ARABESQUE
by M G da Mota
GENRE: historical psychological drama
A woman living alone in
a coastal Sussex town in 1998 plants a copper beech sapling at 3 a.m. on a
dark, cold night. Why?
A ballet dancer in
1960s East Germany is oppressed, longs for escaping with his little daughter
but not his wife. Why? Will he make it?
In 2022 Karsten von
Stein, widower and principal of the Royal Ballet, with two young children,
meets Ivone Benjamim, a Portuguese, newly-arrived principal dancer. They
discover a magical chemistry when dancing and soon it transfers to their
private lives.
Against the background
of ballet and its dancers, a woman called Grace tells her story from a rehab
centre. Obsessive, delusional she begins believing Ivone robbed her of the man
of her dreams—Karsten. And then a skeleton is found in a garden...What connects
all these people and their stories?
You’ll be the audience
facing the stage of this balletic novel.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT
I might have forgotten everything about the elegant
stranger from the Strand on the day of the ABBA musical had I not travelled to
London a few weeks later for the weekend of my birthday. On that weekend I left
work early on Friday afternoon and went home to pack a bag. The next day, 5th
February, was my 30th birthday. Packing finished I wrapped myself in a winter
coat, scarf and gloves and ran to Shoreham’s railway station to take a train to
London. Lacey had invited me to stay at her home in the city for the weekend so
we could celebrate my birthday together.
I liked—like!—Lacey but deep within my heart, though
I’d never admit it to anyone, I was—am!—envious of her too. A horrible thing to
feel, I know. Lacey is a month older than me but married young, at twenty-two,
a man old enough to be her father with a powerful-sounding name: Martin
Augustus Fletcher-Carr. Martin had no family. His parents had died long ago and
he was an only child. There was an estranged ex-wife somewhere but no children
or any other relations. He was rich and when he asked Lacey to marry him she
left her job, deciding her future lay with him. As it turned out—I remember
thinking jealously at the time—Martin “had the decency” to die from a heart
attack five years later, leaving Lacey the house in Chelsea, another in
Shoreham-by-Sea, his well-loaded bank accounts, clever investments and a chain
of small exclusive boutiques across Europe. At twenty-seven Lacey had become a
wealthy widow with no need to work, living off the dividends of her deceased
husband’s wise investments.
I often wished my own life were that simple. My
father left us when I was eight years old and my brother Ryan twelve. Dad drank
a lot. When he did he shouted and screamed like a mad man. At least he didn’t
beat up Mum or us but, during such tantrums, he usually announced he’d had
enough of his job in a supermarket, of his family and of life in general.
Website: https://www.flowingprose.com/
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/m.g.da.mota
Instagram:
https://www.instagram.com/mgdamota/
LinkedIn:
https://www.linkedin.com/in/margarida-mota-bull/
No comments:
Post a Comment