The Limassol Affair

[Astro Pen]

The end of chapter two of my new techno thriller "The Limassol Affair" and the inciting incident. The protagonist is a staffer at the British embassy in Cyprus, He is married to a local girl, Ariana. ( I'm taking a more rounded human approach to writing in this one and interested to see how the style goes down here. )

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I got home from the embassy with a stress headache. The Turks had been raising hell against the installation of the missile defence system, Blue Flash. We were installing it to protect our gas fields south of Cyprus. Primarily from the Turks, though that could never be formally stated. The fact that they were still in NATO complicated things further diplomatically.

Ariana was cooking something. “Moussaka,” she said. Putting on the oven gloves.

I helped myself to a couple of stuffed olives from the bowl on the table and sloshed a glass of Demestica.

I raised the bottle. "You?”

She nodded.

She had gone into one of her quiet phases. They happened every few months.

“Everything okay?” I asked

“Yes darling, fine.”

She brought the dish to the table and served.

We started to eat and she smiled but stayed quiet.

“Are you sure you are alright?” I asked.

“Yes just, you know, woman troubles, period pain.”

It’s an old female defence, nothing much a man can say, discussion closed.

As we ate and drank she seemed to liven up a bit.

“So tell me about work today. How is the negotiation going?” she asked.

“Difficult,” I replied. “Do we have any paracetamol?”

She got them from the bathroom and I swallowed them with some wine.

“Do you think the Turks will stop it?”

“Unlikely, the Americans want it so it will probably happen, albeit with a diplomatic spat.”

She remained uncharacteristically quiet through the evening but I noticed she didn’t take any painkillers.

These mood swings had happened before so I wasn’t unduly disturbed, things always got back to normal but I felt the need to clear a worry.

“There isn’t, someone else?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly darling, of course not,” She put a reassuring hand on my forearm. “I’m just a bit, unwell, that’s all.”

We went upstairs around eleven. I was becoming upset about this coldness, something wasn’t right. In bed I set the alarm for seven and we slid under the covers.

Ariana turned off the small bedside lamp, this was unusual, she normally kept it on to avoid the ‘click’ waking me when she got up for the bathroom during the night. She turned on her side and went to sleep.

I, in contrast, lay awake in a whirling pit. I had noticed something. It was something I could not reconcile and I was churning over the implications. A thing so subtle that I had missed it for days. - Until this week my wife had been, left handed.

I swallowed hard, hoping I could rationalise the anomaly and her mood changes as my paranoia, but I couldn’t.

So, who was this woman lying in my bed? She looked identical to Ariana, either her twin sister or a clone. No plastic surgeon could ever achieve that level of similarity, it was definitely genetic.

And then there was the surreal corollary. It was hard to stay calm facing the question. Who, then, was my wife of the last decade? She must be a knowing participant in this charade. Who, in this new reality, was I married to, and where the hell was she tonight?

I resisted the temptation, strong as it was, to shake this impostor awake, realising that this was, apparently, not the first week that she had shared my bed.

I thought back to the day I met Ariana. I was strolling the municipal gardens in Limassol. She was sitting on a bench and offered me her open bag of sugar dusted Loukoumi. I took one, and a ten year conversation opened. A conversation that, I realised as I lay there, had spent much of its time orbiting the embassy.

 

[Flaviosky]

Wow, I mean, the last third of it really wrapped me, making me question the rest of the dialogue. I'd love to read more. The first paragrahp was a nice introduction to the context, not very long, not very dense, and easy to put in the background of the dialogue.

We went upstairs around eleven. I was becoming upset about this coldness, something wasn’t right

I'd have loved to see a little bit more descriptive text before this, tiny bits of information to give more of a somber ambience.

Until this week my wife had been, left handed.

And this is what I think is the line that sets the motion of the thrill. Very nice.

She brought the dish to the table and served.

We started to eat and she smiled but stayed quiet.

Maybe these kind of lines might be together, because the relevant information is that she is still quiet....

I raised the bottle. "You?”

She nodded.

...Because it's different from this one. These separate lines help building tension with the hollow question-answer

 

[Droflet]

Nice, Astro. Well done.

 

[sule]

This is very good, I like what I've read so far.

I only have one issue with this passage, and it's this: For me, it felt like the main character was too quick in accepting his suspicion that this woman was not his wife. The line:

I swallowed hard, hoping I could rationalise the anomaly and her mood changes as my paranoia, but I couldn’t.

is all we get, which feels very perfunctory; the literary equivalent of shrugging your shoulders and moving on. Is there some way that the protagonist could test his hypothesis before accepting it? Some other pieces of information that could fall into place as he unravels the mystery and slowly realizes there is no other explanation?

(One suggestion that's a bit more out there: Could you move his suspicions earlier, into the dinner scene? It might add tension to an otherwise "innocuous" conversation, give him more chances to "test" his wife, and culminate in the nighttime unraveling. This is only a suggestion, though; this is your story and you should tell it the way you want to.)

Anyway, what you've got here is already a good opening that hints at an intriguing mystery. Well done, keep writing.

 

[Tawariell]

It’s an old female defence, nothing much a man can say, discussion closed.

As a woman, this made me laugh.

She remained uncharacteristically quiet through the evening but I noticed she didn’t take any painkillers.

Perhaps this is just me noticing, but before you stated that she would have her "quiet phases that would happen every few months", so the word "uncharacteristically" feels a bit off in this sentence. We already know she can become quiet sometimes, so why is it suddenly considered uncharacteristically of her to stay quiet throughout the rest of the evening? Perhaps the word itself feels a bit off to me. Of course, take this with a grain of salt. I might be the only one overthinking this

The last part threw me off, but in a good way. It has made me curious about the rest of your story!

 

[Mon0Zer0]

The end of chapter two of my new techno thriller "The Limassol Affair" and the inciting incident. The protagonist is a staffer at the British embassy in Cyprus, He is married to a local girl, Ariana. ( I'm taking a more rounded human approach to writing in this one and interested to see how the style goes down here. )

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



I got home from the embassy with a stress headache. The Turks had been raising hell against the installation of the missile defence system, Blue Flash. We were installing it to protect our gas fields south of Cyprus. Primarily from the Turks, though that could never be formally stated. The fact that they were still in NATO complicated things further diplomatically.

Ariana was cooking something. “Moussaka,” she said. Putting on the oven gloves.

I helped myself to a couple of stuffed olives from the bowl on the table and sloshed a glass of Demestica.

I raised the bottle. "You?”

She nodded.

She had gone into one of her quiet phases. They happened every few months.

“Everything okay?” I asked

“Yes darling, fine.”

She brought the dish to the table and served.

We started to eat and she smiled but stayed quiet.

“Are you sure you are alright?” I asked.

“Yes just, you know, woman troubles, period pain.”

It’s an old female defence, nothing much a man can say, discussion closed.

As we ate and drank she seemed to liven up a bit.

“So tell me about work today. How is the negotiation going?” she asked.

“Difficult,” I replied. “Do we have any paracetamol?”

She got them from the bathroom and I swallowed them with some wine.

“Do you think the Turks will stop it?”

“Unlikely, the Americans want it so it will probably happen, albeit with a diplomatic spat.”

She remained uncharacteristically quiet through the evening but I noticed she didn’t take any painkillers.

These mood swings had happened before so I wasn’t unduly disturbed, things always got back to normal but I felt the need to clear a worry.

“There isn’t, someone else?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly darling, of course not,” She put a reassuring hand on my forearm. “I’m just a bit, unwell, that’s all.”

We went upstairs around eleven. I was becoming upset about this coldness, something wasn’t right. In bed I set the alarm for seven and we slid under the covers.

Ariana turned off the small bedside lamp, this was unusual, she normally kept it on to avoid the ‘click’ waking me when she got up for the bathroom during the night. She turned on her side and went to sleep.

I, in contrast, lay awake in a whirling pit. I had noticed something. It was something I could not reconcile and I was churning over the implications. A thing so subtle that I had missed it for days. - Until this week my wife had been, left handed.

I swallowed hard, hoping I could rationalise the anomaly and her mood changes as my paranoia, but I couldn’t.

So, who was this woman lying in my bed? She looked identical to Ariana, either her twin sister or a clone. No plastic surgeon could ever achieve that level of similarity, it was definitely genetic.

And then there was the surreal corollary. It was hard to stay calm facing the question. Who, then, was my wife of the last decade? She must be a knowing participant in this charade. Who, in this new reality, was I married to, and where the hell was she tonight?

I resisted the temptation, strong as it was, to shake this impostor awake, realising that this was, apparently, not the first week that she had shared my bed.

I thought back to the day I met Ariana. I was strolling the municipal gardens in Limassol. She was sitting on a bench and offered me her open bag of sugar dusted Loukoumi. I took one, and a ten year conversation opened. A conversation that, I realised as I lay there, had spent much of its time orbiting the embassy.

The kernel of the idea is fantastic, but it's a bit flat at present.

I think you could build this a little to create some subtext in the opening conversation, so rather than coming to suspect his wife in one paragraph where he's in bed, the realisation and paranoia about who this person is, builds slowly over the course of a conversation or implied series of conversations. You could create some inner conflict as he ignores his suspicion until at last he has no choice but to entertain this may not be his wife.

The wife at the start is either unaware she's not his wife, or is trying to conceal this fact from him. This is a rich seam to mine some great subtext. It becomes cat and mouse as she becomes worried she's giving the game away, and he's torn between thinking he's suffering from paranoia and not trying to let on that he suspects her. It can still be domestic and humdrum, but the underlying battle of wits will make it fascinating to read because we turn our focus on first confirming that his suspicions are justified, and then on whether he can trap her.

I would shift the opening this section from talk of the politics to the awareness that something is just off about his wife that is niggling him. The politics of the Turkish border could be weaved into the conversation as the impostor is gently pumping him for information she can use, and her interest enhances his suspicion. You start to do this, but I think you could build on this with more detail and more manipulation - what are her incentives to him to release this info. What does he desire that she can use as a bargaining chip?

Maybe, he decides to test her by asking her something only she would know - and, rather than make it easy on him by giving the wrong answer, she gives a right one. This enhances his sense of paranoia - is he mad? Have they been watching him? For how long? His intuitions are telling him this is not his wife - but he can't quite confirm it until he notices that one killer detail...

The throughline of suspicion leading to discovery keeps the drama ticking over and the reader engaged.

His reaction is too detached. That may be his character - like George Smiley, unflappable - but underneath he'll have an emotional reaction and this will create more internal conflict as he tries to retain his cool and not give away that he suspects.

Who, then, was my wife of the last decade?

Why would whoever is orchestrating this replace her with a clone if she was a traitor all along? I'm not sure he would suspect his wife was a traitor if she was replaced with an impostor. I'd think he would be more concerned for the original's safety. There might be a story reason for the villains to do so, but I'm not sure his mind would go to that place straight away.

His first reaction would be: who is this person? what have you done with my wife!

Even if he has to assume the veneer of normality in order to not let on that he knows the wife is an impostor, there will still be a chain of thought pointing in the direction of concern for his real wife, and the possibility of rescuing her. He might have an idea of who the perpetrators are from the kinds of questions his wife is asking and he might consider just when the swap was made - when was the exact moment he first noticed her acting strangely?

 

[Wayne Mack]

This sounds like an interesting premise to me, combining international intrigue with a close to home discovery. I would be interested in seeing how those threads tie together.

I recognize that this is the end of chapter 2, but I did not feel the section I read set up a plausible leap from coldness to the wife being an imposter. There was no mention of her using her right hand before the reveal that she should be left handed. I wasn't sure if the pain killer reference was something that had been previously set up. Beyond that, the only suspicious actions seemed to be her turning off the light. Perhaps, though, the lack of verifying details is appropriate if the desire is to have the reader doubt the main character's assertion.

I could go either way on the main character being very sure that his wife had been replaced and him having self doubts.

Overall, the text read well and sets up an intriguing plot line. I would probably want to see the larger context of the story to definitively say that anything in the excerpt should be changed or not.

 

[msstice]

My comments in bold

I got home from the embassy with a stress headache [There may be a better way to say this, such as simply "My head was pounding when I got home." The following sentence will let the reader figure out why]. The Turks had been raising hell against the installation of the missile defence system, Blue Flash [This name is not used again which is a bit jarring]. We were installing it to protect our gas fields south of Cyprus. Primarily from the Turks, though that could never be formally stated. The fact that they were still in NATO complicated things further diplomatically.

Ariana was cooking something. “Moussaka,” she said. [, putting] Putting on the oven gloves.

I helped myself to a couple of stuffed olives from the bowl on the table and sloshed a glass of Demestica.

I raised the bottle. "You?”

She nodded.

She had gone into one of her quiet phases. They happened every few months.

“Everything okay?” I asked

“Yes darling, fine.”

She brought the dish to the table and served.

We started to eat and she smiled but stayed quiet.

[Up to here things are choppy. It may be done for effect, but I was uneasy reading it. The sentences could be made longer and could be made to flow better]

“Are you sure you are alright?” I asked.

“Yes just, you know, woman troubles, period pain.”

It’s an old female defence, nothing much a man can say, discussion closed.

As we ate and drank she seemed to liven up a bit.

“So tell me about work today. How is the negotiation going?” she asked.

“Difficult,” I replied. “Do we have any paracetamol?”

She got them from the bathroom and I swallowed them with some wine.

“Do you think the Turks will stop it?”

“Unlikely, the Americans want it so it will probably happen, albeit with a diplomatic spat.”

She remained uncharacteristically quiet through the evening but I noticed she didn’t take any painkillers.

These mood swings had happened before so I wasn’t unduly disturbed, things always got back to normal but I felt the need to clear a worry.

“There isn’t, someone else?” I asked.

[This does come out of nowhere for me. I wonder if the narrator could prepare us better for his state of mind that he would ask this question. TBH I thought it was a joke, but it seems a serious question is intended.]

“Don’t be silly darling, of course not,” She put a reassuring hand on my forearm. “I’m just a bit, unwell, that’s all.”

We went upstairs around eleven. I was becoming upset about this coldness, something wasn’t right. In bed I set the alarm for seven and we slid under the covers.

Ariana turned off the small bedside lamp, this was unusual, she normally kept it on to avoid the ‘click’ waking me when she got up for the bathroom during the night. She turned on her side and went to sleep. [The light does not bother anyone?]

I, in contrast, lay awake in a whirling pit. I had noticed something. It was something I could not reconcile and I was churning over the implications. A thing so subtle that I had missed it for days. - Until this week my wife had been, left handed.

I swallowed hard, hoping I could rationalise the anomaly and her mood changes as my paranoia, but I couldn’t.

So, who was this woman lying in my bed? She looked identical to Ariana, either her twin sister or a clone. No plastic surgeon could ever achieve that level of similarity, it was definitely genetic.

And then there was the surreal corollary. It was hard to stay calm facing the question. Who, then, was my wife of the last decade? She must be a knowing participant in this charade. Who, in this new reality, was I married to, and where the hell was she tonight?

I resisted the temptation, strong as it was, to shake this impostor awake, realising that this was, apparently, not the first week that she had shared my bed.

I thought back to the day I met Ariana. I was strolling the municipal gardens in Limassol. She was sitting on a bench and offered me her open bag of sugar dusted Loukoumi [I find this highly improbable]. I took one, and a ten year conversation opened. A conversation that, I realised as I lay there, had spent much of its time orbiting the embassy.


Is it intentional that there are two simultaneous mysteries here? 1. Did I marry a spy? or 2. Did a spy replace my wife?
If so, it's a little complex. Each one by itself is a complex enough story and to layer both together can be confusing.

I feel the passages here should build up to the question of the wife's identity, her motives and their relationship, but I feel too much time is spent on a dinner interaction that is not so gripping.

 

[Astro Pen]

Thanks everyone for a positive first critique experience.

It was always going to be a risk putting up a 'mid story' section. So I fully understand that it was not in a context.

Also the formatting does not transfer from word to the forum, particularly the lack of paragraph indents and the need to space lines instead. I realise that the physical change of layout does affect the way one reads.

As @AnyaKimlin recently posted.
"The best advice I ever had was: You won't be sitting on the shoulders of the reader in the bookshop explaining why you wrote those paragraphs that way."

However:
Firstly the short sentences issue. Yes, I will combine some of those.
@Danny McG recently told me that he felt some of my sentences, in another book, were too long, maybe I overcorrected.

@Tawariell Indeed 'uncharacteristically' is a goof I should have spotted. I'll remove it.

@msstice ", putting". Agreed and changed.
The municipal gardens interaction "I find this improbable." I wrote it that way because it was, he is now realising, a 'targeted' approach by her. However I'm considering your point and may have her sit on a bench next to him and get the bag out, apparently for herself then offer him one out of "politeness". Would that work better for you socially?
"I married a spy" would be far too simple, we are going full Matryoshka doll

Regarding build up of suspicion suggested by some of you. I actually wanted, on the contrary, a sudden realisation, straight out of the domestic comfort zone and wham!, into a new reality. An inciting event.

In terms of pacing this is a novel and runs at a gentler pace than a short story. I remember my first effort at a novel was blasted out having "trained" on short stories. Of course it was done by page 60, lesson learned.

I want to put this one out there when it is finished so don't want to give the whole plot here but for context, in chapter one there is a fiasco, and hostages taken, as info about an operation has been leaked. Dots will be joined. Ariana doesn't get a press in chapter one except for an embassy colleague asking, "And how is Ariana?" A more pointed question than the protagonist (or we) realise at the time.....

Thanks all.

 

[Tawariell]

@Astro Pen best of luck! Looking forward to seeing you finish it

 

[atsouthorn]

I like the idea, so with a bit of tweaking, I'd be interested in reading on.

Regarding build up of suspicion suggested by some of you. I actually wanted, on the contrary, a sudden realisation, straight out of the domestic comfort zone and wham!, into a new reality. An inciting event.

If that's what you're going for then great, but I still echo the other comments from a personal preference. Subtle differences in her being noticed, with a slow build-up would be a hugely gripping read. It felt a little rushed.

 

[tinkerdan]

Interesting piece.
I think it accomplishes what you want it to.

I did have a glitch about here.

“Difficult,” I replied. “Do we have any paracetamol?”

She got them from the bathroom and I swallowed them with some wine.

“Do you think the Turks will stop it?”

“Unlikely, the Americans want it so it will probably happen, albeit with a diplomatic spat.”

This is one of those places where characters seem to have personal time-space bubble from which they can reach any other room in one step and come back again.
Not sure how to fix other than the conversation picks up oddly and seems gapped. Perhaps on the way to and from the bathroom you could have small talk about work to reach that question.
"Do you think the Turks will stop it?"
otherwise things look pretty well done.