All the Better Part of Me Read online

  PRAISE FOR MOLLY RINGLE

  “Ringle navigates her twisty revelations and dramatic conclusion with just enough weight to avoid mawkishness, and her characters earn their happy ending. Readers looking for introspective romances with winding plots will enjoy this heartfelt novel.”

  — Publishers Weekly

  “All the Better Part of Me is a standout novel in so many ways—breezy and sensitive as it touches the heart.”

  — Steve Kluger, author of Almost Like Being in Love

  “A lovely combination of breezy plot, page-turning prose, and very, very likable characters. This one will definitely please old fans, and I suspect create many new fans too.”

  — Brent Hartinger, author of Geography Club and The Otto Digmore Difference

  “A tender and poignant romance, a gorgeous hero, and the perfect balance of humour and realism.”

  — Jamie Deacon, Author of Caught Inside

  “The Goblins of Bellwater has some of the eerie sensuality of Christina Rossetti’s poem, and the setting is wonderfully conjured. Anyone who likes their fantasy sexy, fast-paced and contemporary will love it.”

  — Kate Forsyth, Author of Bitter Greens

  “The Goblins of Bellwater is a journey to a world that feels both familiar and freaky—a wonderful place to get lost.”

  — Foreword Reviews

  “Ringle … has created a vivid and enjoyable … romp through the world of magical beings.”

  — Shelf Awareness (The Goblins of Bellwater)

  “Ringle employs familiar fairy tale tropes but turns them on their heads to deliver something wholly unexpected and fresh.”

  — Publishers Weekly (The Goblins of Bellwater)

  Copyright © 2019 Molly Ringle

  Cover and internal design © 2019 Central Avenue Marketing Ltd.

  Cover Design: Michelle Halket

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Central Avenue Publishing, an imprint of Central Avenue Marketing Ltd.

  www.centralavenuepublishing.com

  ALL THE BETTER PART OF ME

  Trade Paperback: 978-1-77168-167-4

  Epub: 978-1-77168-168-1

  Mobi: 978-1-77168-169-8

  Published in Canada

  Printed in United States of America

  1. FICTION / LGBT - Bisexual 2. FICTION / Romance / LGBT / General

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Dedicated to the Millennials and Generation Z, the sweet, brave love children of us kids of the ’80s.

  O! how thy worth with manners may I sing,

  When thou art all the better part of me?

  What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?

  And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee?

  Even for this, let us divided live,

  And our dear love lose name of single one,

  That by this separation I may give

  That due to thee which thou deserv’st alone.

  O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove,

  Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,

  To entertain the time with thoughts of love,

  Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,

  And that thou teachest how to make one twain,

  By praising him here who doth hence remain.

  Sonnet XXXIX

  William Shakespeare

  CHAPTER 1: NOCTURNAL ME

  THE WOMAN IN THE RED JACKET WAS STARING AT ME.

  Possibly, she’d been staring at me for several minutes, but it had taken me awhile to notice because I’d been busy, inwardly scowling while composing imaginary sarcastic emails to my parents. A dumb thing to waste energy on. Acting like an emo rebel might be forgivable in a sixteen-year-old, but was approaching pathetic in a twenty-five-year-old living on his own in another country.

  Maybe I was outwardly scowling too, which could explain why the woman was staring at me. I relaxed my facial muscles, sent her a neutral smile, and turned to pull a pint for a man who had breezed up to the bar.

  Summary of the day’s emails that had incited this mindset:

  Granddad and Grandmom say they haven’t seen a picture of you in a while. I’m not sure we have any recent good ones. Do you? Maybe something where you’re dressed nicely for a stage part, if they’ve given you any respectable costumes lately. And do you have any in which you aren’t wearing makeup? That would go over better.

  Mom

  I always wear makeup onstage, Mom. It’s required. So are non-respectable costumes sometimes.

  Sinter

  I understand, but are there any photos where the makeup isn’t quite so obvious? Also where your hair is cut normally.

  Mom

  Then no. No there are not.

  Sinter

  In truth, I could have sent my latest professional headshot, in which I wore a plain black T-shirt, my face was clean of makeup, and my hair was tame, though still dyed black and almost shoulder length. But Mom had pissed me off and I didn’t want to cooperate, and anyway, what the hell did my grandparents need photos of me for when they didn’t like what I was doing with my life or how I looked? Just checking to see if I’d improved lately?

  Deep breath.

  What I should do, I realized, was forward the exchange to my best friend, Andy. He’d find it hilarious. Just imagining his laughter made me smile, and my shoulders eased a little. But contacting him would have to wait till after my shift.

  I served drinks to the growing dinner crowd, picked up abandoned foam-smeared pint glasses and clinked them into the washtub, then navigated back to check on the woman in the red jacket and her blonde companion, parked at the end of the bar.

  Red Jacket still stared at me, though not flirtatiously—no batting eyelashes or coy smiles. On the plus side, no hostility or derision either, which you sometimes got when you were a dude with dyed hair and eyeliner. Instead, she seemed to be contemplating me with fascination. Always another option with my look.

  She appeared to be in her late twenties, with thick-rimmed glasses, light-brown skin, and dark hair cut in a messy bob. The red jacket was either leather or faux leather, and oversized like people used to wear in the ’80s. Appealingly geeky. Cute. I would be content with “not hostile” from her.

  I tapped my fingers on the bar in front of them. “Another round?”

  The blonde woman, likely in her thirties, was halfway through her martini and shook her head with a smile.

  “Not yet, thanks,” Red Jacket said, lifting her partially full cider glass. Then, before I could step away, she raised her voice to counter the Arctic Monkeys song playing over the speakers. “I love your shirt.”

  I glanced down to refresh my memory on what I was wearing: a vintage Echo and the Bunnymen T-shirt I’d owned since high school. “Thanks.”

  She sat up and pulled open the sides of her jacket to display a Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt.

  I grinned. “Right on.”

  “Are you a new-wave fan?” she asked.

  She and the other woman locked their gazes onto me as if truly invested in my answer.

  “Yeah, I am,” I said. Wasn’t everyone? Well, not my parents, but everyone who appreciated legendary, charismatic, trendsetting art.

  They glanced at each other in satisfaction. The blonde wo
man said, “The eyeliner, too. Tipped us off.” As if realizing it could sound scornful, she turned to me and added, “I love it, by the way.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re an actor?” Red Jacket asked me.

  “I am, as a matter of fact.” Score one for this woman, who evidently knew, unlike my parents and grandparents, that actors and makeup went hand in hand.

  Then again, it was a safe bet that anyone working at a pub in London’s West End was also an actor. Or aspired to be.

  She exchanged another look with her friend. “It’s fate. We spend the whole day sorting through headshots with no luck, then come here for a drink, and look what we find.”

  The blonde woman conceded with a tilt of her martini glass toward Red Jacket.

  At the mention of headshots, I snapped to attention. Before I could ask what they were casting for, the dark-haired woman asked me, “And you’re American?”

  “Yes. Sorry.” I always apologized for that in the UK, just to be safe.

  “No no, that’s perfect! The part’s American. The character, I mean. Oh dear, I’m making no sense.” She folded her fingers around her cider glass and let her shoulders droop with a laugh.

  “It’s okay. Um, the part?”

  At that moment, her friend jumped, plucked a phone out of her coat pocket, and read the message that had buzzed her. “Ah. There they are.” She slid off her bar stool. “Sorry. Must go meet my nanny and child. See you tomorrow, Fiona.” With a smile at me she added, “You as well, perhaps.” She walked out.

  My boss emerged from the kitchen to help serve the burgeoning Friday-evening crowd. He frowned at me. I really ought to stop chatting and take some drink orders. But the woman had mentioned a character, a part, and acting was my real job. So I placated my boss with a lifted index finger to signal Just a sec, and turned back to the woman—Fiona, was that her name?

  “Sorry, the part?” I asked. I settled my elbows on the sticky bar, leaning in to hear her better. I caught a hint of scent from her that reminded me of candle smoke and luxury cosmetics.

  “I’m a writer and director for TV films. Chelsea’s my writing partner.” She flipped her thumb backward after the woman who had just left. “We’ve finished a script and begun casting for it. Then we came in here and happened to see you …” She raised her palms as if to sketch the whole of me. “It’s amazing. Bunnymen shirt and everything. I don’t suppose you’d audition? Say you will. I’m begging you.”

  “Sure, yeah.” You always said yes at this phase. Actor commandment. Yes, I can and will do anything. “Um, what’s the part, the film?”

  “It’s set in London in the early 1980s, post-punk, new-romantic era. Most would say ‘new wave.’ It’s a star-crossed lover setup, between this posh totty who’s slumming it, sneaking off to the clubs, and this poor American musician who’s outstaying his visa and trying to join a band. He’s who you’d read for.”

  I couldn’t sing or play instruments, at least not with any real skill, but they’d find that out in due time if it was relevant. Alone in my room in my teen years, I had logged hundreds of hours lip-synching in the mirror, so I could fake it, in any case. I would love to fake it, if we were honest. “Yeah, that sounds great. When are auditions?”

  “We’re running screen tests this week. When are you free? Are you acting in something?”

  “I’m in a stage show, fringe theater. But it ends this weekend, so I can schedule a screen test whenever.”

  Give me a movie role. Please. Don’t make me work in food service my whole life to pay the rent.

  She beamed and whipped out her phone to open the schedule. We fixed a screen test for the next afternoon. She gave me her business card—Fiona Saanvi Wyndham—and using the number on it, I texted her my name and the agent representing me in London.

  “Got it,” she said. “Sinter Blackwell—is that your name? I mean, with actors sometimes—”

  “It’s my real name. Well, my name’s Joel, but no one except my parents calls me that. I go by my middle name.”

  The absolute last thing my parents would have done was pick a goth-sounding middle name for their kid, but they had inadvertently done so by choosing the surname of a prolific pioneer ancestor of ours. “Sinter” had always put me in mind of “cinder” or “disintegrate” or some sort of industrial solder, so I had insisted on being called that from middle school onward.

  “I’m so not a ‘Joel,’” I told Fiona, as if that explained everything.

  “Fair enough.” She splayed both hands in front of her, still holding her phone. “Also, I’m required to tell you ahead of time, there’s some going topless in this film. As rock performers do. So if you feel up to it, we might have you strip off your shirt for the screen test.”

  “Right, no problem.” I’d been shirtless onstage before. I was not what anyone would call ripped. I was more what they’d call slim and alarmingly pale. But possibly that would suit a rock musician role.

  She clasped her phone between her hands. “Excellent. Then we’re all set. I’ll chat with your agent as soon as possible. Tonight, if he’ll answer his phone after hours.”

  We shook hands, and she sailed out of the pub.

  I jogged toward my harassed boss. “Sorry.” I held up the card. “She’s a director. I have an audition.”

  “Congratulations.” He slapped a coaster on the bar. “Serve some bloody drinks, would you?”

  After my shift ended, I ate dinner in the form of a toasted sandwich from the kitchen and set out for the theater a few streets away to prepare for the night’s performance.

  As I walked, my breath clouding in the autumn air, I checked messages on my phone.

  Fiona: So good to meet you! Got your cv from your agent so that’s all settled. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow

  Sinter: Excellent. This all sounds really cool, thanks so much

  Fiona: Is this your first time in the UK btw?

  Sinter: No it’s my fourth, all work abroad stints, but this is my first time getting acting work, so I’m liking it the best

  Fiona: Four trips, wow you must love it here

  Sinter: I really do. I keep hoping the UK will adopt me, ha

  Fiona: Perhaps we will do :) We’ll talk soon!

  Sinter: Great, cheers

  Three of my four work-abroad trips, including this latest, had taken place not long after a breakup with a girlfriend. I had a habit of fleeing to the UK for comfort at such times. England had been my dream destination and go-to spot ever since my first year of college, when I had made the stunning realization that Shakespeare, Dickens, the Brontës, the Beatles, the Cure, the many ’90s Britpop groups of my childhood, Sir Ian McKellen, and Dame Maggie Smith all came from the same place and that it therefore had to be superior to America.

  I navigated to a different messaging app, one I used for keeping in touch with people back in the States, like my best friend Andy, since international texting was expensive. I’d forgotten to complain to him about my parents’ latest instance of passive-aggression, but I decided to drop that. Much more fun to tell him I was about to get my first-ever movie screen test instead.

  Then I stopped outside the theater’s stage door, frowning at my phone. He had sent me a message about an hour earlier, which I had missed in the evening’s madness.

  Andy: Well shit

  Sinter: Argh sorry just saw this. What’s up?

  I hauled open the backstage door and entered. Warm air replaced the outdoor chill, and I breathed in the smell of cut lumber, powdery cosmetics, electronics, and hairspray. My fellow actors milled around in various stages of undress and makeup. Some waved in greeting. I waved back and made my way to the clothing rack where my costume hung.

  Andy: Relationship drama. Sigh. Super busy work morning but I’ll fill you in at lunch

  Sinter: Yeah let me know, hope everything’s ok

  Vaguely worried on his behalf, while at the same time excited at the prospect of the screen test, I put my phone away and start
ed stripping off my clothes to put on my costume, elbow to elbow with the other actors. Just another evening in theater.

  CHAPTER 2: PICTURES OF YOU

  ANDRÉS ORTIZ AND I HAD LIVED TWO BLOCKS AWAY FROM EACH OTHER IN OUR SUBURB NEAR PORTLAND, Oregon, and had been best friends since sixth grade. I still considered him that, though I hadn’t seen him much in person over the past seven years. We kept in touch online and met up in real life when we happened to be in the same city.

  Andy had studied computer science at Stanford while I earned my theater arts degree at the University of Oregon, and he was living in Seattle with his boyfriend, Mitchell. They’d been together about a year, and I’d only met Mitchell on a few brief occasions. He was older than us by four or five years and struck me as sort of reserved and fussy, but if Andy liked him, I gave him the stamp of approval.

  Now they were suffering “relationship drama”? What did that mean?

  During the long lull between getting into costume and my first appearance onstage, I lounged beside the back door and messaged him again. It would be lunch hour in Seattle, since it was half past eight in the evening in London.

  Sinter: I just scheduled a screen test for tomorrow. Crazy. So what’s up?

  He answered within two minutes.

  Andy: Oh that sounds cool, screen test for what?

  Sinter: Movie set in the 80s. We’ll see how it goes

  Andy: Right on, sounds perfect for you

  Sinter: So what’s this relationship drama?

  Andy: Yeah well … seems I’m single now

  Alarm flared to life inside my chest.

  Sinter: What???

  Andy: Mitchell’s moving out as we speak. He’ll be gone by the time I get back

  Sinter: Dude. And you’re just letting me talk about movies?

  Andy: Heh, well I knew I’d fill you in eventually

  Sinter: What happened?

  Andy: It’s … blah. Can I call? Too much to type