Chapter 1: Prelude

It was a hot day in early August. The water of the canal in the south of France reflected the bright afternoon sunlight into sharp points. The cloudless sky was azure blue, and I was beginning to doubt my sanity seriously. I knew it was the wrong time of the year to be doing this. The place was heaving with tourists. It was almost possible to walk across the width of the canal without getting wet as there were so many hire boats jostling about on the water. The dreaded plastic ‘Noddy boats’ of the Canal du Midi had become my waking nightmare.

I surveyed the long line of boats moored against the left bank of the canal, waiting in front of the closed gates of the ecluse (lock) and put the ‘Never Again’s engine into neutral and she slowly lost headway. The ‘Never Again’ was a 20-year-old steel hulled Branson designed Dutch barge, and she had been my part-time home for the past eight years.

I was a one book wonder of an author, and I’d bought the boat with the proceeds of my first and so far, the only book. Fortunately, it was still a best-seller, and with the money the film adaptation had brought me, I was never going to need to work again.

I was 36 and still looking for that next book. It was a bittersweet prospect, as the inspiration for the first was my own life, and I never wanted to go through that painful experience again. They had given the film a far happier ending than that of the book.

“Ben,” called Alwyn; he was a student, the nephew of a Dutch friend. I’d offered to pay him to help me on the trip. “The lock keeper is waving us up.”

Well, that wasn’t going to make us popular with the tourists. Larger boats go in first, is the rule. At 22 meters, we were twice the length of some of the craft waiting, but few, if any of the people on them would be aware of the rule. It would look like I was queue-jumping to them. I pushed the throttle forward and reveled in the silence. ‘Never,’ as she was known, had just come from the boatyard at Agde, where I’d spent a small fortune replacing her old Diesel engine with state of the art hybrid electric power plant. The rudder and prop shaft had gone, to be replaced with a swiveling pod, housing a big electric motor that powered the propeller. New solar panels and high capacity batteries were installed, and the backup generator overhauled.

The boatyard had, inevitably, overrun the planned schedule by more than six weeks. That was why I was resigned to battle through the current madness, better known as the South of France in August. ‘Never’s permanent mooring was close to the town of Carcassonne. A private mooring next to my land home, a small cottage overlooking the canal, which was normally only two to three days cruise up the canal. This, oh so wasn’t normal, I was looking at least four, more likely five days, and it reinforced why I usually spent the month of August as far away from the water as possible.

As I suspected, there were numerous calls of complaint from the waiting boats as we cruised past them towards the open lock gates. Once inside the stone canyon, Alwyn and I tied off the mooring lines and waited until the lock-keeper positioned the first two of the waiting hire boats alongside us. I ignored the stares from their crews and watched the gates closing behind us. Then, with a gush, water began flooding into the lock basin and the three boats slowly rose, bobbing in the flow.

The locks always seemed to attract a crowd of onlookers in summer. This one was no exception, especially as there was the added attraction of a good restaurant next to the lock. As the roof of the wheelhouse rose above the lip of the lock, there were several small groups of people scattered around, most of them with cameras and phones at the ready.

My eye was drawn to two figures standing back from the other groups. They stood in the shade of a tree close to the restaurant’s terrace. I squinted to see them, the shadows making it difficult to make them out. From what I could see from my quick glance, the taller of the two was a woman with a beautiful figure, wearing a mid-thigh length summer dress. Her skin looked tanned, but that could be a trick of the light. A floppy wide-brimmed straw hat completely hid her face, but there was something about her that made me feel uneasy.

The girl holding her hand stood a step closer to me, and I could see her more clearly. She was in that gawky transition between childhood and teenager, possibly twelve years old, at most. Tall for her age, she wore a pair of white shorts and a cropped top that highlighted her budding breasts. She waved and smiled at me. I raised my hand in an awkward acknowledgment of her greeting.

A loud thud on ‘Never’s hull as one the hire boats bounced off the far side of her, instinctively drew my attention. “Friggin idiot,” I muttered, and both the lock keeper and I shouted at the youth holding the offending boat’s mooring rope.

When I turned back to look at the couple again, ‘Never’s‘ deck was level with the top of the lock, and the girl was stepping on board. I gave her a startled glance and opened my mouth to speak, closing it rapidly as she said, “Hi Dad, I’m your daughter, Julia.”

The beginning.

I grew up in a small village in Sussex, 10 miles north of Brighton. I was the only son of the village doctor. I’m Benjamin McMichael, although only my parents and grandparents ever called me Benjamin. To the rest of the world, I was Ben. I was tall for my age, six-feet by my 14th birthday, six-one at the end of my schooling. I was fair skinned, red haired and blue eyed, a result of my highland heritage. I was a ‘strapping young lad,’ my grandmother’s words, not mine.

My father and grandfather, both doctors, had long ago mapped out the direction my life was to take. I was to be the third generation of Dr. McMichael, regardless if I wanted to, or not.

And not, was my preferred option, I was only interested in the human body as a subject for my photography. Throughout my school years, I had dutifully studied the courses chosen by my father. My one rebellion, an indulgence supported by my mother, had been art classes, and the after school photography club.

I had been lucky; the art teacher had a passion for film and photography. I had some skill in sketching and painting, but it wasn’t until she let me use a camera that I knew I’d found my reason for living. The photography club became a refuge for my embattled soul.

The intricacies of the camera, lens, and film, combining with the added mystical alchemy of film processing, all found a welcome within my young psyche.

I was 18 and had just started my last year of school, year 13. I was working up to the inevitable confrontation that was soon to occur when I informed my father that I wasn’t going to be applying to medical school. Instead, I wanted to study art or more specifically photography at the Brighton College of art.

That was the year I first met Alisha. We met through the photography club. Ah, Alisha, how can I describe her and do her any justice? Alisha was nine months younger than I, in the year below, and already her beauty and character shone through. She was destined to become the undisputed star of the drama club. Her mother was Danish, her father Anglo Caribbean, originally from Barbados. She was a delightful mix of both of their best features. She had her mother’s Nordic features and height, with a definite hint of her father’s skin coloring. A strikingly beautiful face dominated by striking hazel green eyes and long black hair

Her parents had moved into the village over the summer. My family had been in France at my grandfather’s farmhouse in Provence, and we didn’t get back until a couple of days before school started. I heard the rumors that there was a beautiful new girl at school on the first day of term, but it was a week later before I got met her in person.

At the start of summer, my mother had given me a surprise present. How she knew I’d been coveting a digital camera to go with my own Canon 35mm SLR, I’ll never know. A mother’s intuition, I guess. I’d bought my first camera and lenses second hand with the previous year’s Christmas money. Having rich relatives who lived abroad was a blessing, sometimes.

On the first night of our vacation, my Mother left the box containing the Canon EOS D30 on the end of my bed. I knew instinctively I couldn’t make a fuss, but a brief hug and a kiss on her cheek ensured she was aware how grateful I was.

The camera never seemed too far from my side all summer. The 14-year-old daughter of the housekeeper and her friends became my willing models and friends. They seemed only too happy to spend the summer running through countless fields of crops for me to immortalize. She and her two friends were allowed to use the pool at the farmhouse. Three beautiful French teenagers wearing bikinis with the confidence that only French girls seem to possess filled most of my memory cards and a dozen or so rolls of film.

I was on the computer in the photography lab editing some of my digital holiday photos when a sultry voice from behind me murmured, “That’s a stunning image of a beautiful girl; is she your girlfriend?”

I started and looked in the direction of the voice to see a face that will be forever etched into my brain. I lost myself in those hazel green eyes, and it took me several moments to recover enough wits to grunt a monosyllabic reply.

“No.”

“She’s not your girlfriend, or you haven’t got one, which is it?”

“Both,” I explained, “She’s the daughter of my grandfather’s housekeeper. I needed a model, and she was happy to help, but that was all. And no, I don’t have a girlfriend at present.” The last came out with a degree of bitterness I couldn’t hide.

“Ah,” she said with wisdom beyond her years. “I’m Alisha, by the way, but you can call me Ali. I’m hoping that you are Ben.”

I nodded, not sure what to say.

“I’ve joined the drama club, and one of the members suggested that you might be willing to take some publicity shots of me.”

How does a teenager resist the request of a goddess? I know I couldn’t. We agreed to meet up at the weekend, and I’d bring my new camera. I thought that would be it and I was expecting her to leave, but no.

“No girlfriend then?” She said as she settled in a chair beside me. She didn’t look at me, concentrating on the image on the screen.

I shook my head, “We had a difference of opinion; we’d been together for the last year. I thought that we were exclusive, she didn’t. I found out she’d been playing the field over the summer and wasn’t interested in stopping.” I shrugged, “I’m not built that way!”

Alisha grinned, “Good, neither am I.”

I gave her an even longer look, was she asking me out? No, she couldn’t be, she was way out of my league. I knew that I wasn’t bad looking, but there were more than a few boys in my year that were far more eligible, and eager to date the beautiful girl sitting beside me.

“I’m not sure what you want?” I gave her a confused look.

“You’re good-looking, all your friends have nice things to say about you, and I’m in the market for a boyfriend like you. I’ll be honest I already knew about your girlfriend. She was the one who suggested I ask you about taking the photos. Her loss is, hopefully my gain, and I want to stake my claim before she or one of the others come to their senses and try and snap you up.”

I gave her a shocked look. I wasn’t a geek but neither was I a great catch. I doubted that I was Alisha’s first choice as a boyfriend. Apparently, I was wrong as she leaned towards me and kissed me. Surprised, I froze for a second and then kissed her back. She moved into the kiss with a little whimper of pleasure.

We broke apart, and she gave a little giggle, “Mine now,” she whispered, as she patted my arm.

I had a deep-rooted suspicion that I would only last until I was no longer of use to Alisha, or she got a better offer. As the days, then the weeks, and finally the months passed, and she seemed just as happy to be with me, I slowly relaxed. I’d fallen in love with her that first moment, the gaze of her eyes mesmerizing me, although I never completely shook the feeling that someday she’d come to her senses and find a more suitable boyfriend.

Alisha went from strength to strength, she dominated the girls in her year and was incredibly influential with the girls in my year. It was a benign dictatorship, everyone liked or loved her, depending on their sexual orientation. Her social life opened up vast new vistas for me.

At parties and gatherings, she always kept the place beside her for me, and woe betide anyone who tried to claim it for themselves. Her eyes would flash ice, and the poor interloper would shrivel and die. We would kiss and cuddle, and I soon discovered that the unwrapped present was even more beautiful than the wrapped version. We thought about making that final commitment to each other, in the end, we resisted, as Alisha had promised her mother to keep her virginity until her 18th birthday.

It was on stage that her true presence could be seen. She dominated the two plays the school drama department put on that year. The local amateur dramatic society was quick to recruit her into their ranks. She played Eliza Doolittle in their version of Pygmalion to rapturous applause. All the time, I was there with my cameras, recording and documenting her first steps into the limelight.

Back at school, I somehow found the time to study and then sit and pass my A levels. I got a mix of A’s and B’s in my sciences, and A’s for my Math’s, English, and Art. My father had given me the application forms for the two best medical schools, placing the one from his old school on top. I handed him the acceptance letter from the Brighton College of art, and we didn’t talk for days. My mother interceded, finally convincing him that I was making the best decision.

It was later that summer that Ali and I took the ultimate step in our relationship. Alisha’s 18th birthday, I’d expected that she’d have wanted a big, over the top celebration for her coming of age, but no, a birthday meal with our families the evening before her birthday on Sunday was what she wanted.

She wanted to spend her birthday Sunday alone with me. “I have a present for you,” she whispered in my ear.

“And I have one for you,” I replied.

I’d passed my driving test earlier in the year, so I borrowed my mother’s car. My mother packed us a picnic, and we drove along the winding lanes that crisscrossed the South Downs until we reached a favorite spot of mine: a grass covered track led along a babbling brook in a shady valley. We parked at the end of the track, took the picnic bag and a blanket, and walked up the path along the stream and to a shaded grassy dell.

Inside the bag, I found a bottle of white wine, a gift from the vineyard on grandfather’s farm. I set it chilling in the stream while Alisha set out the food on the blanket. She knelt up, gave me a coy look and pulled her t-shirt off. She was wearing a powder blue a bikini top that stood against the pale coffee of her skin. As she removed her shorts, the matching bikini bottom, hugging her curves were exposed. Two brief triangles of fabric that tied at the side.

I grinned at the beautiful woman before me. I drew her into my arms, and we kissed, a kiss full of the promise of youth and the passion of first love. Breaking the kiss, she tugged my top up and off my body, her fingers smoothing my ruffled hair.

“I have a present for you,” I said as I slid a wrapped package from a side pocket of the picnic bag. She opened it to expose on old jewelry case in green velvet. Her startled eyes flicked up to meet mine.

“Is it a... ?

I shook my head, “No, open it and see.”

She opened the box, and on the silk lining lay a large emerald pendant on a fine gold chain with a matching pair of emerald drop earrings.

“Oh, Ben, they’re so beautiful.”

“They belonged to my grandmother; her fiancé gave them to her on her 18th birthday as promises of his love for her.” I gave a little sigh, “then he went off to war and never came back.”

“So the one who gave them to her isn’t your grandfather?”

“No, she met him after the war. She sent them to me a few weeks ago, after she met you over Easter. She’d told me the story and thought that I might have a use for them!”

Alisha gazed at the contents and then placing the pendant in my hand, bent her head forward so that I could fasten it around her neck. The Emerald teardrop nestled between the curves of her breasts.

She replaced her plain gold studs with the emeralds and pulled her long black hair back behind her ears. She squatted back on her heels, raising her arms.

I whistled in appreciation, and picking up my ever-present camera, took several pictures of her in the dappled sunlight filtering down through the trees. Through the viewfinder her image smiled at me, stretching and playing with my emotions. Her fingers unclasped her bikini top, and the flimsy fabric slid down to circle her waist.

That photograph still sits on the wall of my bedroom. Alisha is kneeling back on her heels on the tartan blanket, a smile that lights up her face, arms poised behind her head, her skin flecked with dapples of sunlight. One breast is in shadow, the other glowing in the dappled golden light. The deep green emerald nestled between them. Around her slim waist, the abandoned bikini top hinted at the pleasures promised.

Putting the camera down, I pulled her down to lie on the blanket beside me. She shivered and whimpered as I ran my fingertips down her neck and across her chest, following the curves of her firm breasts. Her dark nipples crinkled and firmed.

She kissed my neck and whispered into my ear, “Now it’s time for my present to you, I want you to take my virginity. I’ve been saving it for today, and I want to give to the man I love with all my heart.”

I couldn’t resist. “Do you want me to leave so he can join you,” I whispered back. I squeeze her nipple as I did so.

“Yesss, I mean no, you bastard. Oh, God, that feels so good.” She groaned in pleasure.

She pulled my head down, and I replaced my fingers with my mouth, teasing and sucking her nipples as they hardened and stood out proudly. She raised her hips as I pulled on the ties holding her bikini bottom together. I twirled the two triangles of fabric around my fingers. Ali laughed and made a playful grab for them, snatching them from me.

My hand moved down the soft skin of her body until I felt the soft, springy curls nestling at the top of her slit. My fingers delved lower, and she gasped and shuddered when I pressed on her hard button, and let my fingers curl protectively over her mons.

“Oh, God, I love it when you touch me there,” she gasped and spread her legs, inviting me to plunder further. Her black curly tuft drew me down, and she shuddered as I licked along her succulent pussy lips, tasting the sweet honey of her arousal. I licked and sucked her clit, my arousal painfully pressing against the blanket covered ground.

She shuddered with a muted cry as I pushed two fingers into the hot wet warmth of her pussy. She came a few moments later as I caressed her G-spot, this time with a loud cry. Her legs tightened around my head, and I nibbled at her clit and she writhed under me.

“Oh, holy fuck, what are you doing to me, I love you so much.”

I looked up at her sweat coated face as she rose to her elbows and peered down her body at me.

“I love the sweet taste of you,” I told her, “But now, I just want to bury myself deep inside you.”

“Please,” she said, “fuck me, show me how much you love me.” She held her arms out to me, inviting me to cover her body with mine.

That afternoon became a symphony of lovemaking, with both of us playing the other like fine instruments, with intermissions for food and drink. When we grew too sticky, we restored ourselves with refreshing dips in the clear cold water of the stream, washing the sweat and fluids off our glistening bodies.

We finally admitted defeat, our bodies aching in that delightful way uninhibited lovemaking produces. A last dip in the stream to freshen up, and then we lay down wrapped in each other arms. Our relationship had taken a quantum step forward.

Alisha played with the Emerald pendant lying between her breasts. “I can understand why your grandmother’s fiancé gave her this as a gift of love. I love that you’ve given it to me for the same reason. I promise I’ll wear it forever.”

She pulled me close and kissed me with all the passion left in her body to seal the promise.

The in-between years:

The good years

The good years were full of love.

College was a good time for me, my father bought me a car, and I was able to carry on living at home. I loved all the different aspects of film and photography. I was quick to appropriate, our old summer house at the end of the garden, over my father wishes. (I think he had a use for it as a hiding place from my mother). With Ali’s help, I convert it into a studio and a small darkroom.

Ali was even better for me. We were in love with a capital ‘L’ both sets of parents cautioned us to take things slowly

Ali’s enjoyment of acting grew, as well, and it was after seeing a few photos of her from one of her shows that the head of the fashion department of my college asked her to be a model for the student’s summer show. She wowed the audience with her performance on the catwalk, including the head of the college’s drama school. At the start of the next academic year, we were both students at the same college of art and drama.

After me, Alisha’s first love was drama, and for her first year, that’s what she concentrated her studies on, but as a result of her interaction with the fashion students, a second interest began creeping in, that of fashion and design. I think she saw the two as complementary aspects of the other. She loved the limelight, the ability to draw an audience in, to make them believe in her character.

The same could be said of her presence on the catwalk. She quickly became the favorite model of every student on the fashion course, the one they chose to wear that special dress. You know, the one with which they close their show. Her designs were good, but she could add that something extra to the dress she was wearing that would make it stand out.

As she grew and evolved from the beautiful girl I’d first fallen in love with, into the stunningly beautiful and charismatic woman she was. I was there with my camera; I don’t think there was a day that I didn’t take at least one image of her, and after I’d taken them I would add notes about them in my journal.

I’d been keeping a journal since I was 12. The first was a leather-bound notebook my mother gave me for Christmas, a tradition she’d continued all along. Early entries were just dry accounts of my day, but they soon changed into ideas and observations. Little sketches dotted the pages, then a few stumbling poems made their appearance. They became the home for all my rambling outpourings. There was even the odd short story in the last couple of journals.

Life changes: at the start of my last year and Ali’s second, I moved into a flat in Brighton. My grandfather died after a short illness in the spring. He was buried at our local church, and my grandmother stayed with us for a couple of months. She reluctantly decided it was time to sell the farm in France and move back to England. Although my parents offered a place in our home, she bought a small cottage in the village near us.

She also bought a house in the old town of Brighton that was converted into a pair of flats. We all thought she’d bought it as an investment, but she surprised everyone, especially me when she gave me the whole house for my 21st birthday.

The house was on one of the numerous hills over which Brighton is built. I chose to live in the top floor flat, as it came with an extra bedroom in the attic and a view across the rooftops to the sea. The balcony off the lounge gave access to the small raised garden. The house was within walking distance of the college, so long as you didn’t mind all the steep streets. The lower floor flat, I furnished and rented out to fellow students.

Once I was settled into my new home, I asked Alisha two questions. The first she said yes to immediately, the second was a conditional yes. The questions? The first was to move into the flat and live with me. The second was to marry me, this one she said yes to, but not yet.

“I want to marry you,” she told me as she held the antique emerald and diamond engagement ring I’d bought for her. “And we are going to, I promise you, but I want to complete my education first and find a career that I’m happy with first.” She briefly touched the pendant hanging around her neck. “I already have my token of your love, and I’ll never take it off. I’ll wear the ring with pleasure, but I don’t want you to set a date. Will you agree to let me wear the ring under those circumstances?”

I’d have much preferred a full commitment from her, but we’d been together for three years, and I’d never seen her waver in our relationship. I had been going to suggest a summer marriage after I had graduated. I’d sold a few of my photos recently, and I had the offer of a part-time position with a local photography studio as soon as I graduated. I was feeling fairly optimistic about my future.

Honestly, a couple more years seemed neither here nor there, since we would be living together, so I took the ring from her and slid it onto her finger in answer to her question.

The bad years.

The bad years started with a good year for both of us, but the genesis of the bad years was set midway through Alisha’s last year at college.

I’d managed to graduate with an art degree the previous year. After a lot of consideration, I decided not to continue renting out the lower floor flat. With a bit of seed money from my parents and my grandmother, I got a local builder in to convert it into a photography studio and started my own business. I’d learned a lot, working part-time the year before, for an established photographer in Hove, a town just along the coast.

One of my first customers was Sandra, a young local wedding dress designer with a growing reputation. She wanted ‘artsy’ shots of some of her new styles. She had a pretty assistant who she usually used as a model, but I quickly convinced her that Alisha would be a far better choice.

We tried a shoot in her shop and then my studio, and while the dresses and the Alisha looked stunning, there was something about the resulting images that I felt was lacking something. I convinced Sandra to let me take Alisha and the dresses up to the open expanses of the South Downs, and there the model and dresses came alive.

Windswept golden grass became the perfect backdrop to Alisha in the different white dresses. In some, the train would swirl adding motion to a frozen Alisha. I’d bought a few flowers for her to hold and I took several images with her holding a variety of single blossoms. When I presented the edited images to Sandra, she was ecstatic with her praise and was happy to promote me to potential clients.

In my spare time, I played with several of the images I’d taken on the hillside. I’d bought a reasonable computer when I’d opened the studio, and tried not to cry too much at the price of a high-quality A3 color photographic printer. Mercifully, it came with a copy of Photoshop, so that was one expense I saved.

I ended up with a series of eight prints, each one processed in high contrast black and white except for the single splash of color from the different flowers Alisha held. The most striking was a pair of images where she was holding a single sunflower in a different position.

I showed them to the owner of an art gallery in the Brighton Lanes. He’d exhibited a couple of my photos the previous year, and I hoped he would be interested. David surprised me; he was keen to add them to his next show of local artists and photographers in a couple of months. He suggested I should print, frame and sign three copies of each. David was fairly sure that he would be able to sell all of them.

I delivered the prints to David in late September. The show had been pushed back until the end of November, so I put it out of my mind. Meanwhile, I was getting a steady trickle of business, enough to pay the bills with a little left over.

Alisha started her third and last year and was immediately taken under the wing of a new acting coach, an actress who’d been a stalwart of the London theatre scene for many years. Angelique had recently retired and moved to Brighton and had taken up a part-time coaching position at the college. She watched Alisha and immediately saw her potential and claimed her for her own.

Angelique was always somewhat distant from me; I think she saw me as a competitor for Alisha’s attention, or more likely a distraction. She was cool towards me from the start, and for the first time, I was made to feel unwelcome at the rehearsals for the new play the drama department was preparing. Previously, I’d been there with my camera whenever I was free. Angelique was upset when Alisha complained to the head of the department after I was asked to leave.