Charlie Cochrane - Mysteries with a dash of slash, romances with just a pinch of spice

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Encore Encore from MLR, available now in e-book:

This is a trilogy of novellas set in the world of the theatre and featuring cross-dressing men. My story, All That Jazz, revolves around an all-male production of Chicago – although it also features a rugby player so I haven’t strayed too far from the Cochrane norm.

Another Saturday night, another cast party. There’d been one for the reviews, one when Francis and Freddie had appeared on The One Show. Now there was one down in Chelsea, and for some reason no one was letting on. Time to loosen up and let off a bit of steam, perhaps? Even Freddie had taken off the tie and grey suit he’d been wearing the last couple of months, and gone back to the old brown chinos he’d loved so much before he became a “successful West End producer.” Maybe he was cultivating an image of eccentricity although who was supposed to be benefiting from it, Francis wasn’t sure.

He was hovering by the drinks trolley, feeling unusually out of sorts. As soon as he saw Freddie making a beeline for him he guessed what it was going to be about. “It’s a Saturday night, we’re six weeks into the run and the takings look solid for the next twenty.” Didn’t they say attack was the best defence? Or was it “get your retaliation in first”? “Can’t I let my hair down for once?” He eyed the bottle and the glass, possessively. He’d just had the one and the second was looking pretty inviting, unpoured and calling his name.

“Nobody’s stopping you having a couple. You look nice.” Freddie rubbed his knuckles along Francis’s sleeve.

And you look shifty. Freddie didn’t usually pay him compliments about how he looked, certainly not when Francis was in anything like drag. He always commented when he wasn’t, praising a shirt or the cut of a pair of pants. When they’d been on The One Show, he’d hardly shut up about how good Francis’s suit was, and how sexy it would look under the lights. Well, he was hardly going to sit opposite Adrian Chiles in his best evening gown, was he? The last thing he wanted was comparisons with Lily Savage.

“Thanks.” Francis let the collar of his trouser suit play through his fingers. Indigo velvet, feminine enough to count as drag—just about—but not so much that you were guaranteed to get beaten up by football fans when the pubs turned out. “Just a little thing that I ran up in between performances.” The imitation of Juliet the dresser’s tones was immaculate.

And it wasn’t a million miles from the truth—she’d taken the suit in, making it even more figure hugging. Francis had slimmed down, toned up, a lot over the last few months, with all the dancing and less of the drinking.

You can get it here.


Back catalogue:

Many of us aspire to write like Jane Austen, or at least imitate her sometimes. I had the chance to fulfil this ambition in the story ‘The Shade on a Fine Day’ (yes, I even stole the title from Miss A) in the anthology Past Shadows.

William Church deposited his load of greenery at the feet of Mrs. Hawthorne for her to work marvels with, then sauntered into the graveyard. “Mr. Swann.” He spotted a familiar shape lurking by the imposing memorial which dominated the east side of the churchyard. “I believe you were…oh, I’m sorry.” There was more than a hint of sadness on Benjamin’s face as he lifted it. “I had quite forgotten. Unforgivable, I know.”

“Please don’t worry. They’ve been gone so long now that I don’t feel any pain of grief. But I can’t help miss them.” Benjamin stood with head bowed, lips tightly pressed as if preventing himself speaking his thoughts aloud.

“I can appreciate that.” They stood for a moment, looking over the impressive, well maintained plot; the last two generations of the Swann family lay here and the next few would join them when their time came. “You wished to see me?”

Benjamin nodded. “I wanted to enquire whether I had in some way offended you.” He kept his eyes fixed on the memorial. A robin sang from the yew hedge, the faint sound of organ music came from the church – the answer seemed to take forever to come.

“Mr. Swann, if I have in any way given you that impression, then I apologise unreservedly. I’m racking my brains to think of what I could have done…”

“My father’s walking stick. I was in Harmington yesterday, visiting a friend near the almshouses by St. Benedict’s. One of the residents was out in the lane, using that stick. It is quite unmistakable.”

William took a long look at the man beside him. Benjamin had a fine profile, featuring an elegant nose which was clearly a family trait. On his sister it looked too forceful – on him it gave an air of gravitas. “I didn’t realise it was your father’s. If I’d been aware of what it meant I wouldn’t have been so insensitive. I’m sorry if your sister was offended.”

“My sister? I’m not sure she even knows it’s gone.”

“But she gave it to me, last Saturday, or I thought she did.” William ran his hands through his fair hair, leaving a trail of little, green leaf fragments. “I’ve made an awful mistake somewhere, but I can’t work out what.”

Past Shadows is available in e-book and paperback


Inspiration:
I’ve been blogging here about some of the things which inspire and help me to write.

Charlie