Sample: Short Synopsis (Chapter by chapter Synopsis available)
The narrator, David, embarks on an extra-marital affair with Anne, the female half of the couple. For some months this fulfils a kinky sexual need that has haunted him, like an addiction, since puberty. Then Anne's partner, Mike, begins to take an interest, intruding himself into David's work and domestic life. One by one, David loses his wife, his job and his home. At rock bottom, his mother dies - perhaps of shame.
But at the funeral, he meets a female ex-colleague who has also been Mike's victim. Together they seek revenge, not realising that it will lead to Mike's death. The story ends with a hint that perhaps Anne not Mike was the real culprit.
Breaking Bread (Opening of first chapter)
“Bang on time. Not a minute too early, not a minute too late. That’s what we like,” said Mike warmly, as he opened the front door. “Come in, come in, she’s waiting for you,” he said, ushering me down the hall.
Pushing open the door, I found myself in a large room. Anne was perched on the edge of the sofa, hands on knees. Skinny rather than slim, her sharp, thin-lipped, face was softened by a long, gentle frame of strawberry-blonde hair, falling gently onto the shoulders of her crisp white blouse. She said that she was forty when I spoke to her on the 'phone but, looking at her now, I guessed she was a little older.
“Sit down Stephen,” she said, opening her palm towards the armchair opposite her. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling anything but comfortable, as I sank into the armchair.
“She’ll want to know everything about you Steve - everything,” said Mike, who had followed me into the lounge and was now sitting in an armchair to my right. He gave Anne a knowing smile. She smiled back.
Even though Stephen was not my real name, I was irked that he shortened it to Steve. I contained my irritation.
“Of course,” I said, playing along but with no real idea of what he meant. I looked at Anne and smiled weakly.
Anne was the only woman who had replied to my ad. I had pretty much given up when her email dropped into my Inbox, the previous Monday, almost four weeks to the day after I had posted it on an Internet bulletin board. Her reply was just one line.
I think we have a mutual interest. Call me on 0171 767 3636 - Anne .
My stomach tightened when I read it. I wouldn’t write down the number, for fear that Laura, my wife, might somehow come across it. That evening, I must have opened and closed Anne's email a dozen times. Each time my finger hovered over the delete key. Each time I failed to press it. If I deleted the email, the telephone number would be gone forever. It was still there when I went to bed. I tossed and turned, unable to still the debate that bounced around inside my head.
First the argument in favour: if I call, it doesn’t mean that I have to meet her, I told myself. I could see how she sounds. Even if I arrange to meet her, I can always not turn up. It would be a bit rude but she’s a complete stranger and this is my life. Nothing lost by calling.
Then the counter argument: if I call, I will be taking the first step. I will be taking the first step towards deceiving my wife. And if I take the first step, there will surely be another and then another. Taking the first step means that I will meet Anne, I will deceive Laura and I will regret it. I’ll delete the email first thing tomorrow.
And so the argument carried on throughout the night, repeating itself over and over. Laura mistook my self-inflicted insomnia for work worries. She put her hand on my shoulder to reassure me. Don’t worry David, it’ll be fine , she whispered into my ear. Her concern twisted the knife of guilt, strengthening my resolve to delete the email.
But I didn’t delete the email. Instead, I made the telephone call and found myself in a terraced house with two middle-aged perverts. I felt a mixture of embarrassment and shame, despite being there of my own volition. Part of me wanted to say, look, I’m really sorry. This is a big mistake. I really have to leave. But I didn’t. My need was too deep-seated. It had gone too long without being satisfied and, deep down, I knew it always won in the end. Anne wasn’t what I fantasised about but perhaps, I thought, she can give me a fix of what I need.
“So, what do you do, Stephen?” asked Anne.
“I’m in IT,” I said.
“So what sort of job do you do?” she asked.
“I develop systems,” I said.
“So are you re a programmer?”
“No,” I chuckled, “I run a department of about a hundred and twenty people,” vanity gaining the upper hand over discretion.
“So, quite senior?” continued Anne.
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said, looking across at Mike, wondering what he did for a living.
“Don’t look at me Steve,” said Mike, “ look at the lady. It’s her you’re here to see,” at once both patronising and reproachful.
It’s fucking Stephen, not Steve, I thought.
“A Director?” probed Anne, as I turned back towards her.
“Well yes.” That’s what my job title says, I said, with a weak, vain smile.
“Very nice,” said Mike.
“What sort of company?” asked Anne.
“A bank in the City,” I answered truthfully but resolving not to say who it was that I worked for.
“Bet that’s well paid?” said Mike.
“I do alright,” I said, similarly resolving not to say how alright I do.
I was about to ask them what they did for a living when Anne stood up and smiled. “Let’s eat,” she said.
When she had said, on the telephone the previous day, “ Come over at lunchtime and we can break bread”, I had assumed, or hoped, it was a euphemism. Now, following Anne into the dining area, I realised she had meant it literally.
