GORDON URQUHART – A Voluptuous Story About a Voluptuous Woman in Search of a Voluptuous Title

When my mate Max suggested I write a short story I thought he had gone mad: eccentric mad, not thinks he’s Napoleon mad.

He has controversial views on some social issues, and he’s always been old-fashioned – if old-fashioned means only employing secretaries who are under 25, female, and blonde – but these things were never a problem. His wife never complained, to my knowledge, but then I don’t think he ever told her – or his three previous wives – about his requirements in administrative support staff.

Until recently Max had been a very respectable barrister, well-connected (we know many of the same people), solid, a proud burgher of his city and citizen of the world. He abided by the law, or course, and I would say he paid his taxes, but certain matters are sub judice at this time, so you will understand if I don’t express a definite opinion on that subject here. I will say his art collection is more than impressive and the comically bad performances of his racehorse Twiggy’s Dancer provided an excuse for a number of amusing days at the track with plentiful champagne.

In his professional life he represented premiers and jockeys and adult entertainment impresarios. At the Opera he sat near a former governor-general and clinked glasses at interval with a man whose mining company owns forty per cent of Western Australia. He still does.

Then came the change.

None of us knew it, but there was a secret in his armoire, only revealed when we received invitations to his first book launch. The tome was called Bonfire Of The Bar, and it became the start of a very successful series of Walter Prendergast’s barresterial adventures. Walter is a lawyer who does things his own way: he’s a rebel, a black sheep, charmer of judges, breaker of rules, and enjoyer of three-hour lunches matched with superior wines. He frequently ends up in bed with his charming assistant or some other willing accomplice of the female persuasion. Walter the ladies man reminds me of a ladies man I know, but this is no coincidence: writing from experience is the advice they give to budding scribblers.

“All lawyers want to be writers, Gordy,” Max said. I suppose he’s right.

There have been four Prendergast adventures so far, and loyal readers want more. So successful has Max become that he has given away lawyering. Well, you never really give it away, but he’s strictly part-time now, spending most of his time in chambers indulging in something creative, with Miss Palmer his clerk in close attendance. (Max writes long hand, and Tiffany types up his pages. He never learned to use a machine of any kind, after mastering the tricky clutch on his 1967 Aston Martin.)

Which brings the story to me.

At his publisher’s suggestion, Max decided to edit a collection of short stories by lawyers, shamelessly designed to appeal to the lawyer-turned-writer market. In my case, it should more accurately be described as lawyer-turned-mining-magnate-turned-political-consultant-turned-turned-real-estate-investor market.

My distance from the profession didn’t bother him though. Just write a story, he said.

So I did, and it’s rather good. When inspiration wouldn’t come I decided to base my tale on a lurid case from the early 1980s. It is about the time I met and represented Conchita Diaz Furioso, a noted flamenco dancer who worked late nights in a restaurant with her partner Ramon. The proprietor thought this added colour to his establishment.

Unpaid wages led to an accusation of fraud and events took a decidedly criminal turn after that. Vandalism, mysterious assaults, and a suspicious death were all involved. I found that Conchita and Ramon were partners in a professional sense only, despite being technically married. It emerged that Ramon had a collection of passports with different names on all of them. As I got closer to Conchita I learned the the full meaning of “fiery Latin”.

“There are no male friends. Only lovers,” Conchita told me. She convinced me of her sincerity on this point, several times.

She could crack a walnut between her thighs, and she had … well, other skills too.

It was a torrid few weeks, and it makes a rollicking story. The temptation was to use phrases like “throbbing member”, “pleasure cave” and “love truncheon” in certain intimate scenes, but I cut most of those phrases, and only twice used “moist”, which I believe is a technical term in scenes of this kind – as technical as sine die is a courtroom scene.

One crucial element it missing: an appropriately romantic, legal, adventurous, dangerous title will not come to me, and I don’t know what to do. At this stage I’m leaning towards “Criminal Passions From The Courtroom To The Bedroom”, but I’m not sure if that works.

Published in: on October 8, 2019 at 6:18 pm  Leave a Comment  

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