I am sitting on the tube, thinking, Why am I sitting on the tube, when there is a perfectly good home office in Sophia’s loft, not to mention a delightful studio (aka shed) in the garden. Poor Dolly is home alone again. I am wasting whatever the price of a return tube fare to Waterloo is. The thing is, I can’t stand the isolation.
And so, bribing Dolly with an outsize hide chew that will last her all of an hour, I’m off to the Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) midway meet at the Royal Festival Hall, to galvanise myself into writing 50,000 words of Eliza Gray’s Secret Places by the end of November. Yay!
Laptop open, ready to go!
Eliza Gray, at 50, knew that her life
had been ruined was over. (Hmmm. Sounds vaguely derivative… must check
that out when we’re allowed online at the end of this writing burst.) Even the lift ignored disregarded dissed
hated had no time for her, closing its doors dismissively decisively
in her face. as she stepped
Oh God. The guy opposite me talks as he writes. I am becoming fixated by his little Movember moustache, waiting for it to twitch as he starts muttering.
But the doors
didn’t close stopped short. A cowboy boot black patent lace-up North Face hiking boot sneaker
suede brogue Hush Pu Tuff Croc
Doc Mart shiny black riding boot had thrust itself manfully
between the two steel panels and parted them in a way that suggested to Eliza
he might thrust and part other parts items things.
‘Doors closing,’ sings a nice-sounding woman. Honestly. Why are we sitting here? Right by the talking lifts? The canny Nanowrimos have noise-eradicating earphones.
Oh God. The noise-eradicating earphones are not noise-eradicating. They’re noise-channelling. It sounds like an epic movie soundtrack is blaring from the writer’s laptop, via her ears, into the Nanowrimo quiet zone.
Oh dear. I look up. Hope nobody's noticed me sniggering behind my palm.
a sex god tall,
dark looking intently at her, with a mischievous smile on his lips,
eyes like buttons chips of blue steel. (Dan will like that bit. It’s
an ironic nod towards Mills & Boon.)
This is going swimmingly! I slide my free range egg mayonnaise and cress granary bloomer sandwich from its crackly cellophane sleeve, looking furtively to left and right. I
part my lips and take a bite , licking a morsel
of creamy egg from. Honestly, this erotic writing lark is catching!
breathed Eliza, trying not to appear too uncool keen nonchalant. She
lowered her eyelids and then raised them again to meet his gaze take in his
features see if he study his face. His eyes bored looked steadily into
hers, the half-smile still playing about his lips.
The lift stopped. ‘Fifth floor. Doors opening.’
announced the nice-sounding woman. The man held
out an arm and nodded to Eliza, as if to say, ‘you first’ , whose legs
seemed to have seized up but she felt rooted to the spot paralysed. ‘I think we’re here,’ he said simply, touching
her back lightly. She felt a delicious tremor shoot up her spine.
He shook his head and smiled
that irresistible delicious,
naughty smile of his. ‘Private members' bar.’ He nodded gestured towards the
mezzanine floor above. ‘Why don’t you join me?’
Private members... She bit her lower lip. He was toying with her. He couldn’t be more than 35 years old! ‘I have to write my ero… a best… a novel,’ she
‘You’re a writer too?’ He
smiled looked into
her eyes trailed traced his finger along her arm. ‘I won’t disturb you then. Not
now.’ He turned to walk upstairs and then turned back. His eyes bored into
hers. ‘Come when you’re ready.’
I sit up straight and look around guiltily to see if anyone has rumbled me. No they’re all hard at work.