69 Shades. The Cat and the Kitten.

By Sheherezade

Richard needs a change of his busy London life and chooses rural France. The perfect village to rest and write his novel, until Nicole walks into his life.
This is the first story by Al Sherman an 87 year old Gentleman living in London, not exactly what you expect from an Pensioner!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sheherezade
• Release date: Jan 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9780957090996

Sheherezade

Born on the 2 June 1971 in Donetsk , Ukraine. Sheherezade is only my pename. I am a singer and singing teacher. I have appeared in many Opera's from Macbeth, La Traviata ( my favorite) Nabucco and Aida. Studied music and languages at the State University of Minsk , currently living in France with my English husband. I am blonde! I enjoy fine food and wine,music,fishing,writing and travelling. We have between us a very large family!

Book preview

The Story of Richard Hardwick

by

Al. Sherman

Volume 1

The Cat and the Kitten.

Copyright © 2015 by Al. Sherman

Smashwords Edition

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Introduction

I first met Richard at University. We were friends for some time but after University we drifted apart. Suddenly, after several years, Richard made contact again and we arranged to meet up. He invited me to spend a day or two at his house in France which I accepted. We spent many hours chatting about our past experiences and eventually, during an evening of drinking and reminiscing about our youth, he told me a story. He opened up to me. I was so surprised at what I heard that I couldn't contain his experiences and so I am setting them down. I am, after all, a writer. I have to add that all he told me was in the strictest confidence, and I may have altered some names to protect the innocent - and the guilty.

Chapter 1

I arrived, Richard said, On Tuesday, midday, after spending the night South of Paris. My furniture followed me, as arranged, that same day, late in the afternoon. It took several hours to unload and by then all were exhausted. I invited the two removal men to stay overnight. They left the next morning. I peered out at my new home. I could see very little of the locals. This was a commuter village, and most of its inhabitants only came home in the evening.

Over the next few days, they showed very little interest in the Englishman who for some reason chose this part of France to come to. The village was very quiet, particularly in the evening as the French don't go out to stroll but stay indoors after dinner behind shuttered windows.

Richard continued.

I spent the rest of the week arranging the house, presenting myself to the Mayor. I felt that I had made the right choice. By the weekend I felt guilty that I had neglected my writing so wrote a couple of articles which I sent to London. I then decided it was time to begin my novel. Ideas started to come easily and I got carried away with my words, and by Sunday night I was quite exhausted. I had a glass of wine, closed my shutters and went to bed.

I fell asleep almost immediately and was awoken at about five am. by rattling outside my window. I nodded off again. By seven there was quite a bustling noise outside. I opened the shutters and couldn't believe what I saw. The village square in front of my house had been transformed into a busy market with lots of people shuffling around chatting and shopping. I showered and dressed quickly and went out to take in more of the atmosphere. I found the baker with a stall outside his shop so I bought a bread and a couple of croissants for my breakfast. There was a fruit and vegetable stall, a wonderful cheese van where I found some very cool milk. I looked around before I went home to make coffee and have my breakfast. I was a little annoyed that there were stalls almost to my front door. I had known the town had a market but had not imagined it to be as large as this.

Time went by and I seemed to fall into a daily routine, something I hoped I would never do. Life was becoming somewhat compartmentalised. Time for domestic chores, time for eating, time to write, time to relax and then to bed. The highlight of the week was Monday morning and I began to look forward to it and my weekly stroll through the market. I got to recognise many of the stall holders and some of the shoppers. Some greeted me casually.

Bonjour Monsieur. I could hear whispered the word 'anglais' frequently.

I didn't mind these people knowing who or what I was as long as they were complimentary. Life carried on and I found plenty of material for my writing. I sent several articles to London where they were accepted and payments followed, which was all quite pleasing. My finances were quite healthy. I started to get more shape for the novel and pressed harder with it.

To give me different ideas, I would go out walking or driving into town to have a coffee or an aperitif. I would sit at an outside table and watch the world go by. I was often at the supermarket or the wine merchant as the thought of running out of wine was unthinkable.

Two or three times a month would see me at the same table in the same cafe. I sometimes read the newspaper, The Times or Telegraph for an hour or so. Yesterday's news. On one such visit to town something happened which was to give my life a whole new meaning. I repeat that this is very confidential.

On this particular morning I looked up to find a lady standing over me. She just stood there looking at me. She looked familiar and for an instant I thought I recognised her. She smiled. Bonjour M.Anglais she said. I returened the greeting and invited her to sit down.

You are the Englishman who lives in the village by the market, she said.

Yes, I replied. That's me. And suddenly I remembered I had seen her at the market. We started to talk and I soon discovered that her English was better than my French so that became our common language. She seemed very relaxed and ordered pastis. It was a quite warm morning and time passed quickly as we chatted.

What a pleasant change it was to have a friendly conversation with such an attractive lady. She explained that she had learned English when she was in London as an au pair so she knew a little about English habits.

We talked for a while and my eyes kept noting things about, the way her slim and elegant fingers encircled the glass, the pendant earrings which stroked her neck as she moved. I snatched a look at her mouth and how her lower lip moved sideways as if she was nervous. I was intrigued but didn't want to appear too distracted. I glanced back to her eyes which were glowing and was caught in her gaze. I felt strabgely embarrassed, so I looked away for a brief moment. She looked at her watch..

Oh my goodness, I must be off it's getting late.

She finished her drink stood up and left and I was unaccountably sad. But what I saw of her walking away I found very attractive. She had slim elegant legs and a fine figure, to which a white silky dress clung seductively.

It was a wonderful first meeting, the first of many as it later turned out. Feeling slightly elated, I paid for the coffee and Pastis, left the café to find my car which was parked a couple of streets away.

I drove home, had some lunch, cleared up and sat down to write. I was quite content with the articles I had sent London and decided at this time to write a short story rather than work on my novel. I started a synopsis and was satisfied with the