Another one in the series of free write exercises I did a while back. As usual, the prompt was given, and the instruction was to write for 15 minutes without worrying about where you were going. Because I do this longhand, it never produces much, but it’s always interesting to see who turns up.

This time it was once again Stella and Mr Wonderful with another scene in their story (you can find previous scenes here and here, and I have one more already written which I’ll post at some point). One day I really must write more about these two, because they’re always such fun to do.

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“New markers, please”, says Mr Wonderful in a low voice to the lackey.

“Certainly, Your Lordship”, says the man with a half bow. “For what amount?”

“Two hundred thousand, please.”

I nearly screech like that blasted parrot. 200,000? This isn’t what we agreed. I try to catch his eye while maintaining my blonde bimbo attitude of bored familiarity with the whole situation. Unfortunately, Lord Allington’s previously constant, knicker-wettingly sexy eye contact is now mysteriously absent.

I shift uneasily on my chair and wonder what the fuck he’s thinking. He’s not stupid. He knows how little cash we have to back those markers. So why has he suddenly decided to go all out for that kind of amount?

And then the crowd behind the players on the other side of the table shifts and I see what – or rather who – he must have seen a minute earlier.

A wing of black, glossy hair, shot through with spangles of grey so perfectly judged they couldn’t possibly be natural. A pale shoulder partly enfolded in a white fox fur wrap, exposing a bandeau neckline in white crêpe with diamonds above it. And as she turns, laughing, from the people who’ve slowed her royal progress through the room, a flash of her signature crimson lipstick. Carlotta Mureno. Here. Tonight. My mouth is suddenly dry. Mr W has seen her arriving, and taken out an extra 200,000 in markers. And just like that, I know what he’s planning. He’s going to try to take out Carlotta Mureno and Anders de Jong at the same time, in a single game. With 200,000 euros’ worth of money we don’t have.

I take a big swig of my champagne, and as I put my glass down he reaches out and takes my hand. Leaning forward until his lips are almost touching my ear, he whispers, “Nervous, darling?”

I shoot an angry look at him. He’s giving me that grin again. I feel warmth flood through me and try – not very successfully – not to grin back. Fuck it. We can try, can’t we? If we fail, we’ll be no worse off. Dead, possibly – but no worse off. And it would be a fantastic coup if we managed it. Can we, though?

I sit back in my chair and adjust the neckline of my dress downwards just a little. His Lordship’s eyes follow the movement of my fingers, but Mr W is just as conscious of their magnetic effect on every other man around the table, Anders de Jong included.

“Nervous? Me?” I say, with a smile. “Absolutely not!”