From London's West End to a New York drag bar and onto the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, three couples rediscover the passion that once burned as brightly as the stage lights. My story centres around an all male version of Chicago; in case everyone faints at the thought, it does also feature a rugby player so Charlie hasn't strayed that far...
Here's the cover - will post the buy link (and an excerpt) once I have it.
Coming up:
14th February
Sees the release of I Do Two from MLR. In support of Lambda Legal, I Do Two is an anthology of short stories featuring such great authors as Alex Beecroft, Neil Placky and Rick Reed. My story, The Uneven Chance, has a blurb stolen straight from Jane Austen, “Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance.”
'A single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a
civil partner'.
“That’s not quite what the sublime Miss Austen wrote”, Roger Nicholson reflected, although the girl did seem fairly enlightened. Perhaps if she’d lived two hundred years later she might have come up with a ‘Pride and Prejudice’ de nos jours where Mr D’Arcy would encounter a handsome young man full of spirit if lacking in breeding. Roger couldn’t work out what was more unlikely; a novel of the quality of Austen’s becoming a classic even though it dealt with the love that still encountered difficulties with speaking its name, or meeting his own equivalent of Fitzwilliam D’Arcy.
16th February
Is e-book release day for Lessons in Seduction, book 6 of the Cambridge Fellows Mysteries series.
Poor old Orlando has to go undercover as a dancing partner at a posh hotel. Jonty, of course, has no sympathy for him:
Jonty almost danced all the way back up the Madingley Road, full of the prospect of the seaside, dancing and high society.
“Of course, you’ll love every moment of this investigation.” Orlando took a swipe at a branch which had dared to get in his way.
“Absolutely. And so will you. Don’t pretend you won’t be thrilled to have a murder to solve. You like them as much as your beloved mathematical puzzles.” Jonty’s broad, handsome grin made him look like a boy at Christmas, bouncing with excitement at the prospect of the weeks ahead.
“I suppose so. Only…”
“Yes?”
“I was just wondering—” Orlando felt himself colour, not just with annoyance, “—what a gigolo actually does.”
“I love Miss Peters more than any other woman to whom I’m not related, but I could cheerfully have killed her today, coming in and saying that. In front of the bursar and all. You will *not* be a gigolo.” Jonty sighed. “No one expects you to be anything more than a professional dancing partner at the hotel.”
Back catalogue:
The first I Do anthology came out just over a year ago in e-book and print.
It’s still raising money for Lambda Legal and features stories from Erastes, Clare London and Lee Rowan among others. I chipped in with The Roaming Heart, a short about two leading lights of the black and white cinema who don’t live out their private lives quite like the gossip columns suggest.
Inspiration:
A lovely article about some of the ‘real’ Jontys and Orlandos, here.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
c_smith_author a very happy day. She will be 117 and is the sole surviving member of the crack nursing team, the Verdun Vixens, who served at the front (and at the back) bandaging up young men's parts during WWI. She is also the only person in the world who makes me look sane.
To sign up, mail me at cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com and I'll get going on it.
rigby22 who, for a couple of quid, can send me answers to all sorts of key questions like 'When did Spanish flu first appear in Europe?' and 'Would Jonty and Orlando have been too old to sign up?'. If anyone needs an easy source of reference on matters 1900-1945 or related to classical civilisations/literature, contact her agent. (Me.)
In other news, the anthology Encore, Encore is listed on the upcoming page at MLR. (April 2010.) My contribution is All That Jazz - me writing modern day stuff, who'd a thought it?
alex_beecroft for her success at the Eppies as a cover artist. (Alex, why does that make me think of you doing 'Don't go breaking my heart' for one of those Top of the Pops albums?)The next Cambridge Fellows book Lessons in Seduction is released on February 16th. Cover art by Scott.
Lessons in Temptation got a five-star review over at Speak Its Name. "The themes of love vs sex and loyalty vs temptation are well explored too; there were times I wanted to kill Jonty, I have to say." There's a queue to do that...
Anyway, the two younger Cochranes have been making snowmen.
When I saw them, I couldn't help but think of two certain academic chaps.
Uncanny resemblance.
Now, a cautionary tale. Never hand wash your undies and put them out on the line in the cold:
"Our Speak Its Name Author of the Year is CHARLIE COCHRANE for her Cambridge Fellows Mysteries series. (Samhain) Consistently well written, with a character arc that keeps the readers coming back for more. Like many series, it gets a little darker with each instalment, without losing the delicious sweetness. Orlando and Jonty are unforgettable heroes and they deserve the following they have."
Read the yearly round up here, while I lie down.
Hummingbird
Shenanigans
Don't wake the dog, unless you plan to walk it
Lemon Krispy Cremes
Bad Hair Day
Up and beyond
Bare knuckled
Tightened the wet leather
Give it a tug
Rose tattoo
You know, that spot on top of chicken shit
Magic ring
Midnight Haunt
Jonty and Orlando made me use them all. Excuse the anachronisms.
Cambridge 1906
"What are you?" Dr. Coppersmith frowned so hard his entire forehead looked like a linen shirt which had just been wrung. A linen shirt that was covered in something looking like that spot on the top of chicken shit. Jonty had never seen his lover so dishevelled. And ‘bad hair day’ didn’t even start to describe the state of his bonce.
"Well, to give me my full title, I'm the Kildare Fellow in Tudor Literature." Dr. Stewart put on a brave front but he knew he’d crack under cross examination. Anything—bare knuckle boxing against James Corbett, someone engraving a rose tattoo on his bum with a blunt needle—anything would be better than interrogation by Orlando. Maybe attack would be a better form of defence. “I might ask what shenanigans you’ve been up to. Been out in your midnight haunt dancing round the toadstool magic ring with the fairies?”
Orlando ignored the fairies. "I don't refer to your paid employment, Jonty. I allude to your conduct today."
Oh bugger, he’s gone pompous; I’m in a deeper dung than ever. "I'm an idiot."
Orlando's mouth almost tweaked into a smile but he managed to restrain it. "I would have thought the Kildare Fellow in Literature would have been able to produce an adjective to go with the noun." He sat back, arms folded, waiting for the answer.
"I'm a complete and utter idiot. I’m a total ‘wrapped up this rugby player in two dog leads, tipped a gallon of beer over him, tightened the wet leather, gave it a tug, listened to his voice go up an octave and legged it before he kicked me in the unmentionables’ idiot.”
"Why did you do it?”
“Because he was one of the opposition. That should be enough for any Cambridge man. And because he punched young Jackson when the referee wasn’t looking.” It was explanation enough for Jonty. He couldn’t be made answerable for the consequences.
“And do you know what proceeded after you’d vacated the area?” orlando’s voice was hardly more than a whisper.
Pompous and quiet. Jonty was a dead man. “A hummingbird came down from heaven and fed you nectar? Ow. How can anyone’s finger be quite so sharp? And how can you make it go so far up and beyond…”
“Don’t prevaricate. Actually, don’t do anything, I’ll tell you. I found this poor chap looking as if a bunch of hooligans—or women from Girton—had molested him. I loosened the dog leads…”
“Don't wake the dog, unless you plan to walk it,” Jonty chipped in, immediately regretting it as the bony finger made for his backside again. “Ow.”
“He must have recognised me from the game. I think my studs may have accidentally made contact with his cheek. Whatever prompted him to attack, I was bundled up over his shoulder and deposited in the college rubbish heap before being thrashed on my bottom with the dog leads. You can see the marks of the name tags, I’ll swear.”
“Poor Orlando.” Maybe sympathy would get him back in the good books. Perhaps I’d better inspect the damage. “Come on, get these pants down. Let the dog see the…oh, I see what you mean. That’ll need ointment.”
“If you laugh, I’ll find those bloody dog leads and strangle you.”
“Not laughing, honest.” Jonty put on his spectacles. “You can just make out a name here. Semerc ypris…that sounds foreign, Orlando.”
“It’s an impression, so it’s in reverse, you dolt.”
“Oh. Yes, you’re right. Now that’s a funny name for a dog.” Jonty began to laugh, wheezing away until he almost choked. “You’re going to look a picture, my love, with Lemon Krispy Crème engraved on your bum in intaglio.”
Five stars for Lessons in Temptation at Rainbow Reviews.
Online life a bit hit and miss over the next week so if I'm supposed to be doing something for someone and I forget, please nudge me. Highlight of next few days is Barrowman in Robin Hood at Cardiff (the foot of snow they're predicting for South Wales notwithstanding).
And a mystery - did someone (who knows my real name and addy) send me a braclet? Have eliminated all the usual suspects and now Mr. Cochrane thinks I have a secret admirer...
rigby22 insisted (oh yes you did) that I post about how delighted I was with her pressy (a keyring - from Nauticalia - made from some copper from HMS Victory's bottom). In a Christmas of notable presents (including a 'Rugby's finest' calendar, loads of jelly babies and other sweets, Nigel Owen's autobiography, John Barrowman DVD and a book on sledging) that keyring was particularly notable.The spirit of romance is ailing in the Coppersmith Stewart household. A snippet:-
“Everyone seems to be receiving little love tokens at the moment,” Jonty went on. “Miss Peters is getting a non-stop supply of chocolates from some chap down at St. Thomas's, who has declared undying love for her. She takes them down to the orphanage and watches the little tykes eat them, so they reach the intended recipients. Are you listening?”
“Yes. Chocolates. Thomas's. Tykes.” Orlando never looked up.
“Time was when you used to bring me little doo-dads. Mint Lumps. Champagne...” Jonty's voice trailed off, a sign he hoped his lover would pick up that all was not well.
But Orlando was preoccupied as usual. “Hm? I believe I may have done. Yes.”
“Oh to hell with it. Believe you may have done? Perhaps it was another lover then, Orlando, who sent me those trifles, and I've got the two of you confused.”
It got a good review, too at Reviews by Jessewave. "...her books are so well-written and -plotted, full of smart humor, great dialog, and well-developed, three dimensional characters."
“Orlando Coppersmith!”
“You’re for it now.” Jonty Stewart grinned. He loved his mother dearly, but there were times she resembled little less than a Valkyrie. “She only achieves that volume and ferocity when someone has well and truly blotted their copybook.” The Master of St. Bride’s never addressed his teaching staff in quite such stentorian tones.
“I don’t think I’ve done either.” Orlando Coppersmith turned pale. “Have I?”
“No idea. Can’t think offhand of anything that would raise the maternal ire to quite that pitch. Unless…” Jonty thrust out his lower lip in thought.
“Unless what?” The answer never came—their hostess appeared, as full of wrath as the Archangel Michael and twice as righteous. The vice-chancellor of Cambridge University couldn’t appear as wrathful or as frightening, not even when St. Bride’s college or its equally worthy inhabitants had misbehaved. Which was a rare occurrence.
“Jonathan, would you please leave us?” Helena Stewart gave her son no alternative. Go he must, whether he would or not.
She’s calling him Jonathan. It’s worse than I thought. Orlando felt his life passing before his eyes. It hadn’t been a bad life, the shining glories of the last two years—his time with Jonty—overshadowing the fears and tedium of the previous twenty seven. If he had to die, he would do it nobly, and beneath the talons of his almost-mother-in-law seemed a suitable place.
“And now, young man,” Mrs. Stewart fixed Orlando with a gimlet eye, “what have you and Mr. Stewart been up to?”
For her to call Jonty by his full name was bad enough, but for her not to refer to his father as Richard was calamitous. “We looked at these crossword things, with Jonty.” The answer was exceedingly feeble, although it gave Orlando a modicum of thinking time.
“I don’t mean this morning, which you know very well. I mean just now when Jonathan and I were at the theatre matinee.”
“We played bridge.” A sinking feeling, like a lift descending in its shaft, hit Orlando’s stomach.
“And?”
The clock sounded seven, making him jump out of his skin. Or perhaps it was guilt having the same effect. “And we looked at a new bidding system.”
Mrs. Stewart rolled her eyes. “Just how, in all this innocent amusement, did Mr. Stewart end up in quite such a state?”
“Ah. There was this old book, concerning an ancient form of the game, and it lurked on the top shelf. I naturally offered to reach it for him but he insisted on climbing the ladder himself. Unfortunately it was in rather a poor state and he took a slight fall.”
Mrs. Stewart snorted, her handsome blue eyes as bright as one of the Bunsen burners down in the labs. Orlando wished he was back in Cambridge right now, being experimented on. “That I already understand, from the horse’s mouth. It explains his rather dishevelled state of clothing. It doesn’t explain his mood.”
“Oh. I believed we needed a small reviving drink. Just the one, I can assure you.” Bunsen burners under the soles of his feet would be infinitely preferable to this.
Mrs. Stewart didn’t just snort this time, she grunted. “So he assures me. Yet, for a man of very sober habits, one who can hold his drink extremely well, he is in a most reprehensible state of inebriation. Someone is lying to me.”
“I can swear to you that we aren’t. We merely had a brandy and soda each. And one of those powders for Mr. Stewart.” There, he’d said it. Now they were all going to be in trouble.
“Which powders?” Mrs. Stewart’s speech was measured, not a style of communication she usually employed.
“The ones which Dr. Panesar gave us. He’s an eminent research chemist, up at Bride’s, very interested in the analgesic effects of certain substances. He’s produced this new organic compound which he thinks will be highly effective as a method of reducing pain and distress. He’s been getting various members of the Senior Common Room to try it, purely in aid of serious medical research. We each have a supply which we are to administer on appropriate occasions, then make a careful note of the effects so that he can compile a paper on the beneficial…” he trailed off. The look in his hostess’ eye would have roasted Dr. Panesar and his powders at fifty yards.
“You can stop indulging in the academic persiflage. What this all boils down to is that you’ve been using my husband, your father-in-law to all intents and purpose, as a subject for medical experimentation.”
Orlando hung his head, thinking longingly of being far away, anywhere but here. Why on earth had they chosen to break their journey in London? “I only wanted to help.”
“Well, I dare say that’s exactly what Hamlet said at Elsinore. Not good enough, young man. I’ve been told that Mr. Stewart has been giggling and chasing the parlour maid.”
“I tried to stop him.” It sounded terribly feeble. It was.
“So I believe. It led to an outbreak of language. Mr. Stewart doesn’t swear and yet I understand the words he employed were such as my father would have described as being suitable to a foremast jack.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise there would be such an effect.”
“Have you used the stuff before?”
“Yes, on me. It just knocked me out for two hours—when I woke up I felt marvellous. I assumed…”
“Don’t assume, Dr. Coppersmith. And don’t go around experimenting on my husband.” Mrs. Stewart sat, silently fuming, while Orlando waited for sentence to follow judgement and condemnation. “I have sent my husband to his bed to sleep things off—he’ll remain in his room until the morning, irrespective of whether he wants to or not. I’ve had to make an explanation to the staff to cover his uncharacteristic behaviour, but there remains the matter of your involvement. I accept that you didn’t deliberately lead him astray as I first feared, although there is culpability.”
Orlando felt like he was facing a court martial for mutiny and Admiral Mrs. Stewart was as harsh a hanging judge as any man could fear to face. He wished she’d just hang him now and have done with.
“I believe I should consult my son on this matter.”
That was the last thing he wanted to hear; Mrs. Stewart would be harsh but her son would be totally without mercy. To Orlando’s surprise, Jonty, when he arrived, stuck up for him nobly, assuring her Dr. Panesar had asked them to administer the powders in any situation which would help his study. They’d not anticipated any ill effects. He reminded her that Orlando’s previous record was one of immaculate behaviour, except for the minor matter of going out in the snow without his hat last Christmas.
“So am I not to administer any form of redress?” Mrs. Stewart was disappointed that there wasn’t to be at least a visit to the pillory.
“Oh I wouldn’t go as far as that. I think that a whack on the seat of the pants would be right and proper.” Orlando was horrified that Jonty could have suggested such a thing, even in jest. But the look in his lover’s eye explained much—he obviously found this whole scene ridiculously arousing and was going to get the last ounce of pleasure from it.
“I think that Orlando,” Mrs. Stewart started, the man she referred to noting with relief that he’d gained enough ground to be accorded the honour of his Christian name again, “is too old for such a thing.”
“Now that is unfair. You saw fit to wallop my backside only the last time we were in Sussex. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”
Mrs. Stewart produced an uncharacteristically sly grin. “I thought that you were both ganders, dear, but never mind.” She rose, approaching her guest, one who was usually highly favoured. “He insists, so I must obey.” She was almost laughing by now, as was her youngest son. Even Orlando’s initial horror had turned to amusement. She gave him a wallop that was more noisy than painful and then gave the goose a libation of the gander’s sauce himself, for giving people cheek. “Now, for goodness sake promise me that you’ll behave yourselves while you’re down in Bath. I know people there…”
and this is what happens if you let
sophiaderibowen loose on your duck. 
Aim Higher by JL Merrow
Cakewalk by Nathan Burgoine
Elephants In Her Tea by Julia Rios
Even Guys Cry by D.C. Juris
Ganymede by Lenore Black
Hitched by Michael Gouda
Home Cooking by Brian Holliday
Honolulu Hula by Neil S. Plakcy
Inner Truth by Alex Beecroft
Mallory’s Gift by L-J Baker
Mister Right by Rob Rosen
Morbidly Obese by Rick Reed
Mountain Ash by Ruth Sims
No Queens on Pickett Street by Martha Miller
Ships that Pass by Jamie Freeman
Stripes by Nigel Puerasch
The Song Inside by Nexis Pas
The Uneven Chance by Charlie Cochrane
Touche by James Buchanan
Turnabout by Lee Rowan
Two Men: A Fugue by Sophia Deri-Bowen
Under the Shadow of Your Wings by Jill Palmer
Work Experience by Bruin Fisher
Here's a snippet:
Jonty strode down the hill. He could sense Orlando’s unease—anyone not completely oblivious would have—and felt the need to be away from the makeshift theatre, getting a chance to clear his mind. Jimmy Harding had been a pleasant enough young man back in the London days, but somehow in the intervening three years he’d matured, like a wine or cheese which gradually reaches the peak of its perfection. He had been agreeable, now he was gorgeous. Heart-stoppingly gorgeous.
( Read more... )
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