Krantz lost novel

They say we all have a book inside us. Of course I was already aware that Krantz had written some poetry, had even recited it in public. But it was still a surprise to hear about his lost novel.
You remember I told you about my last meeting with Krantz, in Paris, Esther says. Well, I didn’t tell you everything. I forgot to mention the manuscript.
What manuscript?I ask her.
Krantz had been writing a novel, which he’d tried unsuccessfully to get published in France. He wanted me to try on his behalf in America.
So what happened – did it ever get published?
No, says Esther. I gave it a friend in the trade, but nobody seemed that interested.
I guess that’s that then.
Well, not quite. You see, I kept a copy of the manuscript for myself. I guess you’d better have it now.
She hands me an envelope. You know what, she says, you could try again, go for the sympathy vote - mention the Confederacy of Dunces.
I suppose you’ve read this, I say, opening the envelope. In bold black capital letters on faded white paper was typed the title The Stranger and the Goddess.
She nods. A strange title, I thought.
What’s it about, I ask.
It’s about an Englishman named Patrick Russell, she says, and a classic Citroen DS.
I smiled – Krantz was very fond of his DS.
Is it any good though, honestly?
She shrugs. I enjoyed it, but you should make your own mind up.
I start turning the pages. It’s so kind of you to give me this. I give Esther a big hug.
I know he’d have wanted you to have it, she says.

So I start reading my father’s novel, written over twenty years ago. It feels strange, knowing that he’d kept it secret at the time. The plot is rather unstructured, it leaps about a lot, and the parallel stories don’t quite interlock properly, but you know what? I think he had definite potential as a novelist.

Ladies also prefer blondes

Lying on my bed now,thinking about a girl I met in Brooklyn. Very pretty blonde, slim legs, boyish figure. She's playing with a milk shake, her lips pink and slightly apart. I'm sitting on the bench across from her in this deserted diner. It's three am and we're still awake in the city that never sleeps.

I take off my shoes and start stroking her legs with my bare feet. Alison, that's her name, just smiles and sips her drink slowly.The place is sure deserted, only a fat bar tender watching the sport channel. Alison puts a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.I can't tell you what a sublime moment this is. Very slowly she removes her panties and kicks them across the linoleum floor towards me. Her large blue eyes are gazing at me, a wicked smirk on her lips. The guy at the bar is coming over, he looks annoyed. He glances down at my cleavage and leans toward me. Quietly he asks if either of us would like a little action, out the back.We both giggle, then Alison picks up her bag and we start to leave.Never did finish that milk shake.

Alison lives only three blocks from the diner, so I crash out at her place. Her apartment is small and, like its owner, beautiful but also a little unkempt. It reminds me of the period I spent in the Paris commune.

I tell Alison it's now too late to sleep, and suggest we might as well watch the dawn rising over the city. Early morning is my favourite time. Alison makes some strong coffee and we wait. The talk, naturally, comes round to the stalker – with whom we are both acquainted.

It turns out Saul had a thing for Alison last summer, and they hung out together at this abandoned beach house. For a while it was fine, but she says he got a little weird. Intense, was her word for him. She was over him now though, and dating again, though nothing serious. I tell her she's the most beautiful girl I've seen in New York, and she smiles.
That’s what he said as well, but then, he says that to every girl he meets. I’ll bet he even said it to you.
Something like that, yeah.
Just be careful, is all I’ll say.
I can look after myself, I tell her.

What I don't tell Alison is that right at that moment, in the early morning light, I feel like making love to her slowly in the unmade bed behind us. But it would probably spoil the moment. Instead, I smile at her, and she smiles back, and we high five as dawn opens a new day in Brooklyn.

I might be falling for this girl, and it gives me a knot in the stomach. Still, I kept her underwear, and I’m wearing it right now. So I did get inside her pants, after all.

Material Girl

Last week Etienne took me to see a friend of his named Thierry. This Thierry is an accountant in Marseille, and he gave me some advice on selling my flat in Bordeaux and looking for another place here in the Midi.

After talking to Thierry I suddenly realise that I'm loaded. I mean I knew I was comfortably off but this is just ridiculous - I'm actually embarrassed at how loaded I am. Most of the money arose on account of being orphaned and then grand orphaned within two years in my teens. I inherited my parents flat in Paris and a mas in Aquitaine belonging to grandmother. These properties were held in trust until I became legally old enough to own them. By that time they'd already accumulated in value due to the housing boom in the nineties.

The flat in Bordeaux originally belonged to Etienne who was my legal guardian but he rather generously allowed me to live there rent free whilst under his watchful eye. Since then the situation has altered somewhat. After some dubious accounting the flat was transferred into my name at below market value - I think this was a tax dodge to avoid a capital gain or something? So now I stand to make even more money whenIi sell.

The flat in Paris is small but the rental income is astounding - higher even than London. The agent is charging tenants about 2,500 euros per month yet you can't swing a cat in there. Apparently location is everything., and the arrondissement is now trendy. The old house in Aquitaine is gorgeous but sadly in need of repair, althoughprobably still worth about a half million euros.

Naturally this has all come as rather a shock to me - I had no idea I was worth that much. Basically I'm filthy stinking rich and I don't know what to do with it all. Whatever happens I'm keeping my job with Etienne's wine firm - its not like I need to work but it keeps me occupied and I like the people. I mean vignerons are all snobs but they're cultured and entertaining ones.

Etienne is seriously worried about me becoming independent but I've promised not to move too far away.I haven't decided on precise location yet but it's likely to be within the area between Avignon Arles and Aix. Can you tell how excited I am?

Promise to blog some photos when I've relocated to my new chez nous.