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Galata and Nutmeg
Jane GÜNDOĞAN
 Contents

Author’s Note
Disclaimer

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35

Postlude
Salep and Ginger
Pomegranates and Olive
The Summer We Fell
About the Author
 Author’s Note

This book contains explicit sexual content, drug and alcohol abuse,
suicide and topics that may be sensitive to some readers. This book
is for ages 18+.
 Copyright © 2023 by Jane Gündoğan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, companies, organizations,

places, events, locales, and incidents are either used in a fictitious manner or are
fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual companies or
organizations, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For rights and permissions, please contact:

Jane Gündoğan
authorjanegundogan@gmail.com
Cover Design: Pink Elephant Designs
Formatting: Pink Elephant Designs
 Disclaimer

This book isn't your run-of-the-mill English affair. Nope, it's got a
dash of something different, a sprinkle of language that might not
be what you're used to. You see, I'm Australian, and us Aussies have
our own unique way of spelling words that can catch you off guard.
If you’re used to US English, then prepare yourself for a wild ride.
For instance, we say “colour” instead of “color” and “realise” instead
of “realize”. It’s all part of our quirky, Aussie charm.
If you’re unfamiliar with our lingo, I’d suggest you tune in to a
couple of episodes of Kath and Kim. But steer clear of that ghastly
remake and stick to the original with those hilarious sheilas, Jane
Turner and Gina Riley.
And as always, this book is dedicated to my little ripper of a
daughter, Alyssa.
Cheers, love!
Chapter One
 Mmm-hmm. Everything’s Fine. It’s Okay. I’m Fine

BREAKING STORY:

Oh dear , it looks like trouble is brewing again for disgraced rockstar , K aan .
T he one - time bass player for S even of C rows has reportedly been arrested in

L ondon after allegedly getting into a drunken brawl that left two people

hospitalised . Y ikes !
A ccording to sources , K aan was throwing punches left and right , causing

quite the scene . T his isn ’ t the first time K aan has had a run - in with the law ,

as we all remember his infamous mugshot grin from his DUI arrest in M iami .
B ut this time , it seems the consequences might be more serious .

I can ’ t help but wonder what the new label thinks about this latest

incident . A re they starting to regret signing him , or are they just crossing

their fingers and hoping for the best ? W ho knows !

I’ m P ippa E llis , and this is F ame and N o - sense .

3,471 LIKES 59 SHARES

The bar is packed with the usual mixed assortment of people for a
Friday night. I scan the room, searching for familiar faces. Spotting
my people, I take a deep breath, plaster a smile on my face and
sashay across the room like I don’t have a care in the world. Of
course, my sashay is an act, now that I have come to the realisation
of what I need to do. Facing the truth won’t be easy without some
emotional support and that support lies with the group smiling back
at me. I drop my bag onto an empty chair and clear my throat. It’s
time. It has been a struggle to get to this point; to realise that I
have a problem. I take a deep breath and blow out hard. I’m finally
ready to confront it head on. And let’s be honest, if I can’t tell the
people here now, who can I tell?
“Hi, my name is Margaret Martin, and I’m addicted to love.”
Their smiles change to bewilderment. No. Amusement, maybe?
“How does that song go again?”
“Stop it, Nate!”
“Are you talking about the song with the sexy girls all in black?”
“Come on, guys!”
“Something, something…” Nate hums the tune. “I don’t know the
words.”
The group bursts into the chorus. “Gonna have to face it, you’re
addicted to love!”
“I’m in pain, and you guys are treating my pain like it’s one big
joke.” I stomp my red patent leather, five-inch heel in frustration.
“Why won’t anyone take me seriously?”
But I know why. Multiple award-winning actress, Daisy Reyes, of
course.
Personally, I don’t see it but everyone else, from my hairdresser
to a lesser-known web-swinger, has pointed out to me at one time or
another that I bear more than a little resemblance to Ms. Reyes.
Flattering? Of course. Awkward? Not usually, although when I
worked at an after-party for a fashion label last month, a certain
actor (whose name I legally can’t mention) came up and kissed me
on the lips and grabbed my ass (hence the awkwardness) before he
realised I wasn’t his past amore. The actor in question was awfully
embarrassed. He apologised, even so, they whisked me out of the
room and asked me to sign a non-disclosure agreement about the
incident before they would let me leave.
Few people know Daisy Reyes is actually a natural blonde and
dyes her hair the same deep auburn as mine. When people started
pointing out the resemblance I rebelled and started dying my hair…
just to give myself some separation from my famous twinsie. Since
then, I’ve been all the colours of the rainbow, but I settled back to
my natural deep auburn, and I love it. Sure, I know she may be
better known for her locks that were once compared to the deep red
of an autumn sunset, but I’ve finally embraced the look that God has
given me. Coupled with my wide-set eyes (albeit mine are hazel
rather than Ms. Reyes’s blue), and extremely perky baps, Daisy and I
also rock a similar style proving that size really doesn’t matter. We
may both be short, but we pack a lot of pep and sass into our 5’2
frame. Like Daisy, I also worship at the altar of fashion, although the
only designer shoes I own are knock-offs, and my clothes are more
op-shop than the real deal. Either way, we both look amazing with
smoky eyeshadow, winged eyeliner and, for now, some banging red
lipstick.
But being Ms. Reyes’s doppelgänger can be detrimental,
particularly when I’m trying to have a moment—like I am right now!
“The first step is admitting you have a problem, Meggsy.”
That smart-ass comment is classic Nate Reuben. Nate thinks he’s
funny, but I think it’s more sarcasm than humour. He’s been down in
the dumps since The Doc broke his heart. The Doc, aka Dr. Nina
Montgomery, unexpectedly broke it off with him last month. She’s
currently somewhere in Jordan working with Amnesty International.
None of us are really sure what happened between them, and Nate
definitely won’t talk about it, so right now we let him have his
sarcasm to help him get over his heartache.
Nate and I have known each other for a few years. I’ve never
slept with him or anything, but we have spent a few drunken nights
feeling each other up. As cute as he is (and he is very, very cute in
that hipster, urban cool, kind of way), we’re just not meant to be.
Still, everyone knows that misery loves company, so I drop into the
empty seat beside him and make a decidedly mopey face.
He slides a glass of amber liquid in my direction. “You look like
you could use a drink.”
I take a sip and make a face. Scotch. It’s my second most hated
drink, behind absinthe (I’m pretty sure I was chased by a particularly
nasty green fairy after drinking that concoction once). “I’ve had a
bloody awful night, so you all must be very nice to me.”
“It’s going to be hard to make that promise, especially when you
come waltzing in here looking like one hot piece of crumpet and
announce to us that you’re some kind of love junkie.”
I look pretty good for a Friday night. Getting dressed for a date is
hard enough, but when you factor in the rain and wind that hasn’t
let up since January, finding the right outfit can be seriously tough.
So, I did what any sensible millennial girl does; I went on social
media for some Insta-inspiration. And it didn’t take me too long to
find it. After spotting a particular fetching creation being worn by
one of my favourite New York bloggers, I pulled out the fabulous
black keyhole romper that I found in a tiny shop off Portobello last
month. It might be the world’s shortest romper, but I don’t care
because it’s got a really great vibe going with it. I matched it with
my black rain jacket, an original patent leather red Kelly bag I got
for a steal at a boot sale, and also my red patent leather heels. My
hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and I kept my makeup 50s chic
with lots of eyeliner and, of course, oodles of red lipstick. I’m totally
rocking #fridaynight #datenight. I’m cute and contemporary but
with a very 1950s feel. I took a selfie and uploaded it to my IG,
“megmartinissingle.” With the caption, ‘Here’s hoping things heat up
in ol’ London town. Let’s see if tonight’s date is ‘all he’s cracked up to
be’ – we’ll be using the hashtag #hotornot.”
I got 100% hot. Instant gratification.
“And forcing us to croon Robert Palmer!”
Along with Nate, who could be considered one of the girls, I have
two best girlfriends, which makes me, by far, the luckiest girl in the
world. Courtney Ryan is one of them. She is also Nate’s ex-girlfriend.
Oh, and she’s gay (which was the reason she and Nate actually
broke up, because other than that he has a penis, they are a perfect
match).
Courtney grimaces before continuing. “You know how much I
hate Robert Palmer.”
“We all know your aversion to debonair English men.” That’s Nate
again. Sometimes I wonder whether he still holds a little resentment
to Courtney outing herself.
“Guilty.” Courtney put her hands up in surrender. “Okay, so what’s
happening? Bad date? Did he stand you up? Or did he refuse to
reciprocate after you sucked his dick?”
If I could sum up Courtney with one word it would be “sassy,”
although I’ve heard people also call her, “a foul-mouthed slag.” Let’s
just say, you either love her or you hate her. She gets her olive
complexion, jet-black hair and ballsy attitude from her Spanish
father, but she has her mother’s Gaelic eyes, so blue they are nearly
violet. And despite her “take no prisoners” attitude, Courtney has a
soft and gooey centre, like a Jam Roly-Poly. She is also blessed by
the god’s with, as Ginger would say, “a totally rocking body.” I adore
Courtney.
Ginger Knox is my other best friend. She’s a fair dinkum Sheila
from Down Under (translation: Australian girl). We met two years
ago when she was working in London, and we immediately clicked.
Her visa expired last March, so she packed up her life and
abandoned us to move to Turkey to live with her fiancé, Aydin.
Downside? I miss her every day. Upside? I took over the lease on
her disgusting, depressing bedsit in Pimlico and, after practically
blackmailing the pervo landlord, I got myself a massive cut on the
rent and cart blanche to renovate. With a little TLC I turned her
once-tatty apartment into my deceptively spacious (Ginny is still in
shock over the amount of storage I now have) home, thanks to my
love of wall units that reach the ceiling, thick rugs, mirrors, and soft
colours. Despite talking practically every day, I still miss her terribly…
plus if she were here, I am certain that she would give me the exact
amount of sympathy that I covet right now.
“His name was Charles Rupert Stanton.” I take another sip of the
scotch, realise I’ve taken another sip of scotch, and make a
strangled sound. “Bleugh! He actually introduced himself like that, in
a very plummy accent I might add, but then he gave me a ten-
minute breakdown of his lineage before announcing I should call him
Stanton.”
Brynn Hayes bends forward and theatrically air-kisses either side
of my face, while waving her fist in the air menacingly. “Who calls
themselves by their surname, for fuck’s sake?”
Brynn joined our circle when I went to work at Brazen, one of
the biggest PR firms in London. Brynn is 40, looks 30 and has the up
and at ‘em attitude of a 20-year-old on coke (the drug, not the cola).
Slightly famous (or maybe that should more accurately be said as
slightly infamous), Brynn is a total powerhouse in the world of PR.
Everyone knows her, and everyone wants to work with her. She’s
been married more times than even she can remember and has
apparently slept with at least one member of Oasis.
Brynn’s also ultra-kooky but in a sophisticated way. She can turn
a boring black dress into a masterpiece with a tweak here and a snip
there. She is a sequin zealot, a slave to ruffles (yes, I know) and a
lover of tattoos. It might sound like a fashion fiasco but on her it’s a
work of art. Her smooth, dark skin, short, tight curls, wide, generous
mouth and cheekbones that can cut glass just totally makes it all
work.
I fluked my way into my dream job with her, thanks to
@megmartinissingle and its two million followers (well, that, and our
mutual love of vodka).
You’re curious about @megmartinissingle, aren’t you?
It all started with a rubbish date and a selfie that quickly became
an Insta-blog about just how god-awful the single scene in London
is. It’s all about what I wear, where we meet, what I drink, and
finally, whether or not he gets the thumbs up; all documented
originally to amuse my friends, but after a monumentally bad date
with a Russian musician went viral, thanks to his desperate need to
play with his balalaika in the taxi (and, no, I don’t mean the musical
instrument), my following exploded. Restaurants and bars wanted to
collaborate with me, shops wanted me to wear their clothes (I even
got free Johnny’s from a condom company once) and suddenly I’m
an actual “social influencer.” Anyway, Brynn came across my
Instagram feed late one night, laughed her ass off and begged me
to take a meeting with her. The meeting wasn’t even needed
because she offered me a job on the spot. She said she just couldn’t
wait to meet me. And now, I’m working with massive names in the
music industry as their social media strategist working exclusively in
cancel culture management. I help turn a negative into a positive
before any fallout destroys their reputation. This is the job that I was
born to do.
“He then spent the next hour boasting about his business, his
travels, and his apartment before he mansplained to me that I didn’t
have an actual job.”
Brynn puts her arm around me and pulls me in tight, her steel
eyes burning at his insult. “I’ll kill him!”
Nate slams his glass down on the table. “Suffering from total
fuckwittery, I’d say.”
“And then to top it all off, he said that I was not attractive
enough to take it any further!”
“What a wanker!”
“Oh, and as he was leaving, he tells me I was the one with the
problem because I wouldn’t shag him.”
“You should have called me, Meggsy, I would have given him a
proper beating.”
I moan and slump back into my chair. “I’m thinking that I’ve
struck out with pretty much every guy on the whole internet.”
“It certainly seems like you have dated every loser in London.”
“You just haven’t met the right one.”
I glare across the table at Courtney. She means well but she
somehow always gets me riled up. “You’re some kind of genius,
aren’t you?”
“I hear your sarcasm, thank you very much.”
“I’d hope so.”
“He’s not wrong though—”
Oh no!
“—not about you not being attractive enough, more about you
being the problem.”
God help me!
“I’m the problem? How am I the problem? I’m an eight. Or even
a nine. Yes! I’m a sodding nine out of ten. I’m Daisy Reyes, for fuck’s
sake! I’m funny. And I’m charming as hell. What’s not to love about
me?”
 “I think you’re smoking hot.” A woman at the table beside us
leans over. “Has anyone ever told you, you look like that actress…
what’s her name?”
“See? Even complete strangers think—” I turn to the gorgeous
black woman and give her an awkward smile. “—I’m sorry, I’m not
usually such an appalling bitch, I’m just having a terrible night. Hi,
I’m Meg.”
“Camilla.”
We all grin at her very royal-wannabe name.
“It’s great to meet you Camilla and—,” I turn back to Courtney,
“—see? Camilla thinks I’m smoking hot, and I look like Daisy Reyes,
thankyouverymuch!”
Camilla taps her finger to her nose. “Right. The sexy red head in
that movie with that guy that’d I’d go back to dick for.”
We all reply at once. “Rowan Grantley!”
“That’s the one!”
“Fine, Meg. I was wrong. You’re not the problem. You are, in
fact, ridiculously hot and I am totally attracted to you. Are you happy
now?”
“Not really.”
“Why ever not?” asks Camilla curiously.
“Mostly because I’m not a lesbian.”
We all crack up at Camilla as she moans loudly. “You’d be
surprised how often this happens to me.”
“I’m really sorry.” And I am. Camilla is gorgeous. “I hope you
meet your someone.”
“C’est la vie.” She shrugs and turns back to her friends who have
been watching our exchange with interest.
“Seriously though, how am I the problem?”
“Where do I even start?” She barely holds back a snort as she
proceeds to analyse me. “You struggle to realize your worth. You
spend half your life wondering whether people are lying to you when
they tell you you’re beautiful and the other half of your life
wondering what others see in you. There’s always—"
“I don’t do any of those things!”
 “Let me finish.” She nods knowingly. “There’s always a ‘but’ with
you.”
“A butt?”
“A big, fat ‘but’… one ‘t’.” Courtney sighs. “You avoid attachment
because you assume everyone is going to end up leaving you so you
search for something wrong with the guy so you can find that
‘but’—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“For example, Philippe was really great, but—”
“Philippe? He whistled when we had sex.” I scowl around the
table. “It was weird.”
“My turn, my turn!” Nate laughs loudly. “Cameron was really
great—”
Courtney and Brynn add, “Buuutttt?”
“Cameron Bright? I have no proof, but I think he may have been
a vampire.” Now my friends are just taking pot-shots at me. “He
never went outside in the sun!”
Courtney high-fives Nate. “Vampire… a new low, even for you.”
“So, I have some baggage.”
“Everyone has baggage, Meg. Look at me, for example. I was a
mess, bouncing from guy to guy, none of them able to satisfy me.”
“Hold on a minute!”
“Shut up, Nate.” Courtney wiggles her pinkie at Nate who
mumbles under his breath. “Listen, the fact is I had to take a very
hard look at myself to understand who I am and what I wanted out
of life. I did that and all that emotional heteronormative bullshit that
was wearing me down just didn’t matter to me anymore. I learned
what, or more correctly who, I wanted to be with. Look at me now,
I’m single and always ready to mingle. And I’ve never been happier.”
“You can’t compare the two of us.”
“I’m not. I’m saying that you struggle to see what we see… a
beautiful, talented, strong-willed woman with everything going for
you. It’s all about self-love, babe!” Already reading Nate’s mind,
Courtney waves her hand menacingly at him. “Don’t go there, Nate!
I’m talking about self-love. Learn to love the woman you are
because she’s pretty great. And once you realise that everything else
will just fall into place.”
“I just said I was a sodding nine out of ten!”
“That’s all talk, Meggsy. It’s difficult, but I promise you that once
you’ve worked on the tossing out that cargo ship worth of self-
loathing baggage that is lumbered around your neck, all those past
dickheads you thought meant everything will be a hazy memory.
When you’re truly happy, you will find love.”
“That’s very… profound, Courtney.”
“I know I talk a lot of rubbish but I’m actually pretty
enlightened.”
“I’m going to weigh in on this as well.” Brynn, the voice of
occasional reason smiles at me. “You are all emotion, Meg—which
we adore about you—but emotions and the brain aren’t great friends
at the best of times. You meet a guy, and your heart wants to love
that person, but your brain is fighting back, looking for flaws that
aren’t always there. Then your emotions bubble over and you’re a
red-hot mess which scares the guy witless, and he runs screaming
into the night… even the vampires.”
“Now you’re calling me an emotional mess?”
“Never! I’m merely saying that you need to find a healthy
process for your emotions and your love life to co-exist.”
“All solid advice.” Although Nate is still scowling at Courtney’s
pinkie joke, he nods in agreement. “But can I just add that my penis
is not the size of a pinkie, and I’m prepared to whip it out right now
if you want proof!”
“We all believe you, Nate.”
“Seriously, though, this makes sense, even to me, but if that
doesn’t work then I’m sure I could scrounge up a pretty decent chap
for you.” He tips an imaginary hat at me. “I’ve been rather successful
at that in the past.”
It was Nate that introduced Ginny to her fiancé, Aydin. He had
bet her a bottle of scotch and a naked swim in the Thames that he
would find her the perfect man and he did. They are so much in love
it’s borderline comical. She happily purchased a bottle of 25-year-old
Glenfarclas for losing the bet (Aydin vetoed the naked swim part of
the wager though).
“Although this is probably not the best place for me to work my
magic.”
Nate’s right. We’re at She Soho, a lesbian bar off Charing Cross
Road and it’s a bit of a man-drought in here tonight. Courtney chose
the venue, but she did it for the karaoke (her guilty pleasure) rather
than the patrons, although she seems to be making eyes at Camilla
now.
“Give it a rest, Nate.” Courtney sneers across the table. “So,
we’re all in agreement that Meg’s a bloody nine of out ten.”
“Thank you.”
“Smoking hot—” She lifts her martini glass to Camilla at the next
table, who flutters her eyelashes back at her, “—and all that.”
“I believe you.”
“What I’m trying to say is that once you learn to forgive yourself,
respect yourself and love yourself, then you won’t find yourself
attracted to the wrong type of man. Jeffrey is the perfect example.
Total knob head, that one.”
Jeffrey was my most recent paramour (before the high-brow
Charles Rupert Stanton and practically every other loser in London,
of course). We had met at Blanch Wigdor Lanier, one of London’s
most prominent personal injury law firms. I was working as a PA and
Jeffrey had just joined the firm as an associate. Despite a very rocky
start, we ended up dating for a few months until I found out he was
actually engaged to another lawyer in the office. But that isn’t the
end of the story. The only reason I found out about the engagement
was the photos of him and Emma Grieste sipping on champagne,
smiling at the camera, surrounded by their family and friends on his
social media. The whole fecking office was invited to the
engagement party… well, everyone but me that is!
Emotional baggage.
I glance around the table at my slightly inebriated and overly
opinionated, friends. If what they say is true, then it is time that I
start to take a long, hard look at myself. Learn to love me and
decide what I want in my life.
 Is a happily ever after with marriage with kids and a dog really
what I’ve been craving all these years? Is this my dream or my
mother’s? And how do I learn to love myself when I’m being
drowned by all this self-loathing, emotional baggage that’s pulling
me under?
The truth is, I don’t have the answers.
Chapter Two
 Bad Memories, Good Stories

LATEST STORY:

In the ever - dramatic world of rock and roll , there are stories of meteoric rises and

tragic falls . A nd then there ’ s K aan , the once - beloved bass player of S even of C rows ,
whose descent from grace can only be described as a spectacular train wreck .

As revealed by an anonymous source within K aan ’ s circle , his behaviour has become

a constant thorn in the label ’ s side . R ecording sessions and meetings are mere

suggestions to him , as he conveniently forgets to show up . T he anonymous source

doesn ’ t hold back , describing K aan as a walking liability . W ith such antics , it ’ s no

wonder the label wants to distance itself from his unpredictable behaviour .

As if K aan ’ s behaviour wasn ’ t enough , his debut solo album has become the stuff

of legends — and not in a good way . T he release date has been a revolving door of

disappointment for both fans and the label alike . T he delays have fuelled speculation ,

with whispers of creative blockages , perfectionist tendences , and even diva tendencies .

W hatever the case

As the situation worsens , industry insiders are suggesting that an intervention

might be necessary to save K aan ’ s career . B ut with his track record , I think an

exorcism might be a more viable option .

I’ m P ippa E llis , and this is F ame and N o - sense

2,296 LIKES 21 SHARES

With Jeffrey, there were no thunderclaps or lightning strikes. It
wasn’t love at first sight. He was just there; the handsome, new
lawyer who always had perfectly coiffed hair and wore sweater
vests. All things considered my life did get much better after we
broke up, because I started dating, then started blogging, met Brynn
and went to work at Brazen.
If I am going to be brutally honest with myself, Jeffrey was
hardly the first time my romantic life had gone tits up.
I fell in love for the first time when I was five. His name was
Lachlan Brown. I sat next to him on my first day of school. He let me
borrow his blue pencil. I was certain we were destined to be and
that he was my one true love, but as it turned out, he was sharing
his blue pencil (and all the other colours) with Alana Penrose as well.
I cried, and the teacher made me switch seats and sit beside Dawar
Bukhari. Dawar told me he liked my letters. Well, if that wasn’t a
sign, I didn’t know what was, and by recess I had told everyone in
the playground that I was going to be Mrs. Meg Bukhari when I
grew up. Sadly, our love soon fizzled out when he said I had “girl
germs.” Even at five, I began to realise that finding love was going
to be a little more difficult than the cartoon princesses had led me to
believe.
So, on and on it went. All through primary school. And secondary
school. And college. Love and heartbreak… and baggage. And then I
went out into the real world and continued this pattern of falling in
love and having my heart shattered. Every. Single. Time.
It was at college that I met Wilkie Kearney. And, oh. My. God! He
had blonde dreadlocks, a shaggy beard and blue eyes, so deep blue
that when he looked at me, I swore he could see into my soul. His
wardrobe consisted of nothing more than hemp cargo pants,
recycled t-shirts and, as repulsive as it might seem to me now, he
hardly ever wore shoes. He was an environmentalist or a
conservationist (I never did work out which one) and firmly believed
that humans should take an active role in advocating for sustainable
use of the environment. He really was the whole package. My
mother hated him on sight, which only increased my love for him. If
he wasn’t my destiny, then I didn’t know who was!
 Within a month, I had given him my heart and my virginity. I
turned my back on what he called “the institution” (my parents
called it being an adult), and we left Manchester behind to travel the
world together. We ended up living with a Shilhah nomad tribe in
Morocco and travelled with them for a few months. We made love
under the stars in the Erg Chigaga desert. We explored majestic
mountain scenery and shagged in a goat-skin tent in the Anti-Atlas
Mountains. We got lost in old city souks in Marrakesh and bunked up
on the rooftop of our mud-brick house. Basically, there was a lot of
sex (when we weren’t learning about sustainability and hugging
trees and shit). Sure, we were roughing it, and I would have the
squirts for weeks on end #weightlossgoals, but Wilkie loved
Morocco, and I loved Wilkie.
Until that one night when Wilkie unexpectedly left the tribe to go
into Taroudant with Nour, the daughter of our tribal leader. I never
saw him again.
He didn’t die or anything, but he was absolutely dead to me. It
seemed that he and Nour had fallen madly in love and had run away
to Agadir together. The tribal leader wasn’t particularly thrilled with
Wilkie vamoosing with his daughter and decided that I had to remain
with the tribe until her return. It became a bit of an international
crisis between Morocco and the UK. Home Office had to help
negotiate my release. Seriously! I was on the news and everything.
My mother merely smiled. “I told you so.”
Carry-on baggage!
The day after I arrived home from Morocco I was interviewed on
Good Morning Britain about my incident (Home Office had officially
warned me not to call it a kidnapping, it was merely an “incident”).
This is where I met Max Bailey. Max was one of the show’s
producers. We were destined to meet, of course; I’d tell anyone
who’d listen to me.
Max was six-foot-plus of hot nerd, and I was totally attracted to
his big… brain. Come on, guys, everyone knows that the brain is the
most important sexual organ. Plus, he fixed my laptop. And my
mobile. And even my hair straightener once. Boy was he was good
with his hands. Max was able to push all the buttons (yes, yes, read
between the lines, now I am talking about sex.) Max really was
fantastic in the sack.
But for all of Max’s good nerdy traits, he had one very distinct
bad one. He was obsessed with all things Game of Thrones. He had
read all the books, knew all the episodes by heart, and would spend
hours in online chat rooms prattling on about his personal theories
and debating what would have happened if the Targaryen line was
returned to the throne and blah, blah, blah. But the deal-breaker for
me was that he used to talk Dothraki in his sleep. It was a little
disconcerting when he started yelling “Anha zhilak yera norethaan.”
Was he telling me he loved me? Did he just declare war? It was all
rather disturbing. And in case you’re wondering whether my cat just
walked over my keyboard, the answer is no (plus I don’t own a cat).
This is actual Dothraki. How do I know Dothraki? Ugh! Max went
through a phase of only speaking Dothraki at home. He immersed
himself in the language so he could become fluent, which meant
that if we needed more toilet paper, I had to immerse myself in the
language to ask him to go to the shop. If Max had looked like Khal
Drago, then maybe I could have lived with all his nonsense, but
sadly he began looking more and more like Samwell Tarley with
every day that passed.
Now can you see why he had to go?
Excess baggage.
Then there was the magnificent Smith Hutton. He was hung like
a horse. I wasn’t designed for what he had (which was a lot), and I
had to break things off with him for the sake of my anxious vagina. I
heard he moved to Germany and is making a butt-load (no pun
intended) of money in porn. That was his true love.
Over-sized baggage!
For the record, not all of my decisions are based on love, or the
size of their appendages for that matter. It just so happens that the
healthiest relationship I’ve had was with Marcello Venetti, but it was
probably because he actually lived in Venice.
And I didn’t.
Marcello and I spoke every single day. He had met my family, and
I had met his. He stayed at my home when he was in Manchester
and I was prepared to sit through a three-hour budget flight (which,
let’s be honest, is pure hell under any circumstance), followed by
another thirty minutes on the Alilaguna ferry to Guglie before a
trudge through the pungent back streets, just to spend time with
him and his family. Until it ended. One day we were on the phone
planning to meet for a long weekend in Paris and the next, nothing.
I texted. No response. I texted again. Zip. I telephoned. No answer.
And again. His number had been disconnected. I got the hint. I had
been ghosted. Boy had my mother been ecstatic to say, “I told you
so” that time.
It seems I now have a full collection of designer baggage!
After Marcello, I decided that I needed to make some big
changes in my life. I loved Manchester, but I wanted something
more than Coronation Street, Rag Pudding and a string of failed
relationships. I set my sights on the Big Smoke, packed up my life
and moved to London, where I took a more modern approach to
looking for love. I started online dating. I went to singles evenings. I
even signed up for Tinder, because nothing says true love like a shag
in a bathroom stall with Will from Brixton that you’d met an hour
earlier. But even after all my romantic failures it all still brought me
to this moment, ruminating about my love life with my friends.
But back to the story at hand, which is Jeffrey, and the fact that
he, as just mentioned by Courtney, was a knob head.
“That’s just not true.”
It’s absolutely true.
“Come on, Meggsy! The only reason he would go down on you
was just so you could analyse how good he was at it!”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Alright! Yes!” "I nod and roll my eyes, a
hint of frustration creeping in, as I ask, “Do we really have to talk
about my sex life when I’m trying to tell you all about my epiphany?”
While we are all engrossed dissecting my lacklustre sex life, the
MC begins whipping the Friday-night crowd into a frenzy, readying
them for an evening of amateur singing by Madonna and KC Lang
wannabe’s. I’m nowhere near drunk enough to get through an entire
evening of awful singing.
“I think I might go home and drown myself in my bath.”
 “You can’t go.” Courtney yells at me over the blonde on the stage
who’s belting out Bad Romance. “I’m singing tonight!”
“Fine.” I huff and turn my attention to the stage as the blonde
finishes and two guys jump up and attempt a Seven of Crows song.
They’re both pretty smashed, and the big guy goes totally off script
and starts screaming a bunch of sexual innuendos at the crowd.
They don’t last long as two burly security guards appear and frog-
march them off the stage and out the door.
And then the first few bars of Heart’s Barracuda come booming
through the speakers. This is Courtney’s jam and I start whooping as
she runs up and grabs the microphone. She’s no Ann Wilson, but she
can sing the hell out of that song. The whole room cheers loudly
when she finishes. Courtney throws some kisses into the audience,
and screams “rock on!” making the hand horns gesture as she
passes the microphone over to a woman in a flowing, lace dress.
I turn to the table and slam down a fiver. “Stevie Nicks.”
Nate pulls his wallet from his back pocket. “Double or nothing on
the name of the song.”
“I’m in. Edge of Seventeen.”
Brynn shakes her head. “Nope. It’s gotta be Gypsy.”
“Oohhh, I love that song.”
“You’re both wrong.” Courtney slides back into her chair, sips on
a glass of water and clears her throat. “It’ll be Sara. It’s always
Sara.”
We all turn our attention to the stage where witchy woman is
twirling Stevie-style before becoming twisted in the microphone
lead. The MC rushes over to help untangle her before she falls off
the stage and breaks her neck. Once free, the first few bars of music
play. The song is Sara, just as Courtney predicted.
“No fair.”
“Cheat.”
“Pfftt!” Courtney reaches in and grabs her winnings while we all
scowl at her. “Thanks, guys.”
As witchy woman destroys the Stevie Nicks classic, Courtney
turns to me. “The truth is, you jump in and out of shitty relationships
with shitty people… and that’s on you.”
 “I truly thought Jeffrey was the one.”
“Did you? Because no one else did. Look, you’re old enough to
know that there isn’t just one ‘One’. That’s just some rubbish made
up by some asshole a thousand years ago so his woman wouldn’t
screw the caveman next door while he was out hunting dinosaurs.”
“You don’t truly believe that, do you?”
“I really do.”
Nate nods. “She really does.”
I mull on what my friends are saying for a millisecond. Can they
be right? Not about Courtney’s ridiculous dinosaur analogy, but
about missing out on the right guy because I keep dating all the
wrong ones. And why do I keep dating the wrong ones? Because I
think I don’t deserve to be loved?
This is a lot to unpack over a glass of scotch.
The whole idea of @megmartinissingle was pretty much a joke
that was supposed to die a natural death. I’d go on some dates and
have a little fun. But the truth is, I have no real intention of having a
relationship with any of them, mostly because meeting the love of
your life shouldn’t be forced or found on an app, it should just
happen.
So here I am, sipping on a drink I hate, and ready to finally
reveal to my friends my epiphany.
“Courtney I never thought I’d say this, but I think you and I are
finally on the same page. Can I finish now what I’ve been trying to
say since I got here?”
“No one’s stopping you,” Courtney quips at me dryly.
“So, anyway, as I was sitting on the train tonight after my date
with Stanton the Wanker, wedged between a giant and a woman
with a questionable sense of hygiene, I got one final text from him.”
“We’re fascinated.”
I turned my phone around so everyone could see his text. “He
sent me a photo of his dick.”
“Looks like a naked mole rat!”
“As smooth as a Ken doll!”
“Why do they always send dick pics?”
 Nate grabs my phone and walks off with it, a massive grin on his
face. He’s definitely up to something. I take another sip and turn my
attention back to Courtney and Brynn. “I really appreciate your
honesty, and I think I know what I need to do.”
“Tell us.”
“I’m not going to do it anymore.”
“It?”
“Date. Guys. Men.”
“Interesting.” Brynn pauses then grins at me. “Camilla might just
have a chance.”
“Stop it!”
“So, no dates?”
No dates.” I shake my head. “I’ve got everything I need right
here.”
“You’re a dafty.”
“I’ve got a great apartment. Pretty good friends… most of the
time,” I give Courtney a stinky side-eye and laugh. “I’ve got a job
that I love and I’m chasing a promotion. I don’t need a guy to
complete me.”
“What about your blog?”
“My blog will still be there. There are a lot of things that a single
girl can be doing in London other than going on rubbish dates. I
might try meditation… or take one of those adult classes at the
community college.”
“You could be sponsored by a dildo manufacturer and write blogs
about all the different sex toys,” she says airily.
“Sod off, Courtney.” I kick her under the table. “Plus, it’s about
time I work on my novel as well.”
Both Courtney and Brynn moan loudly at me.
I’ve been threatening to condense my blog posts into a novel
since I began. I bang on about it constantly, but I just don’t actually
write it, mostly because I’m too busy going on shockingly bad
dates… but now that I’m putting a stop to that, I’ll have no excuse.
“Maybe it’ll be a self-help book for ladies in a similar rut as me,
might help me with a bit of my baggage.”
“Sure, Meg.”
 “Don’t scoff, you’ll see.”
“Tell me, can we still play cupid, though?”
“Nope. The Duke from Bridgerton could turn up and I still
wouldn’t be interested.”
“I don’t know about him, but I do have a new client coming in
shortly who I think may be just who you’re looking for. He’s a BFD
right now.”
Courtney looks from Brynn to me for clarification. “BFD?”
“Big Fucking Deal.” I tap my finger on my cheek. “Tempting, but
no!”
“I haven’t even said who it is yet.”
“Okay, Brynn. Who is it?”
Let’s just say he’s an infamous, and currently very out of control,
rock star.”
I’ve seen the headlines. I don’t even need to think on it. “It’s
Kaan, isn’t it?”
“The guy that was fired from Seven of Crows?” Courtney tilts her
head at Brynn. “Even I will admit that for a washed-up has-been he
is one sexy looking man.”
Washed-up?
Has-been?
Kaan (like Cher and Madonna) has no need for a surname (unlike
that knob Charles Stanton) and since bursting on the scene over a
decade ago as the bass player of world-renowned rock band, Seven
of Crows, has been in the headlines almost daily over the past
couple of months.
From sex scandals, drug scandals and even rock’n’roll scandals
Kaan’s downfall from rockstar royalty to absolute zero was swift and
humiliating to watch, culminating in an out-of-control fight with lead
singer Gabe Rushley on US television which led him to being publicly
fired by the band.
Courtney is right though, he’s still kind of hot though.
“That one is definitely worth the yeast infection…” Brynn sips on
her cocktail, winking at me. “And I don’t think he’s washed-up or a
has-been. He’s going to be our client… with Meg’s help.”
“I bet he gets real down and dirty between the sheets.”
 Courtney makes the word dirty sound really dirty.
“You know, a dirty shag might be just what you need.” Courtney
raises her eyebrows at me. “Bang a has-been and learn to love
yourself! That’s the name for your self-help book right there!”
I pin Courtney with an exasperated glare. “For heaven’s sake,
Courtney!”
“Just trying to help.”
Brynn stifles a laugh and leans towards me conspicuously. “If you
land Kaan as a client I think the powers that be will have to give you
that promotion you’ve been after.”
“Are you encouraging me to sleep with a client for a promotion?”
“Certainly not. Brazen fires people for that kind of thing. I’m
merely saying that Kaan is coming in for a meeting and signing him
on would also be a BFD.”
I must take a moment to let what Brynn is telling me sink in. This
opportunity is too good to ignore. If I can prove to the big guns
upstairs that I know what I’m doing, then they can finally take off
the training wheels and let me ride the big girl’s bike.
I love my job at Brazen. I’m a social media strategist and I think
I do a pretty decent job at it as well. It’s not exactly where I
envisaged myself five years ago, but I wouldn’t swap careers for
anything. Brynn took a huge chance when she hired me. With
nothing more than a blog under my belt, she mentored me, showed
me the ropes, and helped me become a name in the PR industry.
And it hasn’t been easy to win the respect of the bosses, let me tell
you. Since I started working at Brazen, I’ve worked my ass off.
Literally blood, sweat and tears have gone into getting the job done
and keeping the clients happy.
All-nighters? Done it.
Skipped meals? Too many.
Missed dates? No problem.
But dealing with a… washed-up has-been with an attitude…
might just be slightly beyond even my abilities.
“So, you’re saying that if I get Kaan signed as a client I’ll get that
promotion?”
 “The big boys think that with a little guidance Kaan will make a
come-back that will blow everyone away!” Brynn smiles at me,
aware that my mind is spinning with possibilities right now. “He’s got
a solo album coming out in August so now’s the time for Kaan to
clean up his image if he wants that album to be a success. You make
him look good, and I can pretty much guarantee it.”
“I’m going to hold you to that… although I’ll skip Courtney’s idea
of a dirty shag and stick with my moratorium, thank you very much.”
“Boring!”
“And a moratorium, by definition, temporarily bans an activity
that was previously allowed, so no flirting, no blind dates, and
definitely no dirty rock stars.”
Nate returns to the table and hands me my phone. “You won’t
have to worry about Stanton again.”
“Why?”
“I sent him a photo of my dick back with the message, ‘Your
knob is nowhere as big as mine’.”
We all laugh, and I grab my mobile to see exactly how big Nate’s
knob is. “That’ll teach him.”
Brynn leans in to check out Nate’s knob and nods appreciatively
before turning back to me. “But a moratorium on men? What about
all your nonsense about true love?”
“True love? True love can go fuck itself!” I don’t often drop the F-
bomb. ‘Feck’ I throw around all the time, thanks to my mother’s Irish
heritage, but to actually use ‘fuck’? Well, let’s just say, things must
be getting serious for that to escape my lips. “From this moment
forward there’ll be no guys and no falling in love. Instead, I will
concentrate on me, and my novel.”
“And land the client!”
“And get that promotion!”
Nate’s playing catch up. “What’s this then?”
“I have a moratorium on men.”
“You didn’t mention sex. Is sex still on the table?”
“Semantics, Nate.” Sex is all he ever thinks about. “Amendment
to my moratorium: no sex, and especially not on a table! No
penises! No dating. No dirty rock stars. No falling in love! Nothing.”
 “A penis embargo? It can’t be true!”
“It is true!” I raise my glass of much hated Scotch in a toast.
When my friends don’t follow, I rattle the glass so hard that drops of
Scotch splash them until they join me in my toast. “I, Margaret Elise
Martin, hereby declare a moratorium on guys, and love, and sex…
and all penises… until I learn how to love myself properly.”
“And maybe clear out some of that baggage, as well.”
I point at Courtney. “Maybe, and even though you may not agree
with me, I still get to believe in true love… but true love is just going
to have to work a little harder now.”
Courtney taps her glass to mine. “To true love.”
Brynn nods. “And to Meg landing the BFD!”
I take a deep drink of Scotch. I’m starting to warm up to the
taste of it—or I’ve had too much and can’t tell any longer! “And get
the promotion!”
“Of course!”
“How will you know when you’re ready to date again?”
“I’ll know. Ginger knew.”
“No, Meggsy, she bloody well didn’t.” Courtney snorts and
vigorously shakes her head. “Ginny had no clue what she had with
Aydin… until she nearly lost him.”
“I don’t care what you think, Ginny knew Aydin was the one and,
speaking of Ginny, can you believe she’s getting married in less than
a month!”
“All thanks to me.” Nate tips his damn imaginary hat again. “I
really am quite the match-maker.”
“Just think, in a month I’ll be in Istanbul! I can’t wait.” My grin
turns into a scowl. “I can’t believe you guys aren’t going to be
there.”
Nate shrugs as Courtney replies, “Work. Busy. Life.”
Brynn throws her straw at me. “You’re not going to have time to
run off to Istanbul with Kaan for a client.”
“You know I love you, Brynn, but there’s no way I’m going to
miss being my best friend’s bridesmaid!”
“No, you don’t love me, remember? You have a moratorium on
love.”
 “I wouldn’t worry, Brynn, I’m pretty sure Meggsy’s penis embargo
won’t last a week,” Nate says dryly.
“I can’t be friends with you.” I glare at Nate over my glass.
“You’re too exhausting!”
Courtney throws down the money she just won on the table.
“Hell yeah, she will. In fact, make it a full month, and you’ve got a
bet.”
“A full month, eh? Does that include while she’s in Istanbul?
Because if it does, those are some odds that I’ll take! Just look what
happened to Ginny while she was there!”
“You can’t bet on my emotional wellbeing!” Who are these
people? “Anyway, you’re both going to lose. Because… I am
Woman!”
By the way, that wasn’t me making an affirmation, that was the
song that was currently being belted out by a busty brunette on
stage.
But between you and me and my emotional baggage, my
moratorium on men, and penises, and dating… and true love… oh,
and sex… this has all the makings of an epic disaster!
Chapter Three
 BFD = Big Fucking Deal

BREAKING NEWS:

W hat happens in the club stays in the club … until someone leaks it exclusively to me ,

that is !

A ccording to a source at the exclusive T ape L ondon club , the new face of T aranto
L ingerie , B lair R oberts , and former S even of C rows bass player - turned - loser rockstar ,

K aan , were caught in a steamy embrace on F riday night . A nd when I say steamy , I mean

steaming up the windows kind of steamy !

W itnesses reported that the unlikely duo couldn ’ t keep their hands off each

other , engaging in some seriously over - the - top PDA. F rom making out at the bar to

sneaking off to the bathroom , they were like a couple of lovesick teenagers !

As you might expect , I have some serious reservations about this pairing . I mean ,

M iz R oberts might be a successful model but she also has an excessive party lifestyle ,

while K aan is little more than a has - been with a history of bad behaviour . It’s like

B eauty and the B east , but with way more tongue .

D oes anyone else hate the idea of these two together as much as I do ?

I’ m P ippa E llis , and this is F ame and N o - sense .

7,856 LIKES 32 SHARES

My penis embargo has been coming along swimmingly but learning

to love myself? Epic failure.
 I tried jogging… hated it. I did yoga… hated it more. I also joined
one of those writing groups at the community college and have
convinced myself that every word that I write is absolute shite!
Penis Embargo: 1
Self-love:0
At least I’ve got my health… and my job.
One of the best things about working at Brazen, other than
working with Brynn of course, is that it’s only a twenty-minute walk
from home. But when I step outside this morning, I’m hit with a gust
of wind that threatens to knock me right off my feet.
Shockingly bad weather for spring!
So instead of my normal leisurely walk past Buckingham Palace
and through Green Park, I sprint down to Victoria Station so I can
catch the bus which will drop me right outside the Brazen office on
Clarges Street.
Set over six levels, Brazen is a full-service public relations firm
specialising in digital marketing and social media, branding and
media relations. From influencers, reality stars and designers, to the
biggest names in music, theatre, television and film. Brazen
specialises in boosting their names and getting them the publicity
that they so desperately crave, or alternatively, for those clients who
seem to live and breathe drama, we do the impossible and keep
their name out of the gossip columns at all costs.
Right now, the name on everyone’s lips is Kaan. Yes, that Kaan.
Courtney may have hit the nail on its head when she called him a
washed-up has-been with his most recent drunken bender in a
nightclub resulted in him being arrested and spending a night behind
bars. His agent (aka his mother, Ada Korkmaz, she herself once a
semi-famous singer from the early ‘90’s) contacted Brynn in an effort
to curb the PR nightmare. Of course, I already watched it all go
down on Page Six and Fame and No-sense website (Pippa Ellis
seems to know more about Kaan’s life than even he does) and just
about every other gossip, so the cat’s already out of the bag. But
that’s where we come in. To painstakingly put the cat back in the
bag, which can almost never be done without getting scratched.
 I walk through the foyer and wave at our concierge, Simon. He
seems a little more flustered than normal. “Where have you been,
Meg? Brynn’s been looking for you. You’re late for a meeting on level
six!”
Level six means this meeting is in the big conference room,
which means it’s a big-name client, which means the meeting with
the BFD, Mr. Dirty Rockstar himself, has already started!
Once in the elevator, I shrug off my jacket and glance at myself
critically in the mirrored wall. My deep auburn locks are no longer
the tidy curls that they were when I left home, thanks to the gale
force winds outside. I quickly twirl them up into the modern girl’s
go-to, a messy bun, securing it with two clips from the bottom of my
knock-off designer book tote. The rest of me looks on point and
more than ready to meet with the man himself. I’m wearing a semi-
sheer polka dot blouse over a black slip tank, paired with shortened
black trousers and my pre-requisite black 5-inch heels to add some
desperately needed height to my 5’2 stature.
I’m not nervous, I never get nervous, but I need this meeting to
go smoothly. Plastering a smile on my face, the elevator doors open.
I step into the conference room and straight into what appears to be
a raging fight!
Brynn is leaning against the conference room wall, eyebrows
raised with mouth agape, while a very sophisticated, older woman
decked out entirely in designer clothes, and an intensely beautiful
man square off like fighting cocks.
I let myself soak in the magnificence of this man and for a
moment I’m jealous of his white V-neck tee as it pulls tautly against
his chiselled pecs. I’m not going to lie, my lady bits tingle as I stare
at the low waistband of a pair of wrecked denim jeans that fit him
in all the right places.
It’s the one, and only, Kaan.
He was always good-looking with a boyish charm that could win
over even the most disapproving parent. But, now, whether it’s his
maturity, or perhaps it’s all the sex, drugs and rock’n’roll he’s
indulged in since Seven of Crows first burst onto the scene over a
decade ago, the Kaan Korkmaz standing before me is more
masculine, more dominant, and, if my lady bit tingles are to be
trusted, more sinful than any man I’ve ever crossed paths with!
His dark hair is no longer coiffed into a stylish quiff from his
Seven of Crows days; now his curls are tousled and sun-streaked,
pulled away from his exquisite face by a headband, allowing me to
linger on the smouldering intensity in his bronze eyes, partially
hidden behind thick lashes. I watch his full, pink lips, buried in more
than a few days’ worth of dark stubble, as they form foreign words. I
already know from his file, and from every gossip magazine in the
world, that he’s speaking Turkish, but to stand in front of him as he
and his mother argue back and forth, the language takes on a
melodic strain and I’m frozen, mesmerised by the sound. Muscles
flex under his chiselled jaw in frustration as they argue, and he rubs
at his almost perfectly-formed nose, except for what appears to be a
new, barely noticeable crook, in frustration.
Oh yes, he definitely has that dirty factor about him.
What might that stubble feel like against my fingertips?
To hell with that, the real question is, what might those lips feel
like against my skin?
“Enough!” He slams his fists down on the table making me jump.
I’ve walked into worse meetings, but not many. I slowly shuffle
inward, trying not to bring attention to myself while the fireworks
blast around me.
“You can’t force me into rehab when there’s nothing fucking
wrong with me, mother!” He turns to leave and, not realising that I
had snuck into the meeting, barrels straight into me, knocking me
over.
In a tangled mess, I reach out to grab the closest thing to me,
which just happens to be the solid wall of man. The rock god
himself. I latch on like one of those spider monkeys, and he yips as
he tries to shake me off. In a last-ditch effort to rid himself of me, he
twists left and right, and I start to give up my grip, sliding down his
torso, lower and lower, until I am sitting on his ankles. I finally let go
and look up to see all 6’3” of pure muscle falling towards me. I
scramble back but it’s too late. Kaan lands on me with a thud. “Shit!
Sorry, Red!”
 I am now flat on my back with 180 pounds of Kaan lying on top
of me. Teenage girls all over the world would pay big bucks to be in
my position, or any other position Kaan may suggest. But even if my
lady bit tingle is now a full body buzz, he’s a client and Brazen
employees don’t get to tingle with clients.
Still, as he lies on top of me, the anger blazing in his eyes seem
to soften as they meet mine. I gulp and inhale expecting the tangy
scent of his cologne; instead, I get an eye-watering waft of
cigarettes and alcohol, enough to make me wish I could take
another shower to wash the smell off me.
Despite his dour expression and his somewhat overpowering
odour, he has an almost boyish quality up close. I quickly scan his
face and notice freckles. Freckles!
Maybe there is a little potential for my truffle to be ruffled, after
all.
Then, as if my hands have a mind of their own, they reach up
and touch his face. “I like your freckles!”
Did I just tell Kaan I like his freckles?
Did I just touch Kaan’s face uninvited?
Thank God he doesn’t seem particularly worried about my hands.
He rolls off me and stands up. I have to crick my neck to look up at
him now. Jesus, he’s tall! “I’m usually asked to cover them up.”
He puts his hand out to me and I grab it. “Freckles are all the
rage right now.”
Shut your mouth, Meg!
He wears a perplexed expression, and I feel heat burn through
me under the scrutiny of his eyes, as he pulls me to my feet. “Is that
so?”
“I know people who have had them tattooed onto their face.”
“People are pretty fucking stupid if you ask me!”
I straighten my blouse and purse my lips in fake disapproval. “I
don’t think anyone asked you, did they?”
His scrutiny becomes a glare. “No need to pout, squirt.”
“I’m not pouting… and I’m not a squirt!”
Kaan points at me and turns back to Brynn. “Who’s the angry
munchkin?”
 Brynn watches the stand-off between Kaan and I with interest
before taking back control of the meeting. “Kaan? Ada? Meet Meg
Martin. Meg is a social media strategist and the best in the business.
She’ll be working with you on your social media content.”
He isn’t smiling; worse, his mouth set in a tight line. “I’m not
going to be getting any tattoos, am I?”
“I apologise for that.” Despite the tension between us I snap
back into focus… time to land the client. “Sometimes my words get
away from me.”
“And your hands as well, apparently.”
“Oh, bugger!”
Shut up, Meg!
Kaan crosses to the conference room table and my eyes
immediately lock on his arse. A thin film of perspiration forms on my
top lip as he walks… swaggers… away.
Is it possible to fall in lust at first sight?
Why, yes. Yes it is.
He turns to catch me staring at his backside and he smirks as he
gestures towards a chair. “You’re a feisty munchkin, aren’t you?”
Growing up with my red hair and short stature I was called a
munchkin or asked if I was a member of the Lollypop Guild, for
pretty much my entire childhood. It usually ended badly for the bully
in question.
My mouth drops at his insult, but as it’s not considered
professional to enact my trademark nipple cripple move on a client, I
take a seat in the proffered chair, throwing daggers at him with my
eyes. “I’d prefer you call me Meg, if you don’t mind.”
“Play nice you two.” Brynn pushes herself off the wall and
indicates the door. “Ada? Let’s leave these two to have a chat. Why
don’t we go down to my office?”
And then it’s just me and Kaan.
As soon as Brynn and Ada leave, I turn to Kaan. His eyes coast
lazily over me. In an effort to ignore my tingly lady bits, I fuss with
the files on the conference room table. These precious milli-seconds
give me time to compose myself. “So, where should we start?”
 With a gruff tone and a hint of wariness in his eyes, he retorts,
“You tell me.”
“I guess we should discuss what happened the other night?”
“It was nothing. Just a bit of a cock-up.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“I’d been out with the boys; you know how it is….”
“Not really.”
“Come on, Red. I bet you know exactly how it is.”
Arrogant.
Kaan hits me with what I’m guessing is his “rock star” smirk. He’s
mocking me, trying to get under my skin—and it works. “I know you
smell like a brewery right now. I know you can’t handle your booze
and get into fights. I know that rather than taking responsibility for
your actions you blame it on everyone else and then whine like a
baby when things don’t go your way.”
Shit!
His lips flatten. A muscle in his jaw flexes and despite myself, my
heart skips a beat. “Are you calling me an alcoholic?”
“Surely that’s not coming to you as a surprise.” I slide the
newspaper on the table across to him. “Don’t you read your own bad
press?”
“I don’t give a damn what’s written about me.”
“You should.”
“That’s what I hire you people for.”
I shrug, indifferent to the sarcasm dripping in his tone. “It’s not
my job to inform you that the world thinks you’re an ass.”
“You’re a real ball buster, you know that?”
Self-important.
“You’re probably right. But I’m not going to be insulted by some
washed-up has-been with a massive chip on his shoulder!”
Double shit!
I can feel the anger radiating off him and wait for the beat of
three before continuing. “Maybe you should just try staying home for
a few days. Do a detox. Learn to knit.”
“Fuck you.”
 I laugh and throw in a huff for good measure. “Is the rock star
getting his knickers in a twist because someone finally has the nerve
to tell him how it is rather than just smiling and bending over like a
good little muppet?”
Prick.
“You could probably benefit from a good bending over.”
“Fuck you!”
I can sum up this man in three words.
“If you like.”
Arrogant. Self-important. Prick.
“Listen, Mr. Korkmaz.” His name falls from my tongue like poison.
“I’m not here to be your friend, or anything else for that matter, so
don’t think that this is a work with benefits kind of thing, because I
can promise you, shagging you would be no office perk.”
“Then I really don’t know why you’re here.”
“I’m here because I’m the person who’s going to try to do
everything in her power to ensure you honour your contract and
preserve what’s left of your reputation.” My tone crushes the
intimidation he’s trying to pull on me and I glare at him defiantly.
“But if we’re going to work together you should know that I won’t
take any of your bullshit. If you act like a prick, I’ll call you a prick. I
won’t be spoken down to; I don’t appreciate sexist comments… and
I will not answer to anything other than my name!”
He stands up suddenly, leaving the conference room chair
spinning behind him. His stony expression flickers with contempt.
“This isn’t going to work.”
It takes everything within me to not sneer back at him like he
disgusts me as well. “Excuse me?”
“This—” He waves his hands back and forwards between the two
of us and annunciates slowly as though he was speaking to a child.
“—isn’t… going… to work.”
“Why? Because I refuse to let you speak to me like a self-
important wanker?”
I swallow hard. I can’t believe I just called Kaan a wanker, but
then again, I called him an alcoholic and a washed-up has-been all
in the space of five minutes. Boundaries have been well and truly
crossed either way.
“Do you insult all your clients like this or is it just me that gets
this very special treatment?”
“Actually, no.”
“I’m flattered then.”
Even in my five-inch heels I only reach his shoulder, but I stand
up, crick my neck up and look him square in the eyes. “You’re right.
This isn’t going to work.”
I’m definitely going to get fired for this next-level approach.
Working alongside this prick would be torture…beautiful torture.
Collecting the files but leaving the newspaper open to the
offending article, I cross the conference room to the door, my heels
clicking loudly on the hardwood floor. I don’t look behind me, mostly
because I can already feel his eyes burning into my back.
“Wait!”
My hand is on the door handle, but I don’t turn the knob.
“I’m not a wanker.”
I can hear the resignation in his tone, and I realise that this is
probably the closest thing to an apology I would get from him. I turn
back from the door and stare him down.
“Then can I suggest you don’t act like one?”
Kaan grits his teeth, obviously biting back a snarky comment.
“Fine.”
I know not to lose my cool with a client, but there’s something
about this man that gets under my skin. “We didn’t really get off on
the right foot and for that I apologise.”
He glances at me warily, as if he’s not sure if I’m going to slap
him. “And?”
Still arrogant though.
I take a couple of calming breaths, force a smile on my face and
continue, “And… I’m really looking forward to working with you. If
you give me a chance, you’ll see that I’m great at what I do, and I’ll
work my butt off for you.”
We stare at each other in silence until he says, “Being a wanker…
it’s all part of my image. I’m the panty-ripping, bad-boy rock-star.
Another random document with
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the edge of Monarch where they’re lacking an incumbent. I’d
intended to send Brother Hudkins—you know him; he’s that old
retired preacher that lives out by the brickyard—comes into classes
now and then—I’d intended to send him down for the Easter service.
But I’ll send you instead, and in fact, if you see the committee, I
imagine you can fix it to have this as a regular charge, at least till
graduation. They pay fifteen a Sunday and your fare. And being
there in a city like Monarch, you can go to the ministerial association
and so on—stay over till Monday noon every week—and make fine
contacts, and maybe you’ll be in line for assistant in one of the big
churches next summer. There’s a morning train to Monarch—10:21,
isn’t it? You take that train tomorrow morning, and go look up a
lawyer named Eversley. He’s got an office—where’s his letter?—his
office is in the Royal Trust Company Building. He’s a deacon. I’ll wire
him to be there tomorrow afternoon, or anyway leave word, and you
can make your own arrangements. The Flowerdale Baptist Church,
that’s the name, and it’s a real nice little modern plant, with lovely
folks. Now you go to your room and pray, and I’m sure you’ll feel
better.”

II
It was an hilarious Elmer Gantry who took the 10:21 train to
Monarch, a city of perhaps three hundred thousand. He sat in the
day-coach planning his Easter discourse. Jiminy! His first sermon in
a real city! Might lead to anything. Better give ’em something red-hot
and startling. Let’s see: He’d get away from this Christ is Risen stuff
—mention it of course, just bring it in, but have some other theme.
Let’s see: Faith. Hope. Repentance—no, better go slow on that
repentance idea; this Deacon Eversley, the lawyer, might be pretty
well-to-do and get sore if you suggested he had anything to repent
of. Let’s see: Courage. Chastity. Love—that was it—love!
And he was making notes rapidly, right out of his own head, on
the back of an envelope:
 Love:
a rainbow
AM & PM star
from cradle to tomb
inspires art etc. music voice of love
slam atheists etc. who not appreciate love
“Guess you must be a newspaperman, Brother,” a voice assailed
him.
Elmer looked at his seatmate, a little man with a whisky nose and
asterisks of laughter-wrinkles round his eyes, a rather sportingly
dressed little man with the red tie which in 1906 was still thought
rather the thing for socialists and drinkers.
He could have a good time with such a little man, Elmer
considered. A drummer. Would it be more fun to be natural with him,
or to ask him if he was saved, and watch him squirm? Hell, he’d
have enough holy business in Monarch. So he turned on his best
good-fellow smile, and answered:
“Well, not exactly. Pretty warm for so early, eh?”
“Yuh, it certainly is. Been in Babylon long?”
“No, not very long.”
“Fine town. Lots of business.”
“You betcha. And some nice little dames there, too.”
The little man snickered. “There are, eh? Well, say, you better
give me some addresses. I make that town once a month and, by
golly, I ain’t picked me out a skirt yet. But it’s a good town. Lot’s of
money there.”
“Yes-sir, that’s a fact. Good hustling town. Quick turnover there,
all right. Lots of money in Babylon.”
“Though they do tell me,” said the little man, “there’s one of these
preacher-factories there.”
“Is that a fact!”
“Yump. Say, Brother, this’ll make you laugh. Juh know what I
thought when I seen you first—wearing that black suit and writing
things down? I thought maybe you was a preacher yourself!”
 “Well—”
God, he couldn’t stand it! Having to be so righteous every
Sunday at Schoenheim—Deacon Bains everlastingly asking these
fool questions about predestination or some doggone thing. Cer’nly
had a vacation coming! And a sport like this fellow, he’d look down
on you if you said you were a preacher.
The train was noisy. If any neighboring cock crowed three times,
Elmer did not hear it as he rumbled:
“Well, for the love of Mike! Though—” In his most austere
manner: “This black suit happens to be mourning for one very dear
to me.”
“Oh, say, Brother, now you gotta excuse me! I’m always shooting
my mouth off!”
“Oh, that’s all right.”
“Well, let’s shake, and I’ll know you don’t hold it against me.”
“You bet.”
From the little man came an odor of whisky which stirred Elmer
powerfully. So long since he’d had a drink! Nothing for two months
except a few nips of hard cider which Lulu had dutifully stolen for him
from her father’s cask.
“Well, what is your line, Brother?” said the little man.
“I’m in the shoe game.”
“Well, that’s a fine game. Yes-sir, people do have to have shoes,
no matter if they’re hard up or not. My name’s Ad Locust—Jesus,
think of it, the folks named me Adney—can you beat that—ain’t that
one hell of a name for a fellow that likes to get out with the boys and
have a good time! But you can just call me Ad. I’m traveling for the
Pequot Farm Implement Company. Great organization! Great bunch!
Yes-sir, they’re great folks to work for, and hit it up, say! the sales-
manager can drink more good liquor than any fellow that’s working
for him, and, believe me, there’s some of us that ain’t so slow
ourselves! Yes-sir, this fool idea that a lot of these fly-by-night firms
are hollering about now, that in the long run you don’t get no more by
drinking with the dealers—All damn’ foolishness. They say this fellow
Ford that makes these automobiles talks that way. Well, you mark
my words: By 1910 he’ll be out of business, that’s what’ll happen to
him; you mark my words! Yes-sir, they’re a great concern, the Pequot
bunch. Matter of fact, we’re holding a sales-conference in Monarch
next week.”
“Is that a fact!”
“Yes-sir, by golly, that’s what we’re doing. You know—read
papers about how to get money out of a machinery dealer when he
ain’t got any money. Heh! Hell of a lot of attention most of us boys’ll
pay to that junk! We’re going to have a good time and get in a little
good earnest drinking, and you bet the sales-manager will be right
there with us! Say, Brother—I didn’t quite catch the name—”
“Elmer Gantry is my name. Mighty glad to meet you.”
“Mighty glad to know you, Elmer. Say, Elmer, I’ve got some of the
best Bourbon you or anybody else ever laid your face to right here in
my hip pocket. I suppose you being in a highbrow business like the
shoe business, you’d just about faint if I was to offer you a little
something to cure that cough!”
“I guess I would, all right; yes-sir, I’d just about faint.”
“Well, you’re a pretty big fellow, and you ought to try to control
yourself.”
“I’ll do my best, Ad, if you’ll hold my hand.”
“You betcha I will.” Ad brought out from his permanently sagging
pocket a pint of Green River, and they drank together, reverently.
“Say, jever hear the toast about the sailor?” inquired Elmer. He
felt very happy, at home with the loved ones after long and desolate
wanderings.
“Dunno’s I ever did. Shoot!”
“Here’s to the lass in every port,
And here’s to the port-wine in every lass,
But those tall thoughts don’t matter, sport,
For God’s sake, waiter, fill my glass!”
The little man wriggled. “Well, sir, I never did hear that one! Say,
that’s a knock-out! By golly, that certainly is a knock-out! Say, Elm,
whacha doing in Monarch? Wancha meet some of the boys. The
Pequot conference don’t really start till Monday, but some of us boys
thought we’d kind of get together today and hold a little service of
prayer and fasting before the rest of the galoots assemble. Like you
to meet ’em. Best bunch of sports you ever saw, lemme tell you that!
I’d like for you to meet ’em. And I’d like ’em to hear that toast. ‘Here’s
to the port-wine in every lass.’ That’s pretty cute, all right! Whacha
doing in Monarch? Can’t you come around to the Ishawonga Hotel
and meet some of the boys when we get in?”
Mr. Ad Locust was not drunk; not exactly drunk; but he had
earnestly applied himself to the Bourbon and he was in a state of
superb philanthropy. Elmer had taken enough to feel reasonable. He
was hungry, too, not only for alcohol but for unsanctimonious
companionship.
“I’ll tell you, Ad,” he said. “Nothing I’d like better, but I’ve got to
meet a guy—important dealer—this afternoon, and he’s dead
against all drinking. Fact—I certainly do appreciate your booze, but
don’t know’s I ought to have taken a single drop.”
“Oh, hell, Elm, I’ve got some throat pastilles that are absolutely
guaranteed to knock out the smell—absolutely. One lil drink wouldn’t
do us any harm. Certainly would like to have the boys hear that toast
of yours!”
“Well, I’ll sneak in for a second, and maybe I can foregather with
you for a while late Sunday evening or Monday morning, but—”
“Aw, you ain’t going to let me down, Elm?”
“Well, I’ll telephone this guy, and fix it so’s I don’t have to see him
till long ’bout three o’clock.”
“That’s great!”

III
From the Ishawonga Hotel, at noon, Elmer telephoned to the
office of Mr. Eversley, the brightest light of the Flowerdale Baptist
Church. There was no answer.
 “Everybody in his office out to dinner. Well, I’ve done all I can till
this afternoon,” Elmer reflected virtuously, and joined the Pequot
crusaders in the Ishawonga bar. . . . Eleven men in a booth for eight.
Every one talking at once. Every one shouting, “Say, waiter, you ask
that damn’ bartender if he’s making the booze!”
Within seventeen minutes Elmer was calling all of the eleven by
their first names—frequently by the wrong first names—and he
contributed to their literary lore by thrice reciting his toast and by
telling the best stories he knew. They liked him. In his joy of release
from piety and the threat of life with Lulu, he flowered into vigor. Six
several times the Pequot salesmen said one to another, “Now there’s
a fellow we ought to have with us in the firm,” and the others nodded.
He was inspired to give a burlesque sermon.
“I’ve got a great joke on Ad!” he thundered. “Know what he
thought I was first? A preacher!”
“Say, that’s a good one!” they cackled.
“Well, at that, he ain’t so far off. When I was a kid, I did think
some about being a preacher. Well, say now, listen, and see if I
wouldn’t’ve made a swell preacher!”
While they gaped and giggled and admired, he rose solemnly,
looked at them solemnly, and boomed:
“Brethren and Sistern, in the hustle and bustle of daily life you
guys certainly do forget the higher and finer things. In what, in all the
higher and finer things, in what and by what are we ruled excepting
by Love? What is Love?”
“You stick around tonight and I’ll show you!” shrieked Ad Locust.
“Shut up now, Ad! Honest—listen. See if I couldn’t’ve been a
preacher—a knock-out—bet I could handle a big crowd well’s any of
’em. Listen. . . . What is Love? What is the divine Love? It is the
rainbow, repainting with its spangled colors those dreary wastes
where of late the terrible tempest has wreaked its utmost fury—the
rainbow with its tender promise of surcease from the toils and
travails and terrors of the awful storm! What is Love—the divine
Love, I mean, not the carnal but the divine Love, as exemplified in
the church? What is—”
 “Say!” protested the most profane of the eleven, “I don’t think you
ought to make fun of the church. I never go to church myself, but
maybe I’d be a better fella if I did, and I certainly do respect folks that
go to church, and I send my kids to Sunday School. You God damn
betcha!”
“Hell, I ain’t making fun of the church!” protested Elmer.
“Hell, he ain’t making fun of the church. Just kidding the
preachers,” asserted Ad Locust. “Preachers are just ordinary guys
like the rest of us.”
“Sure; preachers can cuss and make love just like anybody else.
I know! What they get away with, pretending to be different,” said
Elmer lugubriously, “would make you gentlemen tired if you knew.”
“Well, I don’t think you had ought to make fun of the church.”
“Hell, he ain’t making fun of the church.”
“Sure, I ain’t making fun of the church. But lemme finish my
sermon.”
“Sure, let him finish his sermon.”
“Where was I? . . . What is Love? It is the evening and the
morning star—those vast luminaries that as they ride the purple
abysms of the vasty firmament vouchsafe in their golden splendor
the promise of higher and better things that—that—Well, say, you
wise guys, would I make a great preacher or wouldn’t I?”
The applause was such that the bartender came and looked at
them funereally; and Elmer had to drink with each of them. That is,
he drank with four of them.
But he was out of practise. And he had had no lunch.
He turned veal-white; sweat stood on his forehead and in a
double line of drops along his upper lip, while his eyes were
suddenly vacant.
Ad Locust squealed, “Say, look out! Elm’s passing out!”
They got him up to Ad’s room, one man supporting him on either
side and one pushing behind, just before he dropped insensible, and
all that afternoon, when he should have met the Flowerdale Baptist
committee, he snored on Ad’s bed, dressed save for his shoes and
coat. He came to at six, with Ad bending over him, solicitous.
“God, I feel awful!” Elmer groaned.
“Here. What you need’s a drink.”
“Oh, Lord, I mustn’t take any more,” said Elmer, taking it. His
hand trembled so that Ad had to hold the glass to his mouth. He was
conscious that he must call up Deacon Eversley at once. Two drinks
later he felt better, and his hand was steady. The Pequot bunch
began to come in, with a view to dinner. He postponed his telephone
call to Eversley till after dinner; he kept postponing it; and he found
himself, at ten on Easter morning, with a perfectly strange young
woman in a perfectly strange flat, and heard Ad Locust, in the next
room, singing “How Dry I Am.”
Elmer did a good deal of repenting and groaning before his first
drink of the morning, after which he comforted himself, “Golly, I never
will get to that church now. Well, I’ll tell the committee I was taken
sick. Hey, Ad! How’d we ever get here? Can we get any breakfast in
this dump?”
He had two bottles of beer, spoke graciously to the young lady in
the kimono and red slippers, and felt himself altogether a fine fellow.
With Ad and such of the eleven as were still alive, and a scattering of
shrieking young ladies, he drove out to a dance-hall on the lake,
Easter Sunday afternoon, and they returned to Monarch for lobster
and jocundity.
“But this ends it. Tomorrow morning I’ll get busy and see Eversley
and fix things up,” Elmer vowed.

IV
In that era long-distance telephoning was an uncommon event,
but Eversley, deacon and lawyer, was a bustler. When the new
preacher had not appeared by six on Saturday afternoon, Eversley
telephoned to Babylon, waited while Dean Trosper was fetched to
the Babylon central, and spoke with considerable irritation about the
absence of the ecclesiastical hired hand.
 “I’ll send you Brother Hudkins—a very fine preacher, living here
now, retired. He’ll take the midnight train,” said Dean Trosper.
To Mr. Hudkins the dean said, “And look around and see if you
can find anything of Brother Gantry. I’m worried about him. The poor
boy was simply in agony over a most unfortunate private matter . . .
apparently.”
Now Mr. Hudkins had for several years conducted a mission on
South Clark Street in Chicago, and he knew a good many unholy
things. He had seen Elmer Gantry in classes at Mizpah. When he
had finished Easter morning services in Monarch, he not only went
to the police and to the hospitals but began a round of the hotels,
restaurants, and bars. Thus it came to pass that while Elmer was
merrily washing lobster down with California claret, stopping now
and then to kiss the blonde beside him and (by request) to repeat his
toast, that evening, he was being observed from the café door by the
Reverend Mr. Hudkins in the enjoyable rôle of avenging angel.

V
When Elmer telephoned Eversley, Monday morning, to explain
his sickness, the deacon snapped, “All right. Got somebody else.”
“But, well, say, Dean Trosper thought you and the committee
might like to talk over a semi-permanent arrangement—”
“Nope, nope, nope.”
Returned to Babylon, Elmer went at once to the office of the
dean.
One look at his expression was enough.
The dean concluded two minutes of the most fluent description
with:
“—the faculty committee met this morning, and you are fired from
Mizpah. Of course you remain an ordained Baptist minister. I could
get your home association to cancel your credentials, but it would
grieve them to know what sort of a lying monster they sponsored.
Also, I don’t want Mizpah mixed up in such a scandal. But if I ever
hear of you in any Baptist pulpit, I’ll expose you. Now I don’t suppose
you’re bright enough to become a saloon-keeper, but you ought to
make a pretty good bartender. I’ll leave your punishment to your
midnight thoughts.”
Elmer whined, “You hadn’t ought—you ought not to talk to me like
that! Doesn’t it say in the Bible you ought to forgive seventy times
seven—”
“This is eighty times seven. Get out!”
So the Reverend Mr. Gantry surprisingly ceased to be, for
practical purposes, a Reverend at all.
He thought of fleeing to his mother, but he was ashamed; of
fleeing to Lulu, but he did not dare.
He heard that Eddie Fislinger had been yanked to Schoenheim to
marry Lulu and Floyd Naylor . . . a lonely grim affair by lamplight.
“They might have ast me, anyway,” grumbled Elmer, as he
packed.
He went back to Monarch and the friendliness of Ad Locust. He
confessed that he had been a minister, and was forgiven. By Friday
that week Elmer had become a traveling salesman for the Pequot
Farm Implement Company.
 CHAPTER XI

I
elmer gantry was twenty-eight, and for two years he had been
a traveling salesman for the Pequot Company.
Harrows and rakes and corn-planters; red plows and gilt-striped
green wagons; catalogues and order-lists; offices glassed off from
dim warehouses; shirt-sleeved dealers on high stools at high desks;
the bar at the corner; stifling small hotels and lunch-rooms; waiting
for trains half the night in foul boxes of junction stations, where the
brown slatted benches were an agony to his back; trains, trains,
trains; trains and time-tables and joyous return to his headquarters in
Denver; a drunk, a theater, and service in a big church.
He wore a checked suit, a brown derby, striped socks, the huge
ring of gold serpents and an opal which he had bought long ago,
flower-decked ties, and what he called “fancy vests”—garments of
yellow with red spots, of green with white stripes, of silk or daring
chamois.
He had had a series of little loves, but none of them important
enough to continue.
He was not unsuccessful. He was a good talker, a magnificent
hand-shaker, his word could often be depended on, and he
remembered most of the price-lists and all of the new smutty stories.
In the office at Denver he was popular with “the boys.” He had one
infallible “stunt”—a burlesque sermon. It was known that he had
studied to be a preacher but had courageously decided that it was
no occupation for a “real two-fisted guy,” and that he had “told the
profs where they got off.” A promising and commendable fellow;
conceivably sales-manager some day.
Whatever his dissipations, Elmer continued enough exercise to
keep his belly down and his shoulders up. He had been shocked by
Deacon Bains’ taunt that he was growing soft, and every morning in
his hotel room he unhumorously did calisthenics for fifteen minutes;
evenings he bowled or boxed in Y. M. C. A. gymnasiums, or, in
towns large enough, solemnly swam up and down tanks like a white
porpoise. He felt lusty, and as strong as in Terwillinger days.
Yet Elmer was not altogether happy.
He appreciated being free of faculty rules, free of the guilt which
in seminary days had followed his sprees at Monarch, free of the
incomprehensible debates of Harry Zenz and Frank Shallard, yet he
missed leading the old hymns, and the sound of his own voice, the
sense of his own power, as he held an audience by his sermon.
Always on Sunday evenings (except when he had an engagement
with a waitress or a chambermaid) he went to the evangelical church
nearest his hotel. He enjoyed criticizing the sermon professionally.
“Golly, I could put it all over that poor boob! The straight gospel is
all right, but if he’d only stuck in a couple literary allusions, and
lambasted the saloon-keepers more, he’d’ve had ’em all het up.”
He sang so powerfully that despite a certain tobacco and whisky
odor the parsons always shook hands with extra warmth, and said
they were glad to see you with us this evening, Brother.
When he encountered really successful churches, his devotion to
the business became a definite longing to return to preaching; he
ached to step up, push the minister out of his pulpit, and take
charge, instead of sitting back there unnoticed and unadmired, as
though he were an ordinary layman.
“These chumps would be astonished if they knew what I am!” he
reflected.
After such an experience it was vexatious on Monday morning to
talk with a droning implement-dealer about discounts on manure-
spreaders; it was sickening to wait for train-time in a cuspidor-filled
hotel lobby when he might have been in a church office superior with
books, giving orders to pretty secretaries and being expansive and
helpful to consulting sinners. He was only partly solaced by being
able to walk openly into a saloon and shout, “Straight rye, Bill.”
On Sunday evening in a Western Kansas town he ambled to a
shabby little church and read on the placard outside:

This Morning: The Meaning of Redemption

 This Evening: Is Dancing of the Devil?
FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH
Pastor:
The Rev. Edward Fislinger, B.A., B. D.

“Oh, Gawd!” protested Elmer. “Eddie Fislinger! About the kind of

burg he would land in! A lot he knows about the meaning of
redemption or any other dogma, that human woodchuck! Or about
dancing! If he’d ever been with me in Denver and shaken a hoof at
Billy Portifero’s place, he’d have something to hand out. Fislinger—
must be the same guy. I’ll sit down front and put his show on the
fritz!”
Eddie Fislinger’s church was an octagonal affair, with the pulpit in
one angle, an arrangement which produced a fascinating, rather
dizzy effect, reminiscent of the doctrine of predestination. The interior
was of bright yellow, hung with many placards: “Get Right with God,”
and “Where Will You Spend Eternity?” and “The Wisdom of This
World is Foolishness with God.” The Sunday School Register behind
the pulpit communicated the tidings that the attendance today had
been forty-one, as against only thirty-nine last week, and the
collection eighty-nine cents, as against only seventy-seven.
The usher, a brick-layer in a clean collar, was impressed by
Elmer’s checked suit and starched red-speckled shirt and took him to
the front row.
Eddie flushed most satisfactorily when he saw Elmer from the
pulpit, started to bow, checked it, looked in the general direction of
Heaven, and tried to smile condescendingly. He was nervous at the
beginning of his sermon, but apparently he determined that his
attack on sin—which hitherto had been an academic routine with no
relation to any of his appallingly virtuous flock—might be made real.
With his squirrel-toothed and touching earnestness he looked down
at Elmer and as good as told him to go to hell and be done with it.
But he thought better of it, and concluded that God might be able to
give even Elmer Gantry another chance if Elmer stopped drinking,
smoking, blaspheming, and wearing checked suits. (If he did not
refer to Elmer by name, he certainly did by poisonous glances.)
 Elmer was angry, then impressively innocent, then bored. He
examined the church and counted the audience—twenty-seven
excluding Eddie and his wife. (There was no question but that the
young woman looking adoringly up from the front pew was Eddie’s
consort. She had the pitifully starved and home-tailored look of a
preacher’s wife.) By the end of the sermon, Elmer was being sorry
for Eddie. He sang the closing hymn, “He’s the Lily of the Valley,”
with a fine unctuous grace, coming down powerfully on the jubilant
“Hallelujah,” and waited to shake hands with Eddie forgivingly.
“Well, well, well,” they both said; and “What you doing in these
parts?” and Eddie: “Wait till everybody’s gone—must have a good
old-fashioned chin with you, old fellow!”
As he walked with the Fislingers to the parsonage, a block away,
and sat with them in the living-room, Elmer wanted to be a preacher
again, to take the job away from Eddie and do it expertly; yet he was
repulsed by the depressing stinginess of Eddie’s life. His own hotel
bedrooms were drab enough, but they were free of nosey
parishioners, and they were as luxurious as this parlor with its rain-
blotched ceiling, bare pine floor, sloping chairs, and perpetual odor of
diapers. There were already, in two years of Eddie’s marriage, two
babies, looking as though they were next-door to having been
conceived without sin; and there was a perfectly blank-faced sister-
in-law who cared for the children during services.
Elmer wanted to smoke, and for all his training in the eternal
mysteries he could not decide whether it would be more interesting
to annoy Eddie by smoking or to win him by refraining.
He smoked, and wished he hadn’t.
Eddie noticed it, and his reedy wife noticed it, and the sister-in-
law gaped at it, and they labored at pretending they hadn’t.
Elmer felt large and sophisticated and prosperous in their
presence, like a city broker visiting a farmer cousin and wondering
which of his tales of gilded towers would be simple enough for belief.
Eddie gave him the news of Mizpah. Frank Shallard had a small
church in a town called Catawba, the other end of the state of
Winnemac from the seminary. There had been some difficulty over
his ordination, for he had been shaky about even so clear and
proven a fact as the virgin birth. But his father and Dean Trosper had
vouched for him, and Frank had been ordained. Harry Zenz had a
large church in a West Virginia mining town. Wallace Umstead, the
physical instructor, was “doing fine” in the Y. M. C. A. Professor
Bruno Zechlin was dead, poor fellow.
“Wh’ever became of Horace Carp?” asked Elmer.
“Well, that’s the strangest thing of all. Horace’s gone into the
Episcopal Church, like he always said he would.”
“Well, well, zatta fact!”
“Yes-sir, his father died just after he graduated, and he up and
turned Episcopalian and took a year in General, and now they say
he’s doing pretty good, and he’s high-church as all get-out.”
“Well, you seem to have a good thing of it here, Eddie. Nice
church.”
“Well, it isn’t so big, but they’re awful’ fine people. And
everything’s going fine. I haven’t increased the membership so
much, but what I’m trying to do is strengthen the present
membership in the faith, and then when I feel each of them is a
center of inspiration, I’ll be ready to start an evangelistic campaign,
and you’ll see that ole church boom—yes-sir—just double
overnight. . . . If they only weren’t so slow about paying my salary
and the mortgage. . . . Fine solid people, really saved, but they are
just the least little bit tight with the money.”
“If you could see the way my cook-stove’s broken and the sink
needs painting,” said Mrs. Fislinger—her chief utterance of the
evening.
Elmer felt choked and imprisoned. He escaped. At the door Eddie
held both his hands and begged, “Oh, Elm, I’ll never give up till I’ve
brought you back! I’m going to pray. I’ve seen you under conviction. I
know what you can do!”
Fresh air, a defiant drink of rye, loud laughter, taking a train—
Elmer enjoyed it after this stuffiness. Already Eddie had lost such
devout fires as he had once shown in the Y. M. C. A.; already he was
old, settled down, without conceivable adventure, waiting for death.
 Yet Eddie had said—
Startled, he recalled that he was still a Baptist minister! For all of
Trosper’s opposition, he could preach. He felt with superstitious
discomfort Eddie’s incantation, “I’ll never give up till I’ve brought you
back.”
And—just to take Eddie’s church and show what he could do with
it! By God he’d bring those hicks to time and make ’em pay up!
He flitted across the state to see his mother.
His disgrace at Mizpah had, she said, nearly killed her. With
tremulous hope she now heard him promise that maybe, when he’d
seen the world and settled down, he might go back into the ministry.
In a religious mood (which fortunately did not prevent his
securing some telling credit-information by oiling a bookkeeper with
several drinks) he came to Sautersville, Nebraska, an ugly,
enterprising, industrial town of 20,000. And in that religious mood he
noted the placards of a woman evangelist, one Sharon Falconer, a
prophetess of whom he had heard.
The clerk in the hotel, the farmers about the implement
warehouse, said that Miss Falconer was holding union meetings in a
tent, with the support of most of the Protestant churches in town;
they asserted that she was beautiful and eloquent, that she took a
number of assistants with her, that she was “the biggest thing that
ever hit this burg,” that she was comparable to Moody, to Gipsy
Smith, to Sam Jones, to J. Wilbur Chapman, to this new baseball
evangelist, Billy Sunday.
“That’s nonsense. No woman can preach the gospel,” declared
Elmer, as an expert.
But he went, that evening, to Miss Falconer’s meeting.
The tent was enormous; it would seat three thousand people, and
another thousand could be packed in standing-room. It was nearly
filled when Elmer arrived and elbowed his majestic way forward. At
the front of the tent was an extraordinary structure, altogether
different from the platform-pulpit-American-flag arrangement of the
stock evangelist. It was a pyramidal structure, of white wood with
gilded edges, affording three platforms; one for the choir, one higher
up for a row of seated local clergy; and at the top a small platform
with a pulpit shaped like a shell and painted like a rainbow.
Swarming over it all were lilies, roses and vines.
“Great snakes! Regular circus layout! Just what you’d expect
from a fool woman evangelist!” decided Elmer.
The top platform was still unoccupied; presumably it was to set
off the charms of Miss Sharon Falconer.
The mixed choir, with their gowns and mortar-boards, chanted
“Shall We Gather at the River?” A young man, slight, too good-
looking, too arched of lip, wearing a priest’s waistcoat and collar
turned round, read from Acts at a stand on the second platform. He
was an Oxonian, and it was almost the first time that Elmer had
heard an Englishman read.
“Huh! Willy-boy, that’s what he is! This outfit won’t get very far.
Too much skirts. No punch. No good old-fashioned gospel to draw
the customers,” scoffed Elmer.
A pause. Every one waited, a little uneasy. Their eyes went to the
top platform. Elmer gasped. Coming from some refuge behind the
platform, coming slowly, her beautiful arms outstretched to them,
appeared a saint. She was young, Sharon Falconer, surely not thirty,
stately, slender and tall; and in her long slim face, her black eyes,
her splendor of black hair, was rapture or boiling passion. The
sleeves of her straight white robe, with its ruby velvet girdle, were
slashed, and fell away from her arms as she drew every one to her.
“God!” prayed Elmer Gantry, and that instant his planless life took
on plan and resolute purpose. He was going to have Sharon
Falconer.
Her voice was warm, a little husky, desperately alive.
“Oh, my dear people, my dear people, I am not going to preach
tonight—we are all so weary of nagging sermons about being nice
and good! I am not going to tell you that you’re sinners, for which of
us is not a sinner? I am not going to explain the Scriptures. We are
all bored by tired old men explaining the Bible through their noses!
No! We are going to find the golden Scriptures written in our own
hearts, we are going to sing together, laugh together, rejoice together
like a gathering of April brooks, rejoice that in us is living the
veritable spirit of the Everlasting and Redeeming Christ Jesus!”
Elmer never knew what the words were, or the sense—if indeed
any one knew. It was all caressing music to him, and at the end,
when she ran down curving flower-wreathed stairs to the lowest
platform and held out her arms, pleading with them to find peace in
salvation, he was roused to go forward with the converts, to kneel in
the writhing row under the blessing of her extended hands.
But he was lost in no mystical ecstasy. He was the critic, moved
by the play but aware that he must get his copy in to the newspaper.
“This is the outfit I’ve been looking for! Here’s where I could go
over great! I could beat that English preacher both ways from the
ace. And Sharon—— Oh, the darling!”
She was coming along the line of converts and near-converts,
laying her shining hands on their heads. His shoulders quivered with
consciousness of her nearness. When she reached him and invited
him, in that thrilling voice, “Brother, won’t you find happiness in
Jesus?” he did not bow lower, like the others, he did not sob, but
looked straight up at her jauntily, seeking to hold her eyes, while he
crowed, “It’s happiness just to have had your wondrous message,
Sister Falconer!”
She glanced at him sharply, she turned blank, and instantly
passed on.
He felt slapped. “I’ll show her yet!”
He stood aside as the crowd wavered out. He got into talk with
the crisp young Englishman who had read the Scripture lesson—
Cecil Aylston, Sharon’s first assistant.
“Mighty pleased to be here tonight, Brother,” bumbled Elmer. “I
happen to be a Baptist preacher myself. Bountiful meeting! And you
read the lesson most inspiringly.”
Cecil Aylston rapidly took in Elmer’s checked suit, his fancy vest,
and “Oh. Really? Splendid. So good of you, I’m sure. If you will
excuse me?” Nor did it increase Elmer’s affection to have Aylston
leave him for one of the humblest of the adherents, an old woman in
a broken and flapping straw hat.
 Elmer disposed of Cecil Aylston: “To hell with him! There’s a
fellow we’ll get rid of! A man like me, he gives me the icy mitt, and
then he goes to the other extreme and slops all over some old dame
that’s probably saved already, that you, by golly, couldn’t unsave with
a carload of gin! That’ll do you, my young friend! And you don’t like
my check suit, either. Well, I certainly do buy my clothes just to
please you, all right!”
He waited, hoping for a chance at Sharon Falconer. And others
were waiting. She waved her hand at all of them, waved her flaunting
smile, rubbed her eyes, and begged, “Will you forgive me? I’m blind-
tired. I must rest.” She vanished into the mysteries behind the gaudy
gold-and-white pyramid.
Even in her staggering weariness, her voice was not drab; it was
filled with that twilight passion which had captured Elmer more than
her beauty. . . . “Never did see a lady just like her,” he reflected, as
he plowed back to his hotel. “Face kinda thin. Usually I like ’em
plumper. And yet—golly! I could fall for her as I never have for
anybody in my life. . . . So this darn’ Englishman didn’t like my
clothes! Looked as if he thought they were too sporty. Well, he can
stick ’em in his ear! Anybody got any objection to my clothes?”
The slumbering universe did not answer, and he was almost
content. And at eight next morning—Sautersville had an excellent
clothing shop, conducted by Messrs. Erbsen and Goldfarb—and at
eight Elmer was there, purchasing a chaste double-breasted brown
suit and three rich but sober ties. By hounding Mr. Goldfarb he had
the alterations done by half-past nine, and at ten he was grandly
snooping about the revival tent. . . . He should have gone on to the
next town this morning.
Sharon did not appear till eleven, to lecture the personal workers,
but meanwhile Elmer had thrust himself into acquaintanceship with
Art Nichols, a gaunt Yankee, once a barber, who played the cornet
and the French horn in the three-piece orchestra which Sharon
carried with her.
“Yes, pretty good game, this is,” droned Nichols. “Better’n
barberin’ and better’n one-night stands—oh, I’m a real trouper, too;
play characters in tent-shows—I was out three seasons with Tom
shows. This is easier. No street parades, and I guess prob’ly we do a
lot of good, saving souls and so on. Only these religious folks do
seem to scrap amongst themselves more’n the professionals.”
“Where do you go from here?”
“We close in five days, then we grab the collection and pull out of
here and make a jump to Lincoln, Nebraska; open there in three
days. Regular troupers’ jump, too—don’t even get a Pullman—leave
here on the day-coach at eleven p. m. and get into Lincoln at one.”
“Sunday night you leave, eh? That’s funny. I’ll be on that train.
Going to Lincoln myself.”
“Well, you can come hear us there. I always do ‘Jerusalem the
Golden’ on the cornet, first meeting. Knocks ’em cold. They say it’s
all this gab that gets ’em going and drags in the sinners, but don’t
you believe it—it’s the music. Say, I can get more damn’ sinners
weeping on a E-flat cornet than nine gospel-artists all shooting off
their faces at once!”
“I’ll bet you can, Art. Say, Art—— Of course I’m a preacher
myself, just in business temporarily, making arrangements for a new
appointment.” Art looked like one who was about to not lend money.
“But I don’t believe all this bull about never having a good time; and
of course Paul said to ‘take a little wine for your stomach’s sake’ and
this town is dry, but I’m going to a wet one between now and
Saturday, and if I were to have a pint of rye in my jeans—heh?”
“Well, I’m awful’ fond of my stomach—like to do something for its
sake!”
“What kind of a fellow is this Englishman? Seems to be Miss
Falconer’s right-hand man.”
“Oh, he’s a pretty bright fellow, but he don’t seem to get along
with us boys.”
“She like him? Wha’ does he call himself?”
“Cecil Aylston, his name is. Oh, Sharon liked him first-rate for a
while, but wouldn’t wonder if she was tired of his highbrow stuff now,
and the way he never gets chummy.”