Good Reading dips into the first few paragraphs of Best Left Buried by Neil A White to give you a taste of what’s to come.

It was ordained apparently, that the next stage in my turbulent life would begin with a phone call. An electronic bolt out of the blue. Digital alarm bells reverberating to the tune of an old 90s rocker. In hindsight, I should’ve muted the bastard then buried my head deeper under the covers. Instead . . .

‘Hello?’

‘Matt. How the hell are ya?’

First, as these things usually go, the sweet words asking after my health. And, if form held, quickly followed up with a few fawning words of praise.

‘I’m hearin’ great things about your work. You’ve made quite the name for yourself.’

Did I mention I’m a sucker for fawning words of praise?

However, the person on the line currently handing out platitudes wasn’t one of my regular clients, the voice not one I immediately recognised. The accent, though, was unmistakably American. A slow drawl, like his voice box didn’t want to let go of the words.

‘Listen, pal. I know it’s short notice but I’ll pay handsomely.’

I placed the accent as Southern, most likely Texan. Smooth as warm syrup oozing over a stack of pancakes. And I could only recall one man I knew from Texas – assuming the girl with the raspy voice and well-defined biceps I’d met one night at the White Horse wasn’t lying.

‘Bryant? Is that you?’

‘Yeah, yeah. So, what have you been up to, buddy? Those limeys still got you in quarantine? How’s that beautiful wife of yours?’

I wasn’t surprised he was unaware. It wasn’t like it made a nice filler on my Christmas card messaging: ‘All’s well. The wife dumped me – Merry Christmas.’

‘Hell, I’ve been working on my second wife, as you know, for close to nine years and I still ain’t got her trained right.’

His raucous laughter echoed across the pond separating continents, and for all I knew, shattered a few of his home’s window panes.

I counted to 10, waiting for his laughter to die down.

‘So, what can I help you with, Bryant?’

‘Well, I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I’ve decided to run for elected office.’

Why not? If the previous resident of the White House could make a go of it, couldn’t anyone? And, I had to admit, Bryant fitted the politician stereotype to perfection: brash, photogenic, and could hold an audience in his sway with just a flash of his Texas-sized charm.

‘Really? How exciting for you.’

‘Yep. The wonderful folks here in Texas think I’ll make them a right fine senator up in Washington.’

No mid-level role for Bryant, no dipping of toes into shallow waters. It would be the swan dive from a cliff top or nothing at all. I assumed a run for president could be found not too far from the top of his to-do list.

‘If you’re looking for a favourable article, I’d be happy to oblige. But American politics isn’t really my thing, and I doubt my name would hold much cachet over there in the States.’

Again, the laugh. If this kept up, I’d need to start rummaging around for ear plugs.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in Melbourne, Australia, the allure of a career in tennis led me to make a tough decision; remain home and become a CPA (yeah, really) or see where my tennis takes me. Tough decision? Not likely. With four-year scholarship in hand, I jetted off to America with delusions of grandeur.

Unfortunately, my tennis career was cut short by injury and lack of talent (emphasis on the latter). Consequently, it was time to put my hard-earned(?) Economics & Finance degree to some use. Thereby embarking upon a three-decade career in corporate America – airline and banking – before the writing bug took hold. Though you’ll still find me teaching the odd tennis lesson, old habits …

Visit Neil A White’s website