Chrysalis

Jeremy Welch

Description

Chrysalis is the debut novel from Jeremy Welch exploring a range of themes in a universal and ultimately hopeful story. The book follows Sebastian, a self-absorbed financier who spends his time wallowing in a social ambiance he despises. Sebastian is dissatisfied with his life and his inability to take any positive decisions since making a catastrophic error when he was a young officer serving in Iraq.When Sebastian is fired from his job, he turns to his ex-lover Zoe who urges him to pursue his passion for writing. Following her advice, Sebastian moves to Amsterdam to try to complete the novel he started as a student, hoping that this will rekindle his interest in life.While living in Amsterdam, Sebastian befriends the ethereal owner of a travelling Spiegeltent called Chrysalis. The cast of the Spiegeltent offer him a glimpse of a life he desires. The only thing holding Sebastian back is his inability to make a decision. Overcoming his usual passivity Sebastian surprises himself by intervening in the assault of a prostitute. So opens the gateway to the underworld of Amsterdam and the possibility of his redemption.Inspired by the work of William Boyd and John Irving, Chrysalis is a unique novel exploring a wide range of themes. The book will appeal to readers that enjoy contemporary fiction, as well as those interested in serious issues such as love, widowhood, post-traumatic stress disorder and migration and sex trafficking.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 janvier 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781788030779
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2018 Jeremy Welch

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781788030779

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Poppy, Lara and their beloved mother.
Contents
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 1
Sebastian reached over to stop the insistent ringing of the phone alarm. The winking red eye in the right hand corner told him his American colleagues had been busy last night passing chores to the London office.
“Oh God!” The first words to pass his lips, same as every working day.
The small bedroom echoed to the slap of forehead into open palms, the floor reverberated with reluctant feet as they hit the floorboards.
“I hate my job, my life’s a mess, my boss is an arsehole and my colleagues alien bastards,” he wailed into the silence of his bachelor flat.
“A beautiful, compact apartment for a professional man like yourself, sir.” That was the pitch of the well-spoken but rather dim estate agent. Looking around he noted the scarcity of space; tea cups in the bathroom, bath towels in the kitchen and dirty dishes resting on the television. Perhaps he was the dimmer of the two having accepted the price and paid for it with another tectonic movement of his finances, pushing the debt mountain up another few thousand feet.
He walked toward the door, the marmalade jar on the table by the entrance that had once held all the flowers of the seasons empty. The label old and sun stained with the words “Made in Edinburgh” just discernible. The jar had last held flowers a long time ago. He shut the door and walked to the underground station.
The journey to work on the underground through the bowels of London was more joyless than usual. The heat unbearable in the carriage as the commuters shoulder to shoulder stood like matchsticks in a box. To his right a man with knitted eyebrows growled quietly at the front page of his newspaper, his nose deeply embedded in the sweat-stained armpit of a pissed Irish bricklayer. The girl to the left applying makeup whilst peering into her compact; with each shudder of the carriage the lipstick scarred her cheek.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she exclaimed to no one in particular.
The Boden-dressed mother’s lips pursed like a cat’s arse as she covered the ears of her 1950s - dressed child to lessen his exposure to the working classes. Their journey to the leafy confines of Wandsworth, the cursing lipstick girl to the hen-cooped factory known as open-plan offices. Most in the compartment tried to avoid any physical or eye contact for fear of engaging a psychopath en route to some collective slaughter.
The other travellers were the typical commuter collection: the bespectacled frotter rubbing himself against the thigh of a businesswoman; the blank straight-ahead stare of those who would defend their seat against an invading army, legs splayed in territorial grab.
Directly in front of the parting doors stood one of his type: a broker or banker looking rather pale faced and sickly. The visage was easily recognisable. It was the look of a man who had entertained a client in various respectable city bars before descending into some strip club on the Tottenham Court Road. He looked most uncomfortable, his Adam’s apple rising and falling in quick succession as he tried to swallow the bile escaping from his overworked stomach. As the train glided into Canary Wharf the doors opened onto a solid wall of people. There was a gasping noise, echoed immediately with a cry of disgust and horror as the pale reveller of last night ejected the contents of his excess onto the clean and manicured shirts and blouses of the waiting passengers. With the remarkable recovery of an antelope escaping the jaws of a Nile crocodile he was off at a sprint down the platform to the exit. Passing the silent and incredulous crowd decorated in the multicolours of his presentation there was a faint bouquet of Petrus. Ah, so he was an investment banker.
The notes of ‘The Wild Asses’ from the Carnival of the Animals echoed mostly unheard in the cavernous arrivals hall. Sebastian walked into Caffè Nero as he did every Friday to order two lattes, one with extra sugar. Ascending into the daylight the music switched tempo to ‘The Swan’ from the same musical suite. Alone amongst the hurrying masses he stood and listened until the final note had played.
“Do you always know when I am arriving?” He said handing over the extra-sugared latte to the busker.
“Yup, every Friday at seven forty-five. It coincides with a caffeine hunger.”
He dropped a twenty-pound note into the hat. The busker lifted his bow in thanks. Sebastian didn’t turn back but laughed and raised his hand in recognition as he heard the ‘Royal March of the Lion’, growing fainter as he headed towards his office.
Arriving he joined the controllers of the weapons of financial and social Armageddon converging in a polite line at the lifts of the chrome temple of finance.
The air thick with expensive perfume and aftershave, female necks covered in the blazing colours of Hermes, the male cavalry jangle of Gucci buckles. Amongst this Beauchamp Street finery he looked at his colleagues, recognised some but only to the extent that he could nod acknowledgement of their existence. Did all these people really know what they were doing on the trading floor? He knew bloody well that he didn’t!
As the lift glided upwards to the earnest noise of clicking phone keypads Sebastian recalled a conversation with his brother the previous night.
“Do you people really know what you are up to when you chuck all that money around?” he had asked with genuine interest.
“Some, perhaps, but quite frankly I have no idea what’s happening. I’ve managed to wrap myself, cat-like, around the ankles of those snarling their way up the promotional ladder. On some occasions I have felt my feline tail being grasped by the clawing of the aspirant on the rung below only to be saved from a downward fall by the all-consuming ambition of the host body scrambling ever upward.”
As the lift door opened he felt the usual rush of fear-induced adrenaline. Today is the day that the Wizard of Oz moment occurs! A question will be asked of which he will have no idea of the answer; questioning heads will turn to him as the Head of Sales and the wind of silence will push the curtain apart and reveal an uninterested and knowledge-free individual.
“Hello boss! Did you get lucky last night?”
The daily salutation from Darren, the head trader. He sat with his enormous pregnant belly between splayed knees. Shirt buttons strained to contain the creature that lived in his midriff, his collar almost invisible as it hid in the overflow of red, sweating neck flesh. The once new shirt had the unusual pattern of cigarette ash mixed with coffee stains.
“Obviously not by the look on your mush! Never mind, tonight’s Frantic Friday, never know your luck!”
All days of the week were prefaced to give an indication of Darren’s liquid diet: Mojito Monday, Tequila Tuesday, Wet Wednesday, Thirsty Thursday and Frantic Friday.
“Come on you! Into my office, JP is over from New York and wants a meeting at 2pm today, need your help.”
The chair sighed in pleasure as Darren swung forward to get some motion going as he wobbled over to Sebastian’s glass office. The spare chair squealed in pain as he dropped into it. For the second time that day Sebastian’s forehead slapped into open palms.
“What the hell am I going to say?” he pleaded. “I’m not, and neither are any of the salesforce, making any money. I hate these meetings with JP, he’s a real sod and I know he hates me since the last call.”
Darren burst out laughing.
“That was the best call I have ever been on!”
He mimicked an American accent.
“‘So, Seb, tell me what’s happening in Europe.’ Your reply was fantastic. ‘It’s very difficult at the moment, quite frankly it’s a Sisyphean task.’ That’s when JP exploded and said, ‘Why is it impossible to get a straight answer from you, Eurotrash? And who is this guy with syphilis?’” The midriff creature oscillated wildly in mirth.
“It’s not funny. He’s here today and I can already feel the displaced air around my neck as the sword drops, another City cadaver to be thrown onto the fire built by politicians to appease the plebeians.”
Sebastian searched the computer screen icons to find the spreadsheet containing the dismal proof of his indifference to his career. Just as he found it his PA, Tracy, poked her head round the door. Her face made up like a Geisha and with her dark-rooted blond hair pulled back she looked like an extra in a Japanese porn film.