Free passes for our parents, sister’s family to attend. Bobbie William was the other performer on the night. It was suggested, he and Helen do a duet on stage for the first song of his two-hour show.

On stage, before Helen started singing, she introduced me as her songwriter, lover, husband and father of her children. Who would accompany her throughout the show?

Then she began the concert…

Near the end of our two hours on stage, Helen announced, “Peter and I are expecting our first child. This song is dedicated to our baby.” Getting loud clapping and cheering from the attendees. Helen disclosed the title of the last song for the night. She told the assembled crowd of its history, saying, “Peter wrote this song while studying music at university and was not specially written for any specific singer, as another well-known artist had claimed.”

Her singing of the song spellbound the audience, and a hush descended over the hundred thousand crowds. Her rendition of ‘The Cuckoo Cries’ is hundred per cent on Valerie’s, and when she finished, there was dead silence for five seconds before spontaneous applause. The cheering went on for ten minutes. All the time, we waved to the audience and then walked off stage.

We heard two weeks later, Valerie was throwing a party while Helen’s live concert was in progress, and several guests wanted to watch the show on the large screen TV. Upon hearing the final song, Valerie went crazy. Using a champagne bottle, she smashed the TV screen while guests scampered out of the building. Leaving her alone with her anger. It was reported Valerie attempted to sue Helen for singing what she felt was her song only to find out she had no say who could sing it as I had written it.

********

With the announcement of Helen’s pregnancy of our first child, I decided we needed a private place – our place by the sea, where we could get away by ourselves from the hustle and bustle of the Estate.

Unknown to Helen and Stephanie, I purchased the small defunct Bronti Villa resort. Built overlooking Whitsand Bay within walking distance of the beach. The Villa sat on some fifteen acres of land hidden from view of the small nearby village. It faced the sea having a sizeable paved forecourt at its front with deck chairs to partake of the ocean view. At the rear, there was a private swimming pool, patio and gas bar-be-que.

The Villa had two bedrooms sharing an ensuite on the lower floor, with a large well-appointed kitchen, big dining room, lounge, media room, etc. The upper floor had a small TV room and two bedrooms plus ensuite, a large balcony with a seascape view of the English Channel.

Also on the property were six individual self-contained apartments spread around the grounds. Each of the six two-story apartments had two bedrooms and an ensuite for four adults or two single adults or children on the upper floor, each with a small balcony. The ground floor had a small kitchenette, a lounge and toilet-laundry facilities.

I purchased the Villa at a bargain price and then spent near the same sum on doing it up. The finished product was worth the effort. The whole Hazelhurst and Hollingsworth families could come to stay during summer. Helen’s and my parents, her brother and his family each would have their own private space. It was all renovated in six months. So we could spend some personal time with our firstborn child and, of course, my riding companion Stephanie.

*********

Our baby boy (Richard Peter Hollingsworth) was welcomed into his mother’s loving arms six months later, much to the Earl’s delight. With Richard’s birth, Syliva abdicated in favour of Helen running the Estate. Syliva quietly confessed she and William never wanted to be the Estate Landlord’s, and Helen was much more qualified for the job.

So now we have been blessed with a son; it appears to be a fait accompli. Richard will be required to change his surname to Hazelhurst to inherit the family Estate at the age of twenty-one if he wishes to hold the title of Earl of Hazelhurst.

We had a weeklong stay at the Hazelhurst Estate to introduce Richard to Hazelhurst and Hollingsworth relatives. Then his christening, on Sunday in the Hazelhurst School chapel.

The following weekend I told Helen and Stephanie I had rented a Villa close to the ocean for a week’s getaway. Loading luggage into the boot and Richard into his baby capsule, we headed off to our weeklong holiday.

Helen was utterly delighted with the view from the front of the Villa. Stephanie started looking for a room to claim for her own. Richard would sleep in a cot in our bedroom. Helen immediately walked out onto the master bedroom balcony to take in the breathtaking view of the English Channel, letting in some sea air.

After finding her room, Stephanie was off exploring. A short while later, she came running back, asking, “if she could go for a swim in the heated pool?”

So we all put on our bathers and hopped into the pool, including a nude Richard. Later that first evening, I lit up the BBQ, and we had lamb chops and salad. I had a cold beer, no wine for Helen. Stephanie preferred pop and Richard breast.

The week quickly passed with us exploring the seaside and rocky foreshore. We spent days sitting on the sandy beach below the Villa with Richard sitting in the lapping seawater.

On the final evening, with the last rays of the sun bouncing off the few clouds, we found ourselves sitting in deckchairs on the front forecourt of the Villa looking out to sea.

Breaking the silence, I said, “I could do this every weekend.” To be met with nodding heads of agreement.

Carrying on, “how about we buy the palace, and we can come down anytime we want?”

Helen said, “is it up for sale?”

“No, it’s already sold. I purchased it some nine months ago and had it renovated. What do you think?”

Stephanie was the first to react, “we own THIS?”

“Yes.”

Stephanie jumped up and ran over and gave me a hug saying, “what a clever Daddy.”

Helen, who was feeding Richard, said with a slight grin on her face, “I did wonder what happened to that six million pounds? Been meaning to ask you about it!”

Then the thought crossed my mind – maybe I’ll get lucky tonight?

Every five years, Helen gets together with her closest girlfriends for a Hazelhurst class reunion. This year it was held at the Subway Bar & Grill with some six of Helen’s school chums and partners in attendance, myself included.

Valerie, unknown to us, was now the new owner of the Bar. I noticed she kept well away from our table. After dinner before coffee Valerie purposely embarrassed Helen. She walked onto the Club’s stage, picked up a microphone and announced, “Who would like to hear Lady Hellen sing her latest song?”

How can Helen refuse after all the clapping from the patrons?

Helen whispered to me as we walked to the sage, and I nodded. I accompanied her on the piano while she sang ‘The Cuckoo Cries’ – Valerie’s top hit song. As soon as Valerie heard the first bar of the song, she stalked into the kitchen and, during the song, proceeded to bang pots and pans around to distract us, to no avail.

Helen’s performance received great acclaim from the audience. Valerie exited the kitchen after the song had finished, politely clapping as we returned to our table. I did notice we didn’t get any discount on the meal for the recital.

A month later, our family of four decided to get away to our Villa for a weekend. They had both been nagging me for the past two weeks. Regardless of it being winter, it was still an excellent idea to get away.

Helen had little idea of cooking other than boiling water or an egg. Breakfast was a free-for-all, lunch was, come-what-may, and I did all the dinner cooking using the BBQ. So it wasn’t such a great holiday for me.

Running out of milk, I headed for the short walk to the village. On the way, walking past a fisherman’s cottage, I noticed a sign in the window. “Domestic work wanted – cleaning, washing, ironing and cooking etc. Apply within.”

I asked the lady serving in the store as I paid for my milk about the ‘work wanted sign’ in the window. She explained, Judith’s husband, a car mechanic, had been killed when a jack slipped, and he was crushed. Unfortunately, it was proven he was negligent, so his widow didn’t receive any insurance payment. As a result, she struggles to live, and her son’s wife appears to hate her, so she has nowhere to go.

I knocked on the cottage door. A well present woman, I estimate in her mid to late forties, answered. Age-wise she could be my older sister.

I offered my hand, saying, “Peter Hollingsworth, my wife and I have just moved into the Villa on the hill.”

Then, taking my hand, she said, “Mrs Judith Brown, please to meet you.”

I expressed interest in her job-wanted-notice. Judith invited me into her well-kept lounge room. To cut a long story short, I suggested she come to our Villa at eleven that morning to interview for the housekeeper job as described on her notice.

Helen met Mrs Brown at the door and ushered her into the dining room, where I was tinkering with some music sheets while finishing my morning coffee.

I greeted her and offered a seat, getting straight to the point, “Helen doesn’t cook, and I do most of the cooking when we are here. We come here to relax, and cooking is not my idea of relaxation. So we are looking for a housekeeper to do all manner of things as you describe in your advertisement. But, we both would prefer you live in, would that be a problem?”

Mrs Brown’s face went from passive into a grin the more I spoke about the housekeeper job, finishing with a big smile. Finally, she couldn’t contain her delight and said, “when do I start?”

Just then, Stephanie ran into the room, saying, “excuse me, I’m hungry.”

I introduced her to Mrs Brown, and she immediately said, “how do you do, Mrs Brown.”

Judith responded, “I’ll start right now, Stephanie – show me where the kitchen is.”

Helen and I could hardly contain our joy at finding a local housekeeper who appears to be accepted by Stephanie so readily. Stephanie returned with a tray containing a sandwich and a glass of orange juice. She proceeded to sit at the table and eat.

As it was now nearly noon. Mrs Brown asked, “Sir, Madam, would you like lunch now, perhaps cold meat salad?”

I spoke up, “Yes, that would be nice. However, there is no reason to call us Sir and Madam. Helen and Peter would be fine.”

She retorted, “I couldn’t call you anything else. You’re my employer, Sir.”

As Richard was finally eating solid food, Helen could now have alcohol with lunch or dinner.

I asked, “Would you like an aperitif before lunch, perhaps a Pimms, with Indian tonic water and a slice of lemon?”

“Oh yes, please, that would hit the spot, thanks, darling,” replied Helen.

Mrs Brown returned a minute late with two plates of cold meat salad. I asked where her plate was, and she responded in the kitchen.

So I commanded, “Well, bring it out and eat with us. You’re part of the family now. Please, we insist.”

Stephanie responded, “Yes, Mrs Brown, you’re my new Aunty B.”

From then on, Mrs Brown became known as Aunty B to Stephanie. After lunch and further negotiations, we set Aunty B’s wage, and I gave her a credit card for household expenses. She moved into one of the apartments the following week, as her rent for the cottage was due at the end of the month.

********

Some eighteen months had slipped by, and we publicly declared through a small media release for Helen’s music fans. “It’s with much delight that ‘Lady Hellen’ announces she is pregnant with her third child.”

Helen and I were having coffee in a small restaurant in East London when singer-songwriter Bobbie Williams stopped at our table to congratulate Helen on her pregnancy. I asked Bobbie to join us and proceed to discuss his recent impromptu singing at the Subway Bar & Grill, encouraged by Valerie.

He said, “I couldn’t get out of it without looking like a right shit. So I sang but will never enter the Bar again and have warned off all my friends,”

Helen responded, “Bobbie, you realise you performed publicly and are therefore entitled to performance payment?”

A stunned Bobbie responded, “I never considered that.”

I suggested he pass the possibility of all the other artists who were intimidated into performing at her Bar put together a class action and sue Valerie for non-payment of performance royalties.

But, I disclosed to Bobbie, “We are reluctant to do so because my close connection to Valerie would only cause us necessary publicity, in your and other artists’ cases, that would not be an issue. But in the end, it’s your choice.”

Before he left our table, he told us of some news he heard on the London grapevine. It appears that Ted Been, a songwriter of some obscurity, ended up a cripple after getting caught in bed with the mistress of an underworld gambling boss. We mumbled our dismay.

Every free weekend during Helen’s pregnancy, we headed to the Villa, where she could relax getting away from the business activities. She was now doing all the accounting for the Hazelhurst Private Girls School, the Estate and looking after our investments.

Aunty B turned out to be a god-send making our stays even more relaxing. Dad and Mum had already been holidaying there for the past week.

Stephanie heard me discussing upgrading internet services to each apartment with the local IT company representative as we walked around the property. I insisted on hardwire 100 megabit connections for each building, allowing for multi-media entertainment services and full wireless coverage for mobile phones, tablets and laptops.

Nine-year-old Stephanie had been trying to follow us around discreetly. Then, jumping into the conversation, she said, “Excuse me, all my friends are using Apple TV for movies, and we should subscribe to Netflix and the Disney Channel.” I looked at the rep and said, “out on the mouths of babes.”

A couple of days later, my Dad approached me with a proposition. The gist of it was, he and Mum were fed up with living in a bustling London suburb and wanted to move to the coast.

He suggested, “Your Mum and I would like to move down here; how about we purchase one of the apartments?”

We all sat around the dining room table discussing its merits.

Helen suggested, “Either buy an apartment or rent it.”

Then Helen pointed out, “We are not looking to make money on you settling here. But we don’t want legal entanglements with different people owning apartment buildings.”

So I made a suggestion, “How if Dad pays a nominal rent every three months, much like house rates?”

We all agreed, and Helen wrote up a simple contract to that effect and got Aunty B to witness it. A short time later, they put their home on the market.

********

Sometime later, Helen read a small story in the Times. Valerie Stein was being sued for an undisclosed sum by a group of artists who claim to have been intimidated into giving a public performance in her Bar & Grill.

Helen and I turned an unused barn into a modern recording studio called Hazlehurst Studios with the Earl’s permission. We hired Bob, EMI’s top audio production engineer with a huge wage increase and a company car. Bob insisted we employ a Soundcraft analog forty-eight channel audio production desk and use Pro Tools digital software for the final mix-down to digital storage. The whole studio system would be on a private network and not connected to the internet for security reasons – a separate WiFi system for other devices allowing for internet access only.

We paid a visit to the Villa for a weekend getaway. By now, my Dad and Mum had been living there since Christmas – their house was yet unsold. Mum and Judith (Aunty B) got along like mother and daughter. They cooked, shopped together, walked the cliffs trails and played cards, just to mention a few of their activities.

However, it appeared Dad was missing his workshop. He pulled me aside and made a proposal.

“Son,” he said, “Can I cover in the open carport and build a small workshop attached to the back garage, so I dabble with my woodworking?”

“Dad,” I replied, “draw a floor plan, and I will get the architect to produce a detailed plan for a builder to follow, and the local council would approve.”

I went on saying, “Don’t skimp on the floor plan and then complain later you’d wished it was bigger.”

Happy with my suggestion, he replied, “I’ll cover all the costs of construction.”

Not willing to argue with him, I agree.

One sunny morning sitting on the Villa forecourt overlooking the ocean. While browsing the Times newspaper entertainment section. I came across an interesting article.

‘After many months of legal haggling, the case between Subway Bar & Grill for non-payment of royalties to unnamed singing artists was settled – out of court.’ The news story also stated, ‘Valerie Stein had sold the once-popular Subway Bar & Grill and had disappeared’. Reports suggest Ms Stein may have moved to California, USA.

Unbelievably in the same edition of the paper in Death Notices ‘The once-popular lead guitarist Bill Wild dies of a drug overdose. His funeral…’

Back at the Estate, there was a small celebration for Hazelhurst studio’s first birthday. Later, Helen informed me the studio recording company was getting a good return on our investment with many local and international artists doing recordings. While I still earn commissions to write music and lyrics (with Helen’s help) for other artists. I regularly stand in as a session musician simply for enjoyment.

I was in the recording studio when Bob waved frantically at me through the double glass windows. He came dashing in, handing me my mobile, saying, “It’s Stephanie…”

I’m sure I had a look of confusion on my face which soon changed to alarm when I listened to Helen’s frantic voice over the phone.

I dashed out and headed for my car and drove over to the Hazelhurst school. I met Helen at the main reception area of the school. She had been crying and leapt into my arms, sobbing when we met. Hugging Helen, I looked between her and William, Syliva and some young woman sitting crying her eyes out. I didn’t know who to speak to first.

William quickly explained, “Helen’s ex-husband, Rupert arrived with a fictitious note allowing him to pick up Stephanie from school. Marie over there (pointing to the young woman still crying) took Stephanie out of class so he could take her with him.

Holding out the note, I quickly read, it was a simple request.

‘TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. I THE UNDERSIGNED GIVE PERMISSION FOR RUPERT, STEPHANIE’S FATHER, (MY EX-HUSBAND) TO PICK HER UP FROM SCHOOL TODAY, WEDNESDAY THE 16TH OF MARCH FOR A FAMILY EMERGENCY’, the signature looked somewhat like Helen’s by wasn’t.

William then told me he had called the police. Looking at the sobbing young woman, William said, “Marie, stop crying and go make us a pot of tea and bring it to my office.” So we all adjourned to the headmaster office to await the arrival of the police.

The police Inspector finally arrived and asked questions. The Inspector suggested Helen and I head home in case Rupert calls the home phone. As we were about to leave, Helen’s mobile rang.

She looked at the caller ID and said, “it’s Stephanie calling,” Helen was about to answer when the Inspector said, “answer the call and put it on hands-free. Everyone keep quiet.”

Helen pressed the green button, then the speaker icon, saying, “Stephanie, where are you?”

Rupert’s voice came through the tiny speaker, “Hi Helen, long time no speak. Stef’s with me we’re taking a little holiday. Now listen up, I need some money quickly and quietly, don’t call the police. Helen, this is between you and me; when I get hold of the money, you can have Stef back, okay?”

Helen, between sobs, replied, “you haven’t hurt, have you?”

“Of course not; she’s my daughter, you silly bitch. Now just listen, I need million pounds, in hundred-pound notes. I know you can afford it with your singing career, so don’t quibble. I will call tonight at nine pm to give more details.” Then Rupert hangs up.

The Inspector announces, “there is nothing more we can do now. Go home; the police will be in attendance tonight at nine pm to listen to his call.” Then, pulling us aside, he quietly asks if we can get that type of money if needed? We confirm we can, but it may take a while.

We only just arrived home when her mobile rings, Stephanie’s number again. Helens answers, “Rupert, what do you want now?”

He replies, “I guessed the school would call the police. You owe me my share of the apartment for the divorce settlement. I figured that was around a million, okay.”

“Why aren’t you still in jail?”

“Got out early for good behaviour,” Hmmph mumbled Helen.

“I want my daughter back, you bastard,” Helen states in a harsh voice.

“Listen bitch, I have gambling debts that if I don’t pay, I’m a dead man. You gotta have plenty of money, and you owe me.” Comes his reply.

Helen suggested rather than cash, “I’ll pay the funds directly to the gambling syndicate?”

“No, I need the cash, NOW.”

“Alright, Rupert, you have the upper hand. I’ll go along now – can I speak with Stephanie?”

Stephanie answers with a strong voice, “Hi Mum and DAD! I’m good; we just had McDonald’s, and my ex-father is taking us somewhere for the night, so all’s well. Please just pay him off, so I can come home.”

Helen replies, “yes, darling keep warm, stay safe; we love you…”

Rupert interrupts, “Okay, are you ready for instructions?”

“Yes,” replied Helen.

Rupert carried on. “A million pounds will weigh some twenty pounds. It should all fit into a backpack in a pinch. I’ll call and give you the drop location tomorrow around three pm. That should provide enough time to get the money.” The call goes dead.

Helen called the Inspector and related Rupert’s latest demands. He will be there at three tomorrow. An all-points bulletin had been dispatched for both Rupert and Stephanie. But the Inspector didn’t hold out much hope.

********

We had settled Richard down for the night, but we were both unable to sleep. Helen had calmed down; she is only two weeks away from going into labor with our second child. It was stressful enough without the kidnapping. I made a pot of tea, and we sat on the lounge chair.

I said to Helen, “well, perhaps as we can’t sleep, you can tell me about Rupert and yourself?”

Helen starts to tell me the sad story of her and Rupert.

At twenty-one, it was quietly suggested I marry Rupert Piddington by my parents and Rupert’s, who were best friends, since school days. Rupert was a stock market analyst. She thought he was all she ever wanted. Handsome, kind, loving, social, well known, tall at six feet. He was a man about town with a promising career ahead of him.

They had been childhood friends, and she felt that was what the families expected. Soon after their honeymoon, they moved into an expensive apartment in west London.

Their families expected an ‘heir’ as quickly as possible, and thus twelve months later, they announced to much delight of both families they were expecting their first child. Their daughter Stephanie was a blessing and a curse; it seemed to put more pressure on their fragile marriage.

Over the next eighteen months, Rupert slowly started to put in late nights claiming work duties. He would arrive home with bloodshot eyes, dishevelled. I began to think maybe he was having an affair.

I was shopping for some clothes for Stephanie and was about to make the purchase when informed by the counter staff my credit card had exceeded its limit. I was thoroughly embarrassed, so I used her personal Hazelhurst credit card I still carried around in my mobile phone carry case.

I tried to call Rupert, but the call was diverted to his answering service. I waited impatiently for Rupert to arrive home that evening. It was nine in the night when all hell broke loose. It started when the doorbell rang, I opened the door, and two men pushed their way into the apartment. I shrieked in fright as the large man pushed me aside and entered.

I screamed, “how dare you, I’ll call the police.”

Without asking, the second, well-dressed man took me by the arm. I struggled but was unable to break free. Finally, he pulled me into the lounge room, and I was thrust onto a chair, commanding, “stay there.”

As soon as he turned his back, I ran into Stephanie’s room and picked her up and held her firmly in my arms, then retreated to the lounge to sit. Sliding my mobile phone out of my pocket, I attempted to dial the police emergency number. The well-dressed man exited the master bedroom, ripped the phone from my fingers.

Saying, “no police, where’s your husband.”

“At work,” I replied.

“No, he ain’t. He was fired a month ago?”

“You’re lying. Why should I believe you?”

The other large man returned from the bathroom and said, “he ain’t here!”

The well-dressed said, “when you see him, tell him we want our hundred thou, got it.”

As soon as they left, I called Daddy and told him what had just happened. First, he asked if the baby and I were okay. I acknowledged they did not harm us. Then, Dad said to call the police, “tell them it was a home invasion.”

Mum and Dad arrived just after the police had taken my statement. I gave my description of the men who claimed that my husband owed them money. I told the Inspector the well-dressed man had a scar on his left cheek in the form of a question mark.

The Inspector let slip ‘Douche brothers’.

Mum rushed in at that moment, pulling me into a hug. I was still trembling and immediately burst into inconsolable tears. Mum ushered me into the bedroom.

My father told us later he asked the Inspector who the Douche brothers were. The Inspector replied they are known for their illegal gambling operation. The Inspector handed Dad his card and called if anything came up.

After the police left, Dad asked if I had called Rupert’s parents. In all the madness, I had not. Dad made the call to update them of the night’s events. He was on the phone with Malcolm (Rupert’s father) for a good twenty minutes. Towards the end of the call, Dad was yelling down the phone and hung up in disgust.

It appears Rupert’s family had known of his gambling addiction for years, believing marriage would cure him of his addiction. They had hoped family responsibilities might force him to rehabilitate, but it had only made it worse. And yes, he had been unemployed for the past month.

It appears Rupert had used up all his inheritance, gambling. His family were about to disown him. What made Dad so mad? They knew and didn’t have the nerve to tell me.

I could not stay there another night, so we packed as much as possible into the two cars and drove back to their home. Mum drove my car as I could not stop shaking.

It was well after midnight by now, and I couldn’t sleep, so Mum made us all a cup of cocoa. We all sat quietly, sipping hot drinks around the dining room table.

Then Dad had an epiphany. “Remember two months ago when your mother’s pendant went missing. Mum only noticed the week after you and Rupert were visiting.”

I groaned, “surely you’re not saying Rupert pinched it.”

The following day Dad called the Inspector and told him of the disappearance of the pendant. Dad suggested Rupert may have stolen it. He informed the Inspector it had been reported to the local police as requested by the insurance company. It was still missing.

Rupert wasn’t a particularly smart crook; he was caught by the police exiting our apartment two days later. He confessed to stealing the pendant, which was recovered a week later, much to Mum’s delight. I instantly applied for a divorce. He was to serve eight years, at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

********

The following day, at ten in the morning, Helen contacted our bank manager and made the large cash withdrawal of a million pounds. We would be in at two pm to pick up the money. The manager rang back to confirm the withdrawal and Helen gave him the Inspector his number for collaboration.

The Inspector and officer arrived thirty minutes early. Our housekeeper made us all a cup of tea while we waited for Rupert’s call.

Rupert rang at three. Helen was all business today, she put the mobile in hands-free mode.

Rupert’s voice was audible, “Okay, are you ready for instructions?”

“Yes,” Helen replied in a cold voice, “but before you ask anything, I want to talk with Stephanie, or I’ll hang up, Rupert.”

“Alright, I guessed you would want that.”

The tone of Stephanie’s voice surprised us, “Mum, I’m okay, just pay the bastard off, will you.”

Rupert took over, telling us the drop location is in north London, Highbury Field Park, near the children’s playground. Helen informed Rupert that her husband, Peter, will do the drop as she is very pregnant. Rupert objected. Helen said, it’s Peter, or we get the police to do it your choice; Rupert grumbled and agreed, then asked for Peter’s mobile number and promptly hung up.

The Inspector promised to be discreet; there will be a police presence, saying, “you won’t know we are there.”

With the money, I drove to meet Rupert at the prescribed location. Just as I was about to arrive, my phone rang. It was Rupert.

“Change of location, old man, meet me at the north end of the park by the public lavatories, next to the tennis courts.” Then hung-up.

As I walked towards the toilet block, Rupert and Stephanie exited the ladies and approached me. I held the backpack out to Rupert and offered a hand to Stephanie.

Just then, two men walked around from behind the toilets as the exchange was taking place. Then, the well-dressed man yelled out, “Rupert, give me my money.”

“Shit,” Rupert yelled, thrusting Stephanie into my arms, grabbing the backpack and starting to run. The larger of the two men pulled out his gun and opened fire in our direction. The bullet caught Rupert in the back, but he still tried to run. I pushed Stephanie to the ground, and the next shot caught me.

My last thought was to protect Stephanie, so I fell on her. While lying on top of Stephanie, I saw police rush in from every direction. In the melee, the gunman surrendered, dropping the gun and holding his hands up. The well-dressed man ran over and attempted to pick up the backpack, but Rupert wouldn’t let go, so the man kicked Rupert. Now with the backpack, he runs towards the road.

Stephanie from under me asked, “Daddy, why are you dribbling on me?”

I replied with a gasping breath, “I think I’ve been shot.” Then I blackout.

********

Back home, Helen and Syliva had been waiting on tenterhooks for Peter’s call confirming a successful exchange. When her phone finally rang, she answered, with bated breath, “Hello Peter, have you got Stephanie?”

Only to have the Inspector answer, “sorry Mrs Hollingsworth, Peters had been shot!”

Helen nearly fainted on the spot, dropping the phone, crying out, “Peter’s been shot!”

Luckily, Syliva was next to Helen and lowered her to the lounge chair as she started sobbing into a handkerchief.

Syliva picked up the phone, asking in her best schoolmarm voice, “to whom am I speaking?”

Listens to the Inspector’s response, then chastises him for his abruptness, reminding him Helen is a very pregnant woman. Finishing the conversation, Syliva replies, “we will be there as soon as possible.”

“Helen, Peter’s not dead, only wounded. An ambulance is taking Stephanie and Peter to St. Pancras Hospital. We must leave now.”

Stephanie and Peter were rushed by ambulance to the hospital’s emergency department. The doctors took Peter straight into surgery. Once it was established Stephanie is not injured, a nurse helps clean off some of Peter’s blood on her face and in her hair.

Syliva drops Helen off at the hospital’s emergency entrance while she parked the car. Helen found Stephanie sitting in the emergency waiting room. They both head to the surgery waiting area. They held each other weeping together until Syliva entered to join them. Helen’s parents arrived to help console them. Peter’s parents show up an hour later.