contemporary novella

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Meet the villain on WIP Wednesday

Or villainess, of course. I have a fondness for female antagonists. An author has a lot of scope when introducing a villain. We might know straight away that he or she is the bad guy, or it might dawn on us over time, as we watch things go wrong for the hero and heroine.

I’d love to see an excerpt from your work-in-progress showing the antagonist’s first appearance in the book. Mine is from my contemporary novella, Beached. My heroine and her friend are having morning tea at a table on the footpath (sidewalk, you Americans) outside a cafe.

“Nicola Watson! Thought you’d have headed back to the bright lights of Noo York by now.” The speaker grabbed a chair from one of the other tables, and turned it back on to Nikki’s and Becky’s table before straddling it. “Checking out the old home town, eh? Quite a bit bigger than when you were here last.”

Pencil Kenworth. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and a cloth sunhat masked his bald patch, but if she hadn’t seen him at the funeral, she still would have recognised the raspy voice which hadn’t changed since he’d done his best to make her life miserable in high school.

Thank goodness for dear friends, who had turned tables on him. When she’d refused him a date, he’d told the whole school that she’d been abandoned by her mother and didn’t know her father. She’d laughed that off, but only until she heard his outrageous claim that he’d dated her back in Valentine Bay, had sex with her, and then dropped her because she cheated on him with anyone who would pay her fee. That story was around the school before she heard it.

Becky and Dave took the lead in the revenge. Becky came up with some creative storytelling about the origin of Pencil’s nickname, linking it to the size and function of an appendage most male teenagers don’t want to have questioned. Dave, the captain of the first XV rugby team, enlisted his team mates to spread the tale in a whisper there and a snigger here. Since Kenworth was not much liked, people were happy to spread the tale, and soon convinced that he’d lied about Nikki in order to cover his own inability to perform.

By the end of the school year, she almost felt sorry for him, and she was relieved when he did not return the following year. He’d joined his father’s real estate firm, and their paths didn’t cross again. Though she heard that he’d put considerable effort into finding females who would allow him to demonstrate the falsity of the rumours about him.

Thirteen years later, he headed the firm, since his father had retired to focus on his duties as a district councillor, so Nikki was not surprised when he said, “I guess you need to sell the old house before you leave. Put it in my hands, and I’ll get you a good price, for old times sake. Of course, it needs a lot of work, but I’m sure I can find someone in the market for a fixer upper.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Nikki told him, “but I doubt if I will sell.”

“Keeping it for a rental, are you?” Pencil nodded, pursing his lips, his eyes narrowed as he considered this. “Not a bad idea. Paradise Bay is on the move, and the new hotel is going to put it on the map. You’ll need to do some work before it’s fit to live in, even if the rent’s cheap. Here, take my card. We manage property rentals. No need to worry your pretty little head about the place while we’re looking after it. In fact, I have some builders you can use — much cheaper than the Mastertons.”

Becky enquired sweetly, “Cheap like the apartments in Brayden Street?”

Pencil ignored her, continuing to address himself to Nikki. “You just give me a ring, Nicola. Or drop me an email.” He dropped his voice and leant towards her across the back of the chair. “I’m happy to make myself available to you at any time.” He waggled his eyebrows to underline the suggestive nature of the offer.

Thirteen years had not improved the man. It had, however, taught Nikki the futility of arguing with people like him. “I haven’t made a decision, Mr Kenworth. But thank you for the card. Good day to you.”

“Mr Kenworth? No need for such formality between old friends.” Pencil went to pat Nikki’s arm, caught her glare, and changed his mind. “Call me Pencil, like you used to.”

Margaret emerged from the shop with their tea on a tray: a teapot under a knitted cosy, two cups on saucers, a small jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar.

Pencil sneered. “You won’t appeal to the young crowd with that old fashioned stuff, Maggie. You need decent sized mugs and a good barista. Yes, and a coat of paint to brighten the place up. If you’d accept my offer—”

“Thank you, Margaret,” Becky interrupted. “That’s perfect.”

Pencil tapped Margaret on the arm. “You might as well fetch me a cup.”

Nikki decided to be firm. “I am sorry, Pencil. Becky and I were having a private conversation, and we’d like to continue it. Thank you for stopping by.”

Reluctantly, the man accepted his dismissal, cancelled his order for tea, and strolled off down the footpath, hitching the belt that curved under his belly as he went.

“The apartments in Brayden Street?” Nikki prompted as she watched him walk away.

“Pencil’s investment and a builder from xxx. They cut corners from the first. Designed to use minimum materials, used the cheapest materials, breached code when they could get away with it. Within two years they were being sued by purchasers.”

“Serves them right,” Nikki said. “I suppose they walked away with a slap on the wrist with a wet bus ticket.”

Becky shrugged, her focus seemingly on the tea she was pouring, only the grim set of her jaw indicating her irritation. “The builder went bankrupt and started up again under another name. Pencil managed to slither out from under — convinced a judge that his only role was funding the project, and that he was as much a victim as any of the house owners.”

Nikki accepted the cup Becky passed. “Slippery as ever. What is he still doing in Paradise Bay? You’d think somewhere like Auckland or Wellington would offer him more scope. Or over the ditch in Sydney or Brisbane.”

“He spent several years across the Tasman,” Becky confirmed. “The story is he came home because his father needed him. There are other stories, but let’s not waste a perfectly nice day thinking about Pencil Kenworth. Are you really thinking about staying? And what do you plan to do with the house? It isn’t as bad as Pencil says, but it does need work.”

“Dave is sending over the luscious lodger to take a look,” Nikki said. “I’ll have a better idea once I know what needs to be done, and how much it might cost.”

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Rough beginnings for my contemporary couple

My contemporary novella for the Authors of Main Street summer collection wants to be a romantic comedy, I think. I’ve interviewed the hero and heroine. I’ve charted their ‘hero’s journey’. I’ve run a heap of dialogue through my head.  And now I’ve written the first scene of what is tentatively called ‘Beached’. Actually, it might be the third or fourth scene, after Zachary Henderson and Nikki Watson meet again. The story will be mostly set at a beach resort in New Zealand, where my heroine has invented a summer residence that needs fixing up and my hero is working as a builder.

Eighteen months ago, New York

Nicola Watson scanned the crowd in the coffee shop. No sign of Mr Michael ‘I’m-Too-Sexy-For-A-New-York-Courtroom’ O’Neal. It was the last straw.

Yes, she was five minutes late. Okay. Eight minutes. Which was totally not her fault, and another reason why she was irritated.

But O’Neal had asked for this meeting, so he should have waited. If he turned up at all.

Ever since she’d received his note, she’d been second guessing what he might be up to. Third, fourth, and fifth guessing. That was the primary reason for her mood. She shouldn’t be here, and yet here she had not been able to resist.

She and Mr Designer-Suit-Fits-Like-A-Glove were not currently on the opposite side in litigation, and last time he had won. But she hadn’t given up. The O’Neals might have been innocent of the particular charges World Watch had brought against them, but somewhere their global chains of hotels were breaking environmental laws for short term profit. And one day she expect to face Bedroom-Eyes O’Neal again, and win.

His note said he had information she might find useful. Yeah, right. She wouldn’t trust an O’Neal as far as she could throw one of them, and every single one of them was six foot plus and built like a lazy bookworm’s wet dream.

Lots of money for gym equipment and personal trainers, her grumpy self pointed out. At that moment, something in the crowded room hooked her roving gaze and dragged it back. That man. The one with the beard. The one waving a greeting.

The scruffy denim jacket over a coloured t-shirt was a far cry from O’Neal’s usual crisply tailored suits and shirts, and the pirate beard was a further disguise, though something in her gut purred its approval. It was a fiery red, shades brighter than his auburn hair, currently tousled as if he’d been out in a strong wind. Or just risen from bed.

The eyes hadn’t changed. A bright blue, currently levelled at hers as she crossed the room and took the seat opposite him.

“Ms. Watson. Thank you for coming.” The voice was the same, too. North Eastern United States Preppie, with a touch of low gravel.

Nicola inclined her head in greeting. “Mr. O’Neal.”  He called the meeting. Let him start it.

“Coffee?” he asked, and performed the magic of attracting a waitress from the other side of the crowd so he could place her order.

The t-shirt featured a sailing ship, with a motto written across it. “A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.”

“Expecting storms?” Nicola asked.

O’Neal smiled. “I’d be a fool if I didn’t.” The smile vanished and he leaned forward, dropping his voice as if the crowd was full of spies with recorders. “I’m leaving, Miss Watson. But before I go, I wanted to redress the balance a little.”

“Leaving?” What did that mean? “Leaving New York?”

“Confidentially? Just between you and me?” He must have caught her slight withdrawal, because he added, “Nothing unethical or illegal, but I’d rather it remained a private matter. At least for a few weeks.”

Nicola nodded, her curiosity overriding her caution.

“I’m leaving it all. New York. The practice of law. The hotel business. The O’Neal family.” He chewed at his upper lip in a moment of indecision, then held out his hand. “Miss Watson, allow me to introduce myself. Zachary Henderson, deck hand on… it doesn’t matter. You get the idea.”

She was floundering to keep up. “Zachary is your second name.”

“And Henderson was my mother’s, so not a big leap.”

The coffee arrived, and Nicola grabbed a handful of coins to give the girl a tip before O’Neal, no, Henderson. He waited while she added some low-Cal sweetener. “Redress the balance?” she asked. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Henderson let those gorgeous blue eyes roam around the room before answering. “Remember in court, when I pulled out the information that proved the hotels you named in your suit were all compliant with international treaties?”

Nicola nodded. She didn’t need reminding. She still wondered how World Watch had got it so wrong.

“I saw your reaction. You were taken by surprise. But your colleague wasn’t, and that got me thinking. And checking.” He looked around again, then pulled a plastic sleeve from inside his jacket. “Here. I’ve printed enough to get you started, but most of what I found is on the thumb drive. Conversations. Emails. Enough to show that the law suit you and I fought was a set up by the O’Neal hotel chain and World Watch.”

No way! But on the heels of denial came belief, as pieces that had never fitted fell into place. And her unsurprised colleague Tyler — her fiance — he was at the heart of it.

Henderson was silent, allowing her time to absorb his claims. “Thank you,” she managed to say. “If what you say is true, I am pleased to know.”

“I figured I owed you.” He stood, and held out his hand, gripping hers firmly. “It has been nice knowing you, Miss Watson. Good luck.”

“And to you, Mr. Henderson,” she replied. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Another fleeting grin. “I have to figure out what that is, first.”

Nicola sat and finished her coffee after he had left. If Henderson was right, she’d been played for a country rube. She might be a country girl from little New Zealand, but she was not a complete fool. As they would find out. She slipped the thumb drive into an inner pocket of her jacket, and put the plastic sleeve into her hand bag. First, home to read the evidence. Then a conversation with Tyler.