Category Archives: The Dictator’s Wife

Dictator’s Wife Spinoff Story 3 – Julien

10 Friday Mar 2017

Posted by in Books, The Dictator's Wife, Uncategorized, Writing

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I’m currently supposed to be doing an in-depth revise and resubmit on My Love is Vengeance. And on the whole, I’m working quite hard and staying focussed. But of course, I got distracted and wrote another Dictator’s Wife short story. You can find the other two here and here  But where the earlier ones play around with secondary characters’ POV’s, this one is all about Julien – everyone’s favourite villain/love interest. I thought this would be the hardest perspective to write from, but it actually really flowed, to the extent that if I ever write a sequel, I’m tempted to make it dual point of view…

 

I stood on the rooftop terrace and looked out at my city. At the centre of my empire. Wordsworth had once claimed earth had nothing to show more fair than the view from Westminster Bridge, but I preferred the vista from Waterloo.

From Somerset House, perched at the far end of Waterloo Bridge and almost touching the water, you could see London’s ancient past in the Tower of London (older than many countries), and its future in the equally impressive towers of Canary Wharf (built a thousand years later).

To some degree or another, all of it belonged to me.

The concept was hard to truly absorb, even after a few years to acclimatise. The financial transactions happening on the fiftieth floor of that skyscraper happened at my pleasure. The people on the bridge, walking hand in hand, kept their freedom only at my say so.

It would have disconcerted a lesser man. It thrilled me. Truly it did. But I still struggled to really believe it, to accept that my dreams – such grandiose, unachievable dreams – had honestly come true.

London was mine. England was mine. And they were better places for it.

Usually, self-assurance came easily, but tonight, I needed to remind myself it was all worthwhile. Convince myself that I’d made the right choice.

To bomb or not to bomb? The eternal question of every leader. God knows I wasn’t weak or over-burdened by moral scruples. If I’d thought it would grant us peace or increase our power, I’d have already mobilised the airforce.

I’d made the right call. I absolutely had. But disagreeing with Marianne discomfited me. Our propaganda exaggerated the extent to which we were always in accord, but we’d based the fantasy on fact. We had healthy disagreements on details and theories, but we usually agreed on the basics. Yet she’d been so adamant that we needed to crush the rebels and damn the repercussions. And she was so right about so many things.

I tried to lose myself in the view again, but my mind whirred. I glanced behind me. The terrace was empty, barring two heavily armed and aggressively trained guards. It was as alone as I got nowadays. They lurked unobtrusively in the background, clearly understanding my mindset.

I turned as the door to the terrace opened. It was well-crafted and oiled – a less observant person might not have noticed the sound at all. But people forget about my military training. I’m not some ancient, clueless despot, whatever the terrorists and insurgents might like to think.

A lesser man might have screamed that they’d given orders not to be disturbed. I merely raised an eyebrow at the high-ranking member of the counter-insurgency team who stood there bowing, while visibly trying – and failing – not to tremble.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, my Lord,” he murmured.

“Not to worry, Jack,” I replied with a smile, dredging my memory to locate the man’s name. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have invaded my privacy without good reason. You look like you have something to tell me.”

He pressed himself lower into the floor. “My Lord. I need you to come with me. Come to the dungeons. We have a new prisoner. You need to hear what he has to say.”

“Get up, Jack,” I said, gesturing for him to rise. Despite his deep bows, his words were unusually abrupt and demanding. Fear, urgency, or something more sinister? Either way, it didn’t look good.

I glanced at the two guards, still standing to attention, still silent. Acting like they saw and heard nothing when they actually absorbed everything. Surely they were loyal. Surely all of the army, all of the staff were. But somehow, I didn’t want to go down to that dungeon, either alone or accompanied by anyone I didn’t trust 100%.

“Get me Tyrone,” I demanded. “He’ll accompany me to the interrogation chambers. And in the meantime, perhaps you could deign to give me a summary of this prisoner’s revelations.”

Jack climbed unsteadily to his feet. “Major Jackson is indisposed, my Lord. A broken leg, or so I hear. And I don’t know precisely who the prisoner is or what he wants to tell your lordship. My superiors sent me to find you. There’s only so much he would tell them without you present.”

If I didn’t have my body under such perfect control, I’d have shuddered. Tyrone didn’t get injured. And my interrogation experts got answers. None of this felt right. But I’d be dammed if I’d allow myself to feel fear in my own palace.

“All three of you stay where you are,” I ordered. “I’ll go to the dungeons alone.” I stormed inside before they could protest.

***

I made a detour via one of my dressing rooms. Changing out of my relatively casual clothes into body armour below and the full Victorian Field Marshall uniform above. If someone wanted a scene, they were going to get a scene.

Once entering the dungeons, my heartrate normalised. The Head of Security himself stood guard outside the deepest cell. I didn’t fully trust him, simply because fully trusting anyone was a fool’s game, but if he’d turned against me, everything was truly lost. Surely that wasn’t where we stood.

More reassuring yet, Peter stood by his side. I made an exception to my rules on trust where my oldest friend was concerned.

They both bowed, but Peter remained uncharacteristically silent. He left the talking to Alex,  the Security Chief.

The Chief rose out of his bow and saluted. “We have the Treaty’s Second-in-Command in there. He came to us voluntarily.”

I frowned. “A turncoat?”

“No. Seemingly still loyal to the insurgents. He wanted to give you a message.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Frankly I’m a little bemused that you’re allowing this traitor his moment in the spotlight. But I’ll assume you’ve got the perimeter under surveillance in case this is a distraction and this room heavily secured in case it’s a trap. And on that basis, I’ll hear what he has to say.”

I pushed past him and flung open the door.

I recognised the man secured to the interrogation chair from Treaty broadcasts and from my men’s surveillance.

I despised him on principle, of course, as I did all rebels and disloyalists. He’d probably die a horrible death before the night was out, and I’d be glad. But on an objective level, he looked decent and friendly enough. Just a man on the wrong side of history. It was something of a token hatred. Nothing like the all-consuming fury that consumed me whenever I had to look into the overly chiselled face of that smug, sanctimonious cunt who ran his pitiful organisation.

“Well, you’ve got what you wanted. I’m here, and I’m listening. What is it you’ve risked everything to tell me?”

I sensed Peter and Alex behind me and saw other guards in the gloomy corners of the room. I stared at the prisoner, expecting either the sneering refusal to speak or the melodramatic, self-aggrandising speeches these people seem to delight in.

Instead, he took a deep breath, stared into my eyes, and spoke a simple, devastating sentence in his thick northern brogue. “We killed and captured your wife.  I have her rings to prove it.”

His voice seemed to come from a million miles away. I could hear and comprehend individual words, but they made no sense as a sentence. The room blurred around the edges. This couldn’t be happening.

Perhaps I was supposed to challenge his assertions, demand further proof. But I saw the distinctive rings sparkling on a side table, and I heard the ring of truth in his voice.

“We’ve already given him the truth serum,” the Head of Security said. He was the hardest man I knew. He sounded like he was about to cry. Whether for himself, myself or Marianne, I wasn’t quite sure.

“Everyone please excuse me for ten minutes,” I said, in my calmest, most commanding tone. “Everyone stay here. Do and say nothing until I return.”

I bit my lip, clenched my fists and strode out of the room with surprising poise. I kept walking, ignoring the stares and bows of the guards and courtiers. I kept my head held high and my face studiously neutral, and then I flung myself inside my official drawing room, barging past the guard outside.

“Out,” I snapped at the guard inside.

He fired off the sharpest of salutes then marched outside.

“Keep your distance. And let no one inside,” I ordered, slamming the door and drawing the curtains.

I stepped to the dresser at the far side of the room and poured half a bottle of Laphroaig into a pint glass. I closed my eyes and drank it down in as close to one as I could manage, pausing merely to catch my breath between choked gulps.

The whisky blurred the edges, made the Treaty prisoner’s words feel like a hideous dream. I pulled out my pocket watch – antique casing refined with modern technology – and set an alarm for ten minutes time.

Ten minutes. I’d allow myself ten minutes of weakness, of sorrow, mourning, hysteria. And then I’d be strong again, and I’d make them all pay.

The tears began to pour before I was ready for them. I sobbed in a way I’d never allowed myself to before, in a way I’d never allow either my worst enemies or my closest allies to see. I didn’t think of the consequences and repercussions, of the steps I’d have to take to right this wrong. I thought of her scent, the touch of her hand on my arm, the way she could say something amusing and jolt me out of the worst of moods, or say something serious and convince me to change my path.

Flashes of memory assaulted me as I dug my nails into the palms of my hand. I raised my fist and drove my right hand through the window, relishing the pain and disregarding the blood and the shards.

It had all been too perfect for too long. I’d taken the sort of power no man could hope to hold, and I’d known I’d have to face the consequences at some point. But this. Of all the punishments I’d dreamt could be inflicted on me, the fates had found the worst of all possible worlds.

I gasped in air, my cries wracking my body.

The door swung open and Peter strode inside, wide-eyed and tense. I closed my eyes, making no attempt to disguise my sobs, but trying to pretend he wasn’t there.  I gave orders not to be disturbed, I wanted to say, but my trembling lips couldn’t form the words. Besides, I knew that Peter would never take no for an answer and few guards would dare to resist him.

His fingers dug into my arm. “Julien, are you alright? Julien, listen to me.”

I forced breath into my constricted lungs. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard him use my full first name or show so much unrestrained emotion.

“Julien, seriously. Open your eyes. Look at me. Breathe.”

Any minute now, he was going to say something unutterably practical. He was going to insist on a press conference or an interrogation, and I was going to punch him.

“Go back to the prisoner, Peter,” I choked out. “I don’t trust anyone else with him, and I need to be alone for now. Really alone.”

I made no attempt to disguise my tears, my utter devastation. I’d hide them later, and I’d surely manage to be convincing. But for now, it was all too raw. Besides, there was no point trying to hide my feelings from my oldest friend.

Peter released his grip on my arm. “I’m going back to the cells. If you want to be alone, I’ll respect that. But when you’re ready, we’ll mourn. And when you’re even readier, we’ll attack.”

I opened my eyes long enough to see him walk out and gently close the door, then I collapsed in on myself, sobbing, shaking and embracing the devastation.

Long before I was ready to be calm, the alarm rang, marking the end of the period of hysteria I’d permitted myself. I counted down from ten in my head. I breathed in for a count of four. Held for four. Out for four. Held. In for four. Repeat and repeat and repeat. It was a trick they’d taught me in the army. A way of maintaining calm under the worst of provocation. I’d used it in war, and I’d used it in our coup.

Two minutes of that, another swig of the whisky, then I stepped into the adjacent bathroom, washed out my mouth, splashed my face and smoothed back my hair.

I studied my reflection in the mirror and thought of anything but Marianne. I could do this. I could go back there and confront the prisoner. Then I could tell the world what had happened. I longed to grant myself a day or two to shake and rage and mourn, but that way danger lay. Two days was enough for my enemies to gain momentum, for my rivals to manipulate my weakness. That wasn’t what Marianne would have wanted.

I was an ocean of horror and sadness. But above all that was a thin, icy crust of composure. I’d give it all up to hold my wife against me one more time. But that wasn’t an option, and I couldn’t lose both her and the Regime.

One more glance in the mirror satisfied me that I looked in control of my emotions, and one more deep breath satisfied me that I could speak without breaking down. I’d waited long enough.

I left the room. The guard’s bow held a distinct hint of nervousness. How much had he heard and how much more did he suspect? But that wasn’t my concern.

I made it back to the dungeons without the slightest hint of a tremor wracking my body or a sob escaping my lips. Guards bowed fervently. I usually bestowed a nod of acknowledgement, but today, I ignored them.

The security chief was back at his post outside the door. “My Lord,” he whispered, bowing exceptionally low.

“Let me past,” I demanded.

“Of course, my Lord. If that’s what you wish. But I assure you we can deal with this traitor ourselves. Mine him for information and make him pay. You don’t have to worry yourself.”

I frowned, a subtle hint of the raging emotions below the surface. “I want to worry myself.”

I pushed past him without another word and he threw himself out of the way like my touch was poison.

The scene in the dungeon was much the same as it had been before I left. The Treaty’s man strapped to the chair. Guards surrounding him, tense and watchful. Peter at the back of the room, trying to look as laconic as usual and doing a spectacularly bad job of it.

I ignored the rest of the room, despite Peter’s frantic attempts to force eye-contact, and stared at the prisoner.

“Has anyone hurt you?” I asked, in an almost supernaturally calm tone of voice.

“My Lord, you gave strict instructions, and we obeyed,” one of the guards simpered.

“I’m asking him,” I replied levelly.

“No one’s touched me,” the prisoner replied. “I’m actually rather impressed by the discipline of your guards and the control you have over them. It’s rather different from the behaviour of the FLA in the provinces.”

When I looked at him, I saw Marianne lying dead on the ground. How had they killed her? Had it taken long? Had she suffered? I longed to ask him for every last detail and use each little fact as another stick with which to beat myself for ever more. But I couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Why did the leader of your godforsaken organisation choose you to send this message?” I asked instead. “Why his second-in-command? Why not some wide-eyed new recruit? It’s a task that combines the utmost simplicity with no chance of a successful outcome. An idiot-proof suicide mission.”

He stared me down. “I couldn’t say.”

One of the guards cleared his throat and spoke up. “My Lord, should I bring one of the special serums? Or perhaps a set of scalpels? Electrodes?”

Memories of the things we’d done to those who’d committed crimes a fraction as horrifying as this echoed in my mind. No doubt my interrogators would give it their best shot, but there was surely no way to give this the escalation it required.

“Did you kill her personally?” I asked, sounding for all the world like I was making smalltalk at a party.

He shook his head as much as he could within his restraints. “No. David did it. Our leader took care of this job personally.”

“Were you present? Were you involved?”

“In this instance, I’m just the messenger.”

There were some men who’d say anything to save their skin. But my experience of the Treaty was quite different. They bragged. They insulted us in the hope of dying as a martyr. Far from claiming innocence, they laid claim to impossible crimes. If this man claimed not to be involved, I believed him. And believed him to be different.

“What’s your name?”

“Michael.”

“And how is your relationship with this David?”

“We share the same broad aims.”

“My overthrow? The destruction of everything my wife and I have worked for?”

He gave a half smile. “Something like that.

Again, the difference was clear. Normally, Treaty prisoners couldn’t wait to say their piece, to lay my supposed crimes at my feet.

The shell of my composure trembled. I’d achieved my basic aim. Everyone in the room – allies and enemies alike – had seen my emotional strength, my lack of emotion. If the loss of my wife couldn’t faze me, surely that meant I was untouchable. I needed to keep up the act for a little while longer, then I needed to collapse.

“Let’s face it. David sent you for one reason, and one reason only. If I’m truly the monster he believes me to be, whoever told me such terrible, soul-destroying news would inevitably die a horrible death. He could have sent someone disposable. Instead, he gave the suicide mission to his supposed lieutenant. It’s clear that he fears you. He wanted me to kill you so he didn’t have to. And I won’t give him the satisfaction.”

I turned to go.

“My Lord, what do you want us to do?” one of the guards spluttered.

“Escort Michael to one of the guest rooms. Keep him under armed guard, but otherwise grant him every courtesy and luxury. In time, I’m confident he’ll chose us over a supposed ally who’d sacrifice him out of petty jealousy.”

I paced towards the door before either Michael or the guards could respond. I trusted the latter to obey my orders, and the former to obey my faith in human nature.

“Peter, summon the Council for an hour’s time, and arrange a press conference for an hour after that. I’ll inform my generals and ministers. I’ll tell the public and declare a period of mourning. Then I’ll bomb the rebels’ stronghold out of existence.”

I left the room and closed the door behind me. I’d done my duty. I’d shown my strength. And I’d do it again for the benefit of my council and all my loyal citizens. But the adrenaline was already fading away. A chill settled over my heart.

Marianne was dead.

I could put a good spin on it. I could make the perpetrators wish they’d never been born. I could show everyone I wasn’t fazed or weakened, and perhaps even use the moment to consolidate my power. The cold, calculating part of my brain could see it already – we’d have posters mourning the Eternal Blessed First Lady. We’d crush the Treaty and a mourning populace would cheer. But none of it would change the fact that forever more, I’d be alone. The Dictator’s Wife was dead.

 

 

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Dictator’s Wife Spin-off story Number Two: The Two Facts Everyone Knows About Me

17 Friday Feb 2017

Posted by in The Dictator's Wife, Uncategorized, Writing

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She turned away from the blue tiles and bronze taps of the bath, and laughed again. “Which of the two facts about me is your favourite? That I served as the First Lord’s leading mistress or that I was indirectly responsible for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s death by the removal of genitals?”

That roughly summarised the only two pieces of information I knew about Olivia, but hearing them from her own lips made me shudder in a way that neither David’s talk of mistresses nor Moreham’s warnings of what had happened to the man who’d attacked one of them had managed.

A few months ago, I posted Right-hand Man, a short story I’d written about Peter Delamare, one of the characters in  The Dictator’s Wife, which took place in the five years dividing the two halves of the novel.

Quick summary of TDW for those who don’t know: The British Government has been overthrown by a military coup, led by Julien St John Helmsley. Julien runs the country as an autocratic dictator, revered by some and despised by others. The Dictator’s Wife is told from the point of view of Marianne Helmsley, Julien’s beloved wife. Half the chapters focus on how they met and their rise to power, culminating in Marianne seemingly faking her own death and fleeing to join the resistance. The other, alternating chapters focus on her return five years later, when she is torn between assassinating her husband and resuming her position of absolute power at his side.

Like Right-Hand Man, this short story takes place in the missing five years, in this case, immediately after Peter’s story ends. This time around, it’s from the POV of Olivia Livelton. In the “present day” sections of the novel, she’s a hyper-confident, scheming twenty-something, who, despite being a former mistress of the First Lord, manages to become his wife’s best friend and confidant on her return. But this story is set before all that, back when Olivia was a naive seventeen-year-old. And if Right-hand Man took you inside Peter’s head to suggest he wasn’t as bad as Marianne always seems to think, this one reverts to showing him at his manipulative worst.

As the title implies, I was hoping to cover both halves of Olivia’s story. In the end, I  didn’t actually get as far as her first meeting with Julien. It’s fair to say I ship Julien and Marianne pretty hard as the perfect example of what TV Tropes calls “Unholy Matrimony“. As a result, I think my sub-conscious balked at writing any romantic or sexual Olivia/Julien scenes – but I’ll try my best to get part 2 done at some point. I’ve also got a third short story in the works,  directly focussed on Julien, but it’s very weird to write from his POV, so I’ll see how that one goes…

THE TWO FACTS EVERYONE KNOWS ABOUT ME – PART ONE

“Olivia, my darling. Could you come into my office for a moment?”

I uncoiled my legs and roused myself from the depths of the sofa. I’d been alternating between reading the most salacious novel I could get my hands on and staring out of the window at the sparkling sea. It was warm for March. Perhaps later I’d brave a dip.

“Coming, Daddy.”

I smiled at the thought of him permitting me into the inner sanctum. It’d been weeks. My father’s role of suppressing any hints of rebellion in the south-west kept him busy, and though we’d always been close, we spent less and less time together. When we did talk, he kept his innermost thoughts to himself in a way he never had before. Perhaps it was an attempt to protect me. Perhaps a growing lack of trust. After all, I was a citizen of the Regime as well as a daughter of the Livelton clan.

“Close the door behind you,” my father snapped, as soon as I entered the airy attic room that served as his centre of operations.

He stood behind his desk, pacing to and fro. He’d torn several documents into tiny strips – a nervous habit rather than a security precaution. He wouldn’t catch my eye.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Sit down.” He pointed to the battered old sofa in the far corner.

I did as he’d asked. Instead of joining me, he intensified his pacing.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re to be sent to Somerset House.”

My hand flew to my mouth, disguising both my shock and my smile. I paused before answering. It wouldn’t do to sound too keen.

“Why? Why now? I’ve begged for years to be allowed to join the court. You’ve told me time and time again that it’s a den of danger and debauchery. That my place is here in the south west.” That I should marry someone suitable and consolidate the family’s power base.

My sister was eight years older than me. She’d gone off to university, taken a job as a management consultant, and married a fellow professional, all before the revolution. She made jokes about the Tudors, teased me about my expected dynastic marriage and my longing to be a lady-in-waiting. Things have changed, she’d say. Sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a haunted look in her eyes.

My father glanced around as though Regime spies were hiding behind the wallpaper. He’d said those things and more, a hundred and one times. He wasn’t disloyal, of course he wasn’t. He’d kill anyone for suggesting such a thing, with the First Lord’s blessing. He was simply forthright, a quality which had to be valuable amongst all the yes-men that made up the senior ranks of the army and the political class.

“For heaven’s sake don’t repeat that when you get there.” He laughed as though it was a hilarious joke, not a matter of life or death.

“I’m not an idiot, daddy. So come on. Why the change of heart?”

Daddy stopped his pacing then came and sat down beside me. “You’ve been invited by Peter Delamare.”

“The Head of Press? I didn’t know he even knew my name.” I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice.

A few month ago, my father had hosted a grand gathering of south-western dignitaries, and the man that everyone understood to be the Regime’s second-in-command had been the guest of honour. I’d watched him from a distance, awed by his beauty and flamboyance, by the way everyone deferred to him. Daddy had welcomed him and shook his hand. My sister – on good behaviour for once and wearing the approved nineteen-twenties fashions instead of a trouser suit – had said hello with a curtsey and a smirk. I’d longed to introduce myself, but an uncharacteristic shyness had descended.

“Apparently you made an impression. Perhaps all that time you spend on your hair isn’t entirely wasted.”

I laughed and flicked the offending golden curls over my shoulder. The colour was natural, but I spent hours a week waving my poker straight locks.

It was good to spend a moment talking about something normal, to allow myself to be girlish and my father to gently tease me. But I was more than just a pretty face. I took a deep breath. “I was under the impression that the Head of Press doesn’t invite anyone anywhere. What would happen if I refused?”

My father closed his eyes. “Maybe nothing. Maybe a firmer summons. Maybe an FLA company to take you to London. Maybe my name ruled out next time there’s a promotion up for grabs. Maybe this house razed to the ground. Maybe the south west bombed like Nottingham. The worst case scenarios are a little far-fetched. But I wouldn’t stake everything on them not happening.

I swallowed. I wanted this more than anything, but I wanted it to feel like my choice. What would be expected of me? Did the Head of Press want me as a plaything? As an accessory to the court? As a way of controlling my father?

“I’ll go, of course I will. And I’ll make this family proud.”

“I know you will. You’ve always been the best of daughters. You’ll leave this evening. Say your goodbyes, and change into something more fitting. None of these black gowns.”

I frowned and ran my hands down the velvet bodice. “I’m wearing black in memory of the Eternal Blessed First Lady. It’s respectful.”

I’d cried and cried when she’d died. On the first day, my father had watched approvingly, like I was playing my part well. When the tears continued into a second and third day, he’d frowned, as if I was being far too serious about the whole thing.

“The official period of mourning is over. The other women at Somerset House don’t wear black out of respect. They wear their brightest colours and jockey for position.”

I fiddled with my long, dark sleeve. “I’m not those other woman. If I’m doing this, I’ll do it on my terms.”

***

Five hours of driving and an endless number of check points later, we drove over Waterloo Bride and arrived at Somerset House. It was just as impressive as it looked on the television broadcasts.

A guard admitted my chauffeur through a back gate. He checked my papers – including a letter of invitation from the Head of Press – once more and summoned another guard.

“I’m Daniel,” the newcomer announced, taking my arm. “I’ve been tasked with taking you to your room.”

His eyes ran over my face, my hair, the long black dress I’d insisted on wearing. His gaze wasn’t lustful. His eyes narrowed in puzzlement, and he seemed about to make some comment, before his military training kicked in.

The room he showed me to was smaller and less obviously opulent than the one I was used to at home, but the sense of age and majesty and the view of the river made up for it.

“Sit and rest, ma’am,” the guard ordered. “Make yourself comfortable. The Head of Press will be here shortly.” He gave me one last appraising gaze, then left.

I checked the door out of interest. Locked, as I’d assumed.

At the precise moment when I was starting to get nervous, the door opened without anyone knocking.

I dropped into a curtsey on autopilot, grateful that the etiquette training I’d received was enough to cut through my fascination and trepidation. From my crouched position, I glanced modestly up at the Head of Press. Both the good looks and the aura of power I’d sensed from a distance at father’s ball were magnified rather than diminished this close too.

He left me where I was a little longer than respect and politeness technically demanded, while his eyes swept over me with a smirk.

“The resemblance is quite uncanny – to the propaganda image at least, less so to reality. Though I’d have laughed to see the real Marianne show me such supplication.”

I blushed and broke eye-contact. The guard’s puzzled stares suddenly made sense. I’d modelled my image on the First Lady, but so had any number of women of my age and station. Few of them really pulled it off – and I hadn’t been convinced I’d managed to do so until confronted by the reaction of people who had actually know her. Hopefully they’d see it as respectful flattery, not mocking imitation.

“Get up,” the Head of Press ordered, just as my calf muscles were beginning to protest. “First impressions are perfect, just as I suspected, but let’s get a proper look at you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, rising to my feet with practised elegance.

“Take your dress off,” he said, in the calm, impassive tone of someone giving an order on the battlefield, not someone making a sexual request. Even so, something in his voice made me shiver. If anyone asked, I’d have claimed the reaction was due to shame, but for all my attempts at modesty, that wasn’t the full story.

My hands fumbled on the delicate buttons of the dress, which opened down the back.

The Head of Press crossed the space between us, placed one hand firmly on my left shoulder, and with the other, began opening the buttons.

I stiffened.

“Please don’t be so tense,” he drawled. “I’m not intending to do anything inappropriate – not yet, anyway. I simply want to ensure I’m able to present you in the most effective way. There’s really very little difference between this and practicing for a speech.”

The dress fell away, leaving me standing there in my respectable white cotton underwear.

My companion took a step back and stared at me as though debating a matter of international diplomacy.

“Turn around,” he said.

I did as he asked. The whole situation was too bizarre for any real nerves. Besides, there was something thrilling about one of the most powerful, eligible men in the country showing me such absolute, focussed attention by such absolute, focussed attention.

“Turn around again. Now bend over. Now stretch.”

I did as he requested. Mostly, I stared straight ahead, but once in a while, I glanced back at him. There was no sense of lust or twisted amusement in his expression, no indication of a horny man enjoying the sight of an attractive woman or a powerful leader exploiting his position.

“I’ve heard all about your legendary charm,” I whispered, after the bizarre game had dragged on a little too long. “Is this the approach you take with all the women? With the men? Because if it is, I’m amazed you have as much success as everyone claims.”

I tensed, waiting to see how the words would land. Foolish to speak to carelessly, to attempt to make a joke. I’d never been able to keep my mouth shut. In the safety of home, there was only so much damage my words could do, but here, they could mean death.

“Thank God. You may not have got the lingerie, but you’ve certainly got the attitude. I’m not sure meek and respectful would have quite got the job done, no matter how pretty your hair.”

He walked over to one of the antique wardrobes and withdrew a heavy silk dressing gown. He held it up and beckoned to me. I crossed the floor and let him help me into its luxurious embrace. I hadn’t realised how vulnerable my semi-naked state had left me until I was clothed again.

The Head of Press’ hands lingered on my arms for a moment, then he helped me into a over-stuffed chair.

“I’m usually a lot more charming than this, I promise. That’s because usually, the only thing at stake is my own lust and amusement. But this is a matter of state.”

I should have seen where all of this was leading. But I was young, unworldly, and in awe. Why would the truth even have crossed my mind? So I just smiled and bowed my head.

He pulled out a phone. “Get the Chief Beautician to Room 7, Upper Riverside Corridor. Tell her it’s my personal order, and ignore any of her attempts at cheek.”

“What now?” I murmured.

“Now, Cinderella, we get you ready for the ball. That underwear is a non-starter. I see where you’re coming from with the black dress and that’s a great concept, but we can do a better take on the same theme. And those lovely blonde curls and big blue eyes are perfect, but we can exaggerate them more. Would you like a drink while Chantelle works her magic? Champagne?”

I smiled. Despite his claims of this being a serious business, he seemed to be relaxing into the flirtatious mode I’d heard about in a dozen scandalised stories.

The door opened and a woman in her early thirties stormed inside, brandishing a make-up bag like a grenade. She wasn’t beautiful – far from it – but her hair and face were enough of a work of art to convince you otherwise on first and even second glance.

Her eyes alighted on me and she crossed her arms and turned her head to Peter.

“Who is this, Peter? What game are you playing now?” Her harsh Birmingham accent set my teeth on edge.

Peter (I could call him that. I could be part of the inner circle) smiled. “Never you mind, Chantelle. Just work your magic. She’s already beautiful. Make her irresistible.”

“Make her look more like Marianne, you mean? I don’t know whether this is for your own twisted amusement or some sort of plot, but I’m having no part in it.”

She glared at me like I was an accessory to evil. I flinched back.

Peter crossed the space between them and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You know I outrank you a thousand times over. You know that everything I do is to protect the Regime and make the First Lord happy. And you know that your little protectoress is dead. I suggest you show respect while it’s optional, before it ceases to be so.”

He released her and strode out of the room. I missed his presence immediately.

“So now Peter’s done with his grandstanding, are you going to tell me who the hell you are?”

I curtseyed. It seemed the safest bet. She may have been lower-ranked than Peter, but I had no idea where she stood in the hierarchy relative to me. “Olivia Livelton, ma’am. My father governs the South West. The Head of Press invited me to court.”

Chantelle sank into an armchair. “Did he, indeed? Why are you wearing black, Olivia? It’s not the fashion anymore.”

I ran my hands self-consciously over the velvet bodice. “I’m still in mourning for the Eternal Blessed First Lady. I hadn’t realised that would be such a controversial position, in Somerset House of all places.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is this more of Peter’s scheming, or is this from the heart?”

“From the heart. I swear.”

Chantelle walked over to me. “Marianne Helmsley was no saint. No eternal blessed anything. In fact, she could be a real bitch. But she was always loyal to her friends. And I’m one of the oldest of them. If you’re truly loyal to the better half of the Regime, I’ll help you out.”

Before I could answer, she descended on me in a blur of powder and curlers and scent.

“Please tell me you understand what Peter is trying to do here?” she asked, after several minutes of silence and beautification.

I shook my head very lightly, careful not to dislodge my newly tightened curls. “I don’t think I understand anything. All I know is home and the south west. Court’s a blur.”

“The second most powerful man in the country has found someone with a vague resemblance to the dearly departed First Lady and groomed her to make the resemblance more uncanny. What do you think his game is?”

Before I could answer – or really let my mind engage with her question – Peter re-entered.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Chantelle, you’ve achieved perfection. The perfect balance between saucy and demure. Sexy and sophisticated. Loyal to the memory of what’s gone before and eager for the future. The First Lady of the imagination, the Marianne of reality, and something all her own.”

He took a possessive hold of my arm.

“Let’s go to the ball.”

 

The Dictator’s Wife and #FreeMelania

29 Sunday Jan 2017

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“Yet still people persisted in believing that just because I had ovaries, I must have been sobbing into my pillow at night at the thought of my husband’s atrocities. Newsflash: I laid on his shoulder, thinking about how much I loved him, while urging us on.” TDW, Chapter Ten

I don’t generally write much about politics on this blog or my Twitter account – which may seem odd, considering both the sheer amount of politics going on over the last twelve months, and my book’s overtly political themes.

For the record, this isn’t due to apathy or disinterest. I work as a civil servant in a relatively senior role in central government, and as a result – unless I wanted to go full National Parks Service – I’m subject to pretty strict rules about what I can and can’t talk about online, particularly in relation to showing support or opposition to particular politicians or policies.

I planned today’s blog earlier in the week. There’s been so much going on between now and then that it feels a little odd to focus on a comparatively minor issue, but it’s one it’s acceptable for me to comment on, and one that’s oddly relevant to one of my books.

I’m talking about #freemelania – because after all, wives of… erm… political leaders are sort of my specialist subject.

In many ways, the hashtag seems innocent enough, especially considered alongside so much of this week’s news. It’s based on the idea that the President’s wife really, really doesn’t want to be there and is basically being held captive by her husband.  Part joke, part one more line of attack against Trump, and perhaps part, in some people’s minds, a genuine belief.

melania

Certainly, you can find a good few pictures where she looks less than enthusiastic, and I would concede that based on evidence so far, she is less likely either to be or even to want to be a semi-equal partner in the Michelle Obama or Hillary Clinton mould.

All the same, it reminds me of one of the main themes of The Dictator’s Wife – people’s consistent inability to believe that the eponymous wife, Marianne, can possibly be as committed as her husband, Julien, to their autocratic Regime, and that she must be relatively nice and regret his more extreme actions.

As Marianne comments after the rebels start broadcasting videos urging her to curb her husband’s worse excesses (which incidentally is based on a real video aimed at Asma al-Assad, wife of the Syrian leader – http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/middleeast/syria/9210007/UN-ambassadors-wives-produce-video-urging-Asma-al-Assad-to-stop-violence-in-Syria.html)

I hated that video and that whole campaign. I hated it for the way it depicted the Regime as the bad guys, of course, but I’d come to expect that from the Treaty. What I couldn’t stomach was the patronising assumption I was an unwilling participant in my husband’s “crimes.”

 An odd theory, sprouted by housewives and certain hard-core feminists alike, claims that if women ran the world, it would be a nicer place. There wouldn’t be wars. The female leaders would sit down and talk problems through, as though they were gossiping in a wine bar. There wouldn’t be poverty. They’d be far too nurturing to allow that to happen.

 Tell that to Thatcher, Merkel, or Elizabeth I. There have been nowhere near enough women leaders, but of those that have pulled it off, I see little evidence of treating the country like a cosy kitchen and other countries as friends to compliment and confide in.

 “They aren’t real women. They act like men.” The whispered mantra every time a powerful woman declares war, literally or metaphorically.

 Actually, no. They act like leaders. Very few men have the requisite strength of character to run a country and protect it against its enemies. Plenty of touchy-feely men care about people’s feelings and hate war, but they don’t make it to the top any more than stereotypical women do. Or, in the rare instances where they pull it off, their principles and preferences quickly crumble under the harsh reality of what it takes to hold a state together.

 Yet still people persisted in believing that just because I had ovaries, I must have been sobbing into my pillow at night at the thought of my husband’s atrocities. Newsflash: I laid on his shoulder, thinking about how much I loved him, while urging us on.

 When they realised I possessed no sympathy to their cause of peace and conciliation, the rebels began to truly hate me, not just because of my actions, views or allegiances, but because I challenged all their ideas of what a woman should be. Because I looked them in the eye and let them know the truth: they could turn the patriarchy into the matriarchy, and I would still ensure that history would bury them.

 Julien’s evil was understandable; mine was unforgivable.

 In the book, half the point is that Marianne is an equal partner in the Regime and as bad – if not worse – than her husband. On balance, I doubt that either of those things are true of Melania. But equally, I doubt that she’s some angel, or held against her will.  I don’t believe you can be in a relationship with someone with such strong views and not either broadly agree with them or at least not feel actively opposed to them. We know very little of her political views, beyond a fairly non-partisan uncontroversial anti-bullying stance, and this rather darker video where she opines on Obama’s birth certificate:

I honestly have no idea whether she’s tearfully trying to persuade Trump to revoke his Muslim ban, urging him to extend it to more countries, or ignoring it entirely in favour of a discussion on what dress to wear to their next ball. Neither do I know whether she stays with him through gritted teeth for the sake of the money and their child, or whether she loves and reveres him for his power and his outspoken ways – but some of her old pre-election tweets suggest a degree of admiration – https://twitter.com/MELANIATRUMP/status/482876950361280512

Far from being entirely oblivious to politics, I imagine she must be shaped to some degree by her upbringing in a then-Communist state and by her own experiences as an immigrant, but have no idea whether that gives her sympathy for other immigrants or a mentality of wanting to close the door behind her. I can take a guess on all counts, but it would be nothing more than speculation.

I can’t help but feel that her conventionally attractive appearance and her past as a model contribute to this idea that she can’t possibly have strong political views or sympathy for her husband’s stances. And to me, denying Melania any blame for her husband’s views and actions is just as patronising as denying Michelle any credit for her husband’s would have been.

Like I said, it’s hardly the most important Trump-related issue of the week. But I do think it’s crucial that critics stick to their principles when attacking him, and for me, a major principle is starting from the presumption that until proven otherwise, every woman – pretty ones included – has agency, thoughts and views.

A picture is worth a thousand words

15 Sunday Jan 2017

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\those of you who follow me on Twitter have probably seen this already, but for those who haven’t, I achieved one of my all-time writing dreams over Christmas – someone drawing a picture of characters from one of my books. Technically, I think the dream was around spontaneous fanart, but I’ll 100% settle for the fact that my husband commissioned something for me. The picture is below, and I genuinely could not be more delighted by it.

commission-drawing

The picture shows Julien and Marianne, the main characters from The Dictator’s Wife (ie. eponymous wife and eponymous dictator) standing outside their stronghold at Somerset House after Marianne’s return from five years with the enemy. My two favourite things about it (apart from “its existence” and “everything about it”) is firstly, that in the background you can see the giant posters of the two of them with their slogans underneath:

“It was the larger-than-life portraits covering the front of Somerset House that caught my attention.

The painting on the left showed a striking man in replica nineteenth-century military uniform. Honour the First Lord demanded the words inscribed above the image.

The text above the right-hand painting was more mournful: Remember the Eternal Blessed First Lady. The woman depicted in the image appeared as fragile and innocent as a rococo shepherdess, but my co-conspirators considered her a she-devil in life and their most high-profile victim in death.”

Secondly, that they are wearing specific outfits from a scene in the book, which dates it to First Lady Day.

“I had to admit that the sky-blue, A-line dress struck a nice balance between authoritative and attractive.

I burrowed into his chest. I doubted the stylists had put him through quite the same rigours as me, though he was freshly shaven and his hair had been neatly trimmed and gelled. Besides, his ceremonial eighteenth-century military uniform cost more than my beautiful silk dress any day.”

I’m definitely intending to get My Love is Vengeance and Cavaliers ones done at some point. For anyone looking for something similar, the artist’s website is here: http://taratjah.tumblr.com/commissions.

As well as the commissioning option, for anyone interested in YA fantasy, she has some amazing drawings of characters and scenes from some of my favourite books.

The Dictator’s Wife Playlist

12 Saturday Nov 2016

Posted by in Books, Music, The Dictator's Wife, Writing

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If there’s one thing that helps me write and keeps up my enthusiasm for my books, it’s listening to music that reminds me of the characters, plot or themes. Ages ago, I made and shared a playlist for The Cavaliers, which you can find here. Today, I’ve decided to share a snapshot of some of the songs that I associate with the Dictator’s Wife. It’s quite a mix of musical styles, which seems fitting for a book that can’t be neatly slotted into any one genre.

If anyone has read The Dictator’s Wife and has any other ideas, I’d love to hear them.

You can listen to the whole list here:

Blank Space – Taylor Swift

“Darling I’m a nightmare dressed like a daydream.”

You want an antiheroine/borderline villain protagonist? This song delivers it in spades. Almost more than the lyrics (which suit Marianne beautifully), it’s the accompanying video of this which really reminds me of The Dictator’s Wife. That vibe of beautiful blonde woman in vintage clothes and tall, dark, handsome guy alternating between romance and violence and a stunning mansion – it could pretty much be a trailer.

  • You’ll Be Back – Hamilton Soundtrack

“You say, the price you my love’s not a price that you’re willing to pay.”

If I was only aloud to pick one song for this list, it’d be this. In the actual musical, this is King George III complaining about America declaring independence, presented like a psychotic break-up song. But to put it another way, it’s an absolutist British ruler losing it because someone he loves has left him. And as such, each and every lyric is perfect for the way things stand at the start of The Dictator’s Wife and for the overall themes of the book.

The combination of jaunty tune and chilling lyrics captures Julien’s demeanor perfectly and the slightly too forced attempt at a cut-glass English accent is exactly how I imagine him speaking.

One of the most memorable lines of the song  is”I will send a fully armed battalion to remind you of my love” – which is literally what Jules does: “It was total overkill. He flattened the town. But he did it in memory of you, so in his eyes, he did what he had to do.”

  • When We Were Young – Adele

“You still look like a movie, you still sound like a song, my God this reminds me, of when we were young.”

This gorgeous ballad is all about meeting up with someone years after you were together and hoping there’s still some magic there. It perfectly captures the moment that Marianne returns to Somerset House, unsure whether she’s going to be killed or reinstated as First Lady. And the focus on reminiscing about how things used to be works perfectly with the novel’s duel timeline.

  • The Bagman’s Gambit – the Decemberists 

“They flashed a photograph, it couldn’t be you
You’d been abused so horribly
But you were there in some anonymous room”

Lots of the Decemberists songs – particularly their older ones – have a lot of plot going on. But this one, which appears to be about an American Government official and a Russian spy in the early twentieth century, is particularly involved. The specifics of the complex narrative don’t particularly tally with the story in my book, but the general themes of political plotting and a cycle of obsessive love and violent betrayal are very similar. Plus, the song jumps back and forth in time “It was ten years on, when you resurfaced in a motorcar” in a rather familiar way.

That said, the lyrics quoted above absolutely capture that moment that Julien finds Marianne held prisoner and tortured by his own men and, let’s say, does not deal with the situation in the calmest manner.

While I’m on the subject of the Decemberists, the song I listened to the most while I wrote the first draft was one of their newer releases, Make You Better. As a result, that song is also indelibly associated with it in my mind, though apart from the line “like the perfect paramour you were in your letters” I can’t find much of a logical connection.

  • I’d Be Surprisingly Good for You – Evita Soundtrack  

“It seems crazy but you must believe
There’s nothing calculated, nothing planned
Please forgive me if I seem naive
I would never want to force your hand.”

Quite simply, the best song I’ve ever heard about a scheming woman getting together with a military dictator. There are a couple of references to Evita scattered through the book (generally whenever Peter is trying to wind Marianne up) and it should come as no surprise that my favorite ever musical was a major inspiration. As a result, whole swathes of the soundtrack would be relevant to this playlist, but I’ve settled on this one, as it’s genuinely romantic and beautiful, while still functioning as a hymn for Lady Macbeth types. I see this song as the perfect backdrop for the moment in the initial flashback chapter when Julien and Marianne meet for the first time.

  • Run This Town – Jay Z/Rihanna/Kayne West

 

Basically, it’s a song about power – the highs of it, the lows of it, and the things people will do to get it. I see this as the song for J&M’s coup, when everything could go horribly wrong for them but they choose to take their chances.

And what I really love is that it’s the guys who are making all these bold claims about their wealth and their control and how their enemies are going down, but it’s the woman, with her chorus of “Life’s a game but it’s not fair, I break the rules so I don’t care” who’s the really sinister one.

Plus, even if Taylor Swift and the man in the Blank Space video look rather more like the way the characters are canonically described, I just love the idea of Jay Z as Julien and Rihanna as Marianne. I guess that would make Kayne Peter…