The Prudence Tempest Chronicles

What’s in a name?

Well, if you ask me, a whole hell of a lot of trouble. If you had a moniker like mine, you'd understand what I mean.

My name is Prudence. Nothing strange there, except that it’s a really old, old name. Well, forget about that for now. I could get used to it. Now, imagine your family name being Tempest.

I am Miss Tempest. Miss Prudence Tempest, actually.

Oh, yes, laugh all you want. Imagine carrying this load around. Though it could have been worse. My parents are of the hippy generation, so I could have been tagged with a name like Flower Child, or Sweet Breeze. That one would’ve been the pits. Beats Prudence hands down any day.

But, with Prudence I am saddled, and make the most of it, I do. Being pretty much an oxymoron in itself, my calling title however comes in handy in trying to make myself a name out there in the world. You see, I am a writer. I write stories and have them published. Okay, I try to have them published. It’s such a big, bad shark-infested pond out there in publishing. I haven’t bitten the bullet yet to self-publish; this here being me dipping my toe in these treacherous waters. Prudence Tempest allows me to already cause a stir without needing to do anything. If only this could work in my favour...

In the meantime, writing during my spare time—that I hardly have, mind you—doesn’t pay the bills, and like almost every struggling writer, I have a day job. What do I do? I’m a real estate agent, and it’s not the ho-hum thingie, no. Let me shed some light on this.

Do you know of the one rich, powerful family that exists in every soap opera? Take this family, and then place it right in the middle of a town where every house boasts such a setup. Welcome to West Haven, home of the utterly, disgustingly rich. Kids here receive gifts for their twenty-one-and-a-half birthday, or whatever other birthday and a half. And not just any gift. An Arabian stallion for the equestrian inclined. A Harry Winston priceless set for the bling-dazzled. A penthouse or a detached dwelling for the ones who want to span their wings and fly, all within reach of Daddy’s credit card, of course.

I cannot complain, if you look at it this way. Being a ‘trendy’ twenty-something myself, is it any wonder that I handle almost all of the brats’ gift requests at the agency? West Haven might be Paradise on Earth for the filthy rich, but it is also a town of rags and riches. The rags would be considered middle-class in any other location, but here, you’re rags. No need to tell you to which category I belong. Being surrounded by so much money often infuses you with an unhealthy desire to earn even more of the moolah yourself. Climb the ladder. Flash off. Keep up with the Joneses, who, here, happen to be called Walchester or whatever other posh-sounding name.

The only way I can climb up the ladder in this setup is to either become a phenomenally renowned and rich author of the likes of J.K Rowling, Stephenie Meyer, & E.L. James, penning down the next book to become a Hollywood blockbuster or which features the sorriest SOB supposedly-hero to make women swoon over.

Or marry rich... Nah, not gonna happen. Every billionaire worth his salt knows me, and none has tripped over himself to win my hand.

The only solution left? Move to other, higher pools in the real estate world.

“Daydreaming again, Prue?”