Fateful Lightning: A New History of the Civil War & Reconstruction by Allen Guelzo (self help books to read TXT) 📕

the landlord had noticed that she beamed like a lighthouse. Whomever the boyfriend was, he was a lucky fella, the landlord thought. The landlord suspected that Nia’s chap was nicer than the guy, the TV film’s leading actor he’d been told, who constantly pestered her. Speak of the devil, he thought, as the actor came in.

Goldenboy sidled up to the bar and ordered a bourbon without looking at the landlord. He took his glass without a word of appreciation and sat in the chair to the left of the fireplace across from Nia.

“Another rather beastly night,” he said.

Nia looked up from her book.

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a beauty in wild Welsh weather,” she said authoritatively.

Goldenboy watched her for a moment and then laughed.

“Fuck, Nia,” he said. “Really? Already? Oppositional defiance is a disorder you know.”

She sighed and closed her book on her lap.

“No, I mean it,” she said. “Like this afternoon, the way the clouds formed and darkened over the valleys, how the hills became monotone, and everything became still and silent before the wind and the rain kicked up, was beautiful. It was like being at the birth of a storm. In a crucible of meteorological conditions.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Goldenboy began sceptically. “I heard you went for a walk on the hills. Is this some kind of health kick or are you trying to rediscover your Celtic roots? What do you people call that kind of nostalgia?”

“You people?”

“C’mon Nia, you know, the Welsh, the Celts.”

“Hireath,” Nia confirmed. “But it’s not that. It’s just that I like the tranquillity of being in the countryside,” Nia responded, slightly curtly.

Goldenboy laughed. “Nia darling, seriously? You hated quiet. You were always the party girl; you got off on the noise and energy from being around people.”

Nia frowned, “That was a long time ago. I no longer need the party crowd to energise me.”

Goldenboy laughed again but leant forward. He reached out and touched Nia’s left knee.

“God, we had some good times, didn’t we? And, funny you should mention being energized.” He dropped his head, conspiratorially, “I’ve got some first-class blow in my room. We both could get energised like the old days. We could do some of the other things we did in the old days too. What do you say?” he leant back and beamed, displaying perfect teeth.

Nia smiled. “That’s a lovely offer. Thank you. But I haven’t had any coke in fifteen or more years, and if it’s a shagging you’re after then I’d suggest you go back to your room and go fuck yourself.”

“Aw, c’mon Nia. Once or twice for old time’s sake. We were good, weren’t we?”

“No,” Nia stated with a raised voice. “We weren’t and that was a long time ago. Different people, different places.”

“A leopard doesn’t change…”

“This one did,” Nia said. “Look, for the first time in my bloody life, I’m happy. Really content, really happy.” She smiled sweetly but patronisingly, “I’ll work with you but I’m not going to shag you. Now piss off and leave me alone.”

Goldenboy downed the remainder of his bourbon. “Can’t blame a chap for trying, Nia,” he said as he got up. He smiled at her again and purposefully looked her up and down as if he was appraising cattle, “You’ve still got great tits.” It was his attempt at a last word.

“And you’ve still got a small prick,” she said.

Goldenboy laughed. “Nice one,” he said as he left the bar.

At the bar, drying his pint glasses, the landlord smiled. Well done girl, he thought, well done Cariad.

Nia returned to her book but she had been rattled. Being around Goldenboy had evoked memories of a time in her life that she hadn’t actually forgotten but had buried deep, like a time capsule. Now the capsule was opened, she had to revisit events and moments from the past as if they were artifacts. Most were painful, but she had to admit a few were good and happy. Her heart raced. She finished her wine and decided to head back to her room. Like most of the cast, Nia was staying at the inn and she made her way through the bar around the small dining room cum lounge and up steep, narrow stairs to her second-floor room. Her bed was against the room’s exterior facing wall, below a small window, which had been mercifully double-glazed. The low ceiling sloped dramatically towards the window and Nia had to duck as she walked around the room. She held up her phone searching for signal bars.

Nia wanted to talk to Tom. She wanted to hear his voice, take reassurance and comfort in it, to tell him about Goldenboy, about her past, to blather on about her work. And to hear him laugh and tell her that her voice sounded like music. She wanted to tell him that the job was a good one for her and there was already some buzz generated about the quality of the piece. She had been her usual consummate professional self and the authenticity she brought to the role had led to the director and screenwriter expanding her scenes and adding dialogue. But the tabloids were already posting headlines about Goldenboy and Nia. She had prepared Tom for such gossip. Tom had told her that he would ignore it, but she worried about how Tom would react if he read such gossip column bullshit.

Nia stood on her bed, head bent but it still touched the ceiling, arm with phone stretched out. She found half a bar, but it vanished back into the ether before she could place the call to Tom.

“Oh Tom,” she said to herself. “I wish you were here.”

She sat on her bed, grabbed the small pad of paper and pen that rested on the bedside table and began to write a letter.

***

The next morning