Days to Launch (of MY book): 8
Not long after starting to compose here, I quickly realised, my friends, fans, and readers-to-be, I had fallen foul of a web-stalker.
No, I hadn’t heard the term before either, although I’m learning quickly - you should see the state his friends have made of my Facebook page.
I decided to be the better person, rise above it and let Carlos deal with the matter. He’s had to deal with bitter rivals, ex loves and disgruntled former associates before. Last night, he went out into the night with a sheer pink scarf wrapped around his bicep – a favour from me to him, and a reminder of who he’s fighting for. He always thought of himself as a knight in Armani. I remember him waiting at the bus-stop, his hands in his pockets, whistling the Disney Megamix, our favourite mood music…
...he came back late last night a changed man. Hair askew, sans favour, and with a single heart-shaped drop of blood on the collar of his crisp white shirt.
‘Carlos!’ I cried breathily, and sauntered towards him in a pair of feather trimmed indoor mules. The mules matched my dressing down, and my gown matched my hairband, eye-shadow and fingernails. I advised him to run himself a bowl of warm salty water to soak his knuckles and he merely bowed his head and did not reply. The shoes were brand new. Not a word about them.
I wiggled my toe. ‘Carlos?’
‘Leave me alone,’ he said, gruffly. I noticed his accent had slipped a little. The man sounded positively Geordie!
Since then, he’s been morose, withdrawn. He’s performed his duties without style or panache. He won’t let me feel his muscles or look me in the eye.
Q: What links my web stalker and Carlos’ sudden cooling of affection towards me?
A: The Disease of Jealousy.
Let me explain.
When I met Carlos I was nothing more than a (very popular) entertainment professional. A waitress in a cocktail bar, as that merry little ditty goes. Although it wasn’t quite a cocktail bar. Bunny Heaven was its name - charming entertainment centre where Carlos worked to ensure that us lady professionals received pay.
Shortly afterwards, I began a working relationship with Broomington and Bunny Heaven was inexplicably raided and closed down by the county gendarme.
Luckily for me and Sherlock, my writing career was taking off by then, and I needed an assistant.
Oh, those early days. I can still see the pair of us, moving into this apartment. Me, reclining on the new chaise lounge and Carlos carrying the last few boxes of my hair care products up the stairs. Happy, happy days.
Since then my success has grown and grown. Carlos has grown pale and jealous in the shadow of my blinding lime-light. He's nursed envy. And now, as I teeter on the cusp of greatness, he abandons me – no better, in my eyes, then the envious rabble that have been trailing me around the webosphere lately.
It’s veritable sabotage, that’s what it is. I needed to work on my eyebrows today, and all I can think of is what Carlos is doing.
Where is he now? That's what I'd like to know.
How can I write looking like this?
Chin up, Adorna.
I will march onwards. With a pen in one hand, a glass in the other and Sherlock by my side, I will fight on and overcome. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words are cheap and meaningless, and will never hurt me.
There's nothing you can do to me. Do you hear? I will launch my book, it will be a success, and the world will read it and Adore Adorna!