Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin
Read Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin Online
Authors: David Wailing
Tags: #Detective, #Heart, #Cheating, #Humour, #Infidelity, #Mystery, #Romance, #Killer, #Secret lives, #Seduction, #Honeytrap, #Investigate, #Conspiracy, #Suspense, #Affairs, #Lies and secrets, #Assassin, #Modern relationships, #Intrigue
Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin
David Wailing
DON’T NEED THE OTHER HALF ANY MORE?
TAKE THEM OUT.
So, you’ve hired a detective agency to prove your partner is cheating on you. But there’s no evidence to be found. Who you gonna call?
Me. I am the assassin. Your friend.
Anything your other half secretly desires, whatever makes her give in to temptation… that’s who I’ll become. Get close to her. Take her out. Bang. That’s what a relationship assassin does. Infidelity for hire!
But don’t think I’m heartless. I’m a professional. I’ve got Rules to protect my targets. Rules to stop them getting too close to the real me.
Rules that were blown away when three extraordinary women – the seductress, the celebrity, and the office girl – turned my world inside out.
And for a relationship assassin, having an other half was like shooting myself in the heart…
David Wailing writes contemporary relationship-based fiction, a blend of character drama and humour. There are elements of mystery or detective fiction, usually with an investigative angle, but in a light-hearted way.
The key theme of David’s novels is ‘identity’- people pretending to be something they’re not. All his work is focused around characters that fake being someone else or take on others’ characteristics.
David writes books for a broad modern audience, that men would not consider ‘chick lit’ and women would not consider ‘lad lit’. In terms of similar authors, readers of Ben Elton, Nick Hornby, William Sutcliffe, Danny Wallace and Mike Gayle might enjoy his work.
David currently has three books available. ‘Fake Kate’ focuses on online dating and two sisters, one of whom pretends to be the other and goes on her dates, to investigate why she has vanished. ‘Bang’ is the memoir of a relationship assassin, a man of many faces who is a honeytrap for married women, seducing them to provide evidence of infidelity for private detectives to discover. ‘Cupid’s Warhead’ features a gay man trying to retrain himself to be straight, in order to follow an obsession to find one particular woman.
David lives in North London and is working on ideas for future novels.
Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin
Chapter 2: Confessions And Impressions
Chapter 6: Watching The Detectives
Chapter 9: Deadlier Than The Male
Chapter 11: Doing The Business
Chapter 13: Your Mission, Should You Choose To Accept It…
Chapter 16: Invaders From Planet Sex
Chapter 20: He’s Got A Brand New Car
No matter who you are, no matter what you do, you’ll have heard about the Mister Ex scandal at some point.
You could hardly have missed it! Those four tiny photos that changed the careers – indeed, the entire lives – of the biggest celebrities in the country, and let’s face it, if they weren’t the biggest before, they certainly are now. So if you’re reading this, then obviously you want to know more.
Maybe you hate Mister Ex and feel like putting a bullet through his heart for what he did to your favourite superstars, or maybe you thought it was hilarious and laughed until you peed yourself, or perhaps you’re just curious about the man behind that media-invented name… but you want to know about one of the most mysterious figures of our time, a Scarlet Pimpernel for the 21st Century. You want to find out who Mister Ex really was. Well of course you do! You’d have to be dead not to!
This book will tell you that, of course… but it will also tell you much more, because it turns out that Mister Ex is just a small part of a bigger story.
A different man’s story – the man behind the mask.
When I first met this man, I was his victim. One of many, I later found out, but at the time I knew nothing about this little missile in human form, dropping out of the sky and exploding into my life. I’d never met anyone as sexually magnetic and irresistible and well-suited for me as he was. He made me weak, and I am never weak, but he made me do things a woman in my position shouldn’t have done. At no point did it occur to me that it was actually just a job for him, a task to be completed, because God damn his balls, I’d let this man get under my skin, until I started caring about him, and eventually loved him. He changed me into someone else, and then he left me, and I swore I’d rip that handsome face off and eat his evil brain if he ever walked through my door again…
But on the day that he did – after becoming Mister Ex – I listened. He told me everything: all the things he’d done, all the other women there had been like me… but also all the things that had happened to make him the way he was. Someone had already put that bullet through his heart long ago, leaving a wound only one person could – and eventually, did – heal.
I discovered what life was really like for a man as chameleonic and duplicitous as him, and I found out – as you will find out – that in the end, he was just like the rest of us in one important respect:
Someone special can come along, when we least expect it. Someone can get under our skin, make us care about them, make us love them. And we can all – you, me, even the man behind the mask – be changed into someone else.
No matter who you are, no matter what you do.
Bianca Buchanan
Buchanan Publishers Ltd
I remember the house had a name, rather than a number, which spoke volumes about the people who lived there.
Numbers are common. Names are important.
Abbey Orchard Manor. I can remember that vividly, but not what the house actually looked like. Kind of a small mansion. Pillars either side of the front door. Bay windows. Just don’t ask me to draw you a picture. It was on the outskirts of some village in Wiltshire, but I can’t recall much about that either. You know the type… small, quaint, olde worlde. Arse-end of nowhere.
But I’ll tell you what I do remember. I remember thinking:
Tonight’s the night.
Tonight, I make the kill.
There was a long gravel driveway leading up to the house, and the mini-cab crunched slowly along it. My driver had maintained a respectful silence all the way from the train station. I almost expected him to tug his forelock as I got out of the cab. But I didn’t need respect. I needed an escape route.
“Cheers mate, and listen, do us a favour.” Rough and ready. Working class geezer. “You got a number I can call for a pick up? Might be quite soon an’ all.”
Suddenly he was all smiles. “Right you are, mate.” He handed me a card. “Aiming for a quick getaway?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
He nodded at the huge house. “These posh nobs not friends of yours, then?”
“Nah,” I laughed. “Just work.”
Just another job. I straightened my tie.
For a Londoner like myself, it was unbelievable that the front door was left standing open. Obviously there weren’t many burglaries in the charming hamlet of Arse-End. There was movement and noise within. Guests were obviously meant to just stroll in and out at their leisure. In fact, there were a couple of people standing in the front garden, chattering into their mobiles. I threw them a grin as I walked inside.
Nobody stopped me, and why should they? I was one of them! With my Saville Row beige linen suit, my leather shoes and my big fat magnum of champagne, complete with a pink bow around the neck… splendid, old chap, come on in, make yourself at home, ah and you brought the shampoo, you’re an absolute treasure! (I’d be amazed if somebody didn’t refer to me as ‘old chap’ before the end of the evening.) I’d even grown my hair longer in that floppy Oxbridge style which Hugh Grant as good as trademarked. You’d be surprised what a difference the haircut makes.
The house was huge. Framed paintings and oak furniture. The sort of place that has maids. A couple of women were being given a grand tour by another guest who obviously wished she owned the place herself. I wandered into the kitchen where people were standing in small clusters, conversations overlapping. More noise drifted in from outside, through the wide-open patio doors. Garden party.
I didn’t want to seem too much like the new arrival. I deposited the champagne on the drinks table alongside four of its brothers, then altered my appearance a little. Jacket off. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Tie loosened a fraction. Like I’d been there an hour or two already. I poured myself a gin and tonic and went outside.
Picture this, then. A warm evening in late May. Sunset, everything airbrushed with a rosy ambience. The kind of night that makes you feel like not going straight home. A big garden – in fact a garden that wants to be called ‘the grounds’, with neatly-trimmed grass, a high wooden fence and an ornamental fountain in the middle. Somewhere close to a hundred people were milling around, all dressed for the occasion: suits, tuxedos, dinner jackets, flowery dresses, cocktail skirts. Half a dozen tables piled with food and drink. Music was coming from somewhere but nobody was dancing, and it’s tricky to strut your stuff to Bach anyway. Just chatter, laughter, the clink of glasses, the puff of cigars. No running little kids or crying babies. This was a sophisticated, grown-up party. And some of the grown-ups were very grown-up, elderly businessmen and middle-aged wives, along with a few young turks. Like me.
Well, not like me. They belonged there. I didn’t.
Snake in the garden.
So that’s the sort of place it was. Everyone knew the Bentley-Fosters threw the most wonderful little soirées. And you’d expect a garden party from a name like Bentley-Foster, wouldn’t you? There was breeding there, a family name with some heritage, some class. A name that rhymed with ‘success’.
Names are important. You get a better shot at life when you’re double-barrelled.
I wandered outside, drink in hand and jacket over my shoulder. Standing near the glass doors and sipping my G&T, I waited for the hostess to notice me.
One moment Mrs Bentley-Foster was smiling and nodding, part of a group of people listening to her husband’s latest tall tale. Next second, she glanced my way and her eyes popped. You’ve never seen anyone move so fast. With an apology and a half-spilled Martini and a funny wiggle, Amanda Bentley-Foster excused herself and rushed over to meet me.
I stood there, grinning, thinking how stupid she was being. She even took my arm as she reached me, steering me back towards the patio. Honestly, she might just as well have shouted “HEY EVERYONE, I’M SECRETLY FUCKING THIS GUY HERE, BEHIND MY HUSBAND’S BACK!”
Instead she hissed “Simon! What are you doing here!”
“I was invited.” Injured innocence. “Bob asked me himself.”
“Really? Bob asked you? But I thought you were just a consultant.”
“Oh, is that all I am then?”
Amanda’s face softened. “Simon Templar, you know you’re much more than that to me.”
Damn right. I was the man who was going to change her life forever.
As she hustled me back through the kitchen, I kept looking at her, as if I was smitten. The best way to describe Amanda was to say she was forty-one going on twenty-one. Her woman’s face had the image of a young girl imprinted onto it, using foundation, eyeliner, lipstick and eye shadow. Hair far too black to be natural. And that shimmery cocktail skirt… it was hard not to think it had been swiped from some teenage daughter’s wardrobe. A teenage daughter two sizes slimmer. And maybe not a D-cup.
