Chocolate used to seem much too expensive and indulgent to me but (with a vaguely guilty pleasure) I can admit that's changed. The shopping bags slicing and dicing my fingers are evidence of that. Three of them, all filled with delightful treats: malteasers, mars bars, moments and every other chocolate beginning with m. It's like a drug. Even now, the minstrels I'm stuffing in my mouth are pumping energy through my veins, shooting me full of pleasant feelings. Yum. Additives.
Isn't human necessity an interesting thing? How the mind feels the need to compensate the body for its hard day of work, and seems to presume that the best way to do this is not in fact with carrots or a good, healthy jog, but with chocolate and drink and... cigarettes.
The walk home is tiresome but I haven't driven in such a long time that I almost think I may have forgotten how to. Besides, smoking works better when you're outside. Except when it's raining actually but today is one of those few British days with the absence of water, just a chilly, frosty bite to the air and a sprinkling of sugar on the ground.
The wind tries to prevent me from lighting my third cigarette, huffing and puffing... I'll blow your house down. But at last, it takes and I draw deeply, feeling that urge to cough and splutter but it's good. I started about three weeks ago, I'd say. About the same time that Mike and I broke up. To be more precise, the exact moment that Mike swore to never let another cigarette caress his lips, I decided to show him just what he'll be missing out on. I'm still not sure I see the attraction in it, I mean they're much too small for one thing, you just can't get a decent grip on them and I can think of much pleasanter things I could put in there. Like chocolate.
I'm standing at my door now, just finishing this cigarette and then I'll catch my breath before I go in. The air's a little old in there, a little musty and even this sharp, grating ice has to be better than breathing in the dust and grime. It's cold inside too, even though the heating dial's turned up. Must be broken. The hallway is rather cluttered, a lot of furniture from the living room's been pressed into here. A TV there, computer here. The mauve sofa's wedged up against the door to the kitchen – I wonder if it will fall on me as I pass but that would just be too easy and the world doesn't work like that. Never fear though, every narrative has its end and so will mine. So will... mine.
Passing through into the living room, I put my bag by the one piece of furniture remaining: a rather insignificant, inexpensive coffee table. It's a little cluttered by my laptop, coffee mugs, coasters and sheets of paper, all torn from A4 notebooks and covered in varying degrees of the same hand, from neat to scruffy to illegible, that being my particular favourite. I've always thought it represents one of those good days of writing, where the words are just spewed out across the page.
The rest of the room is cluttered. I never said it was empty. The furniture has been replaced with many inexpensive, priceless... books! There's piles of them, everywhere, some half open, some fully closed, some reading books, some research books, an abundance of notebooks, all colours and sizes. Come one, come all, come see the writer's work shop display! But seriously, this, this is everything.
See that fire-place at the far end of the room? I had that wood carved especially; it's mahogany, rich and red, almost the shade of blood. And the hearth, that marble slate before the cream carpet starts: that almost exhausted the funds from my latest masterpiece which, by the way, is one of those mauve, leather-bound books sitting on the mantel. The other three are mine as well.
The laptop on the table is relatively new. It's been in a writer's possession almost six months now, since the start of this novel. Lila liked to do that... she used to purchase a computer at the beginning of every book and then she'd use it, just for that novel, nothing else. That was her name, the woman who first set her fingers on these keys, carefully choosing every word she wrote down. She was a lot more particular than me but even so, even so... I sometimes forget. It somehow feels wrong that I wasn't the one to start this novel when it's going to end so perfectly.
Making a rough pile of the sheets and their varying degrees of scrawl, I begin typing up the extracts and scene ideas, filing each into a folder with its own heading or occasionally adding to one of the existing files. I'm not as precise as Lila was but I do try to remember to do this once a week. It helps me to see how the main frame is building and where another scene might be required or sometimes even a whole chapter. Pretty soon, there will just be the ending left to write.
Hours trundle by, mocking me with their snail's pace and I start to develop a pain in my neck and my fingers are aching, the callouses from years of typing not enough to prevent it. There's a knock at the door. I lose my place and a rush of anger grabs a-hold of me, causing me to slam the laptop lid into the table.
“Damn it!” I swear convulsively. I take deep breaths, I steel myself against the second knock and then stomp to the door, shoving hard against the sofa on the way. It's Mike.
“What the fuck do you want?” I demand, fumbling in my pocket for my cigarettes, just for the effect. I light one, my hands shaking a little as I do and his hand abruptly snatches it from my mouth. He holds it a moment, expertly twirling it between his fingers, practically drooling. “Go ahead and smoke it,” I snarl.
“No thank you,” he says firmly. He stubs it out against the wall and I try not to cringe as the singed end touches my delicate paper, leaving a blackened ring. He nods to himself. Smart arse. Arse hole. How dare he come over here, dressed in his snazzy grey suit with his shiny, leather shoes and that ridiculous polka dot tie as if, as if... as if he still lived here.
“What do you want?” I ask sulkily, standing in the doorway with my arms crossed against my chest, trying to resist the need to set my fist against his big, tanned nose and black out those two green balls. He seems to really think about this, pausing long enough for me to consider closing the door on him. Then he swallows, his big adam's apple convulsing and he speaks:
“Do you want to go running tomorrow?” he asks. I stare at his lips, marveling at how they could have known what words to form but then, they always were very talented.
“Why not Wednesday?” I ask, subdued and confused.
“Sounds good,” he replies. “See you then.” Mike waves, walking backwards down the path and I raise my hand in a half wave before making a fist and setting it against my face. I can feel the long nails etching crescent moons into my flesh but I stand there a long time, just looking out, everything forgotten.
Back inside, the room feels different somehow and I can't seem to settle back down to typing so instead I just sit, ruffling absently through the piles of books, soon searching for one in particular. It's small and leather-bound with a duck-egg blue cover and on the inside page is Lila's signature. I make a terrible mess, my ruffling changing to frantic searching as the panic wells in my chest and I shove books back and forth, toppling piles, crying heavily. If I don't find it... but of course I do. It's on the table; half covered by the multitude of paper but even so, it is clearly visible and evidentially safe from harm.
I hold it a while, just pressing the book against my chest, crying for the girl who filled it with such careful words. In that moment, I feel more connected to Lila than ever before but it doesn't prevent me from relishing the snorting that will come, the prolonged laughter and ridicule at her expense that has become an almost routine for me. When I'm down. I open the book eagerly and let my eyes rest upon the words, absolving my predecessor; all her thoughts, her feelings. Her ideas.
I had a lovely day. We went down to the park as planned and sat on the bench, throwing bread for the ducks. They all waddled over on their strange, webbed feet, hooting and flapping at us. I laughed so hard when he started impersonating them that I thought it might bring my period on early. Seriously! And then he took me out for a meal, all expenses on him! He dressed up real nice in a dark suit with his favourite tie (that made me smile) and I took his arm and didn't we look a pair.
It was a little restaurant, a nice, quiet place. Very cosy. The table cloth was white, the chairs nicely padded and the lighting was lovely. Turned down just low enough to be romantic but at the same time, we could see what we were eating and I could see his beautiful eyes and that shock of rust coloured hair combed back and slick with gel. He pressed his strong, firm hand against my leg and I thought: this is how Briar has to feel about Eric. Her pulse needs to beat faster when he passes, her flesh needs to burn when he takes a bucket from her hand and their fingers touch, her mouth needs to throb every time he speaks, every time she sees his tongue rolling over words.
Is it wrong of me to find myself so connected with her? Especially when I plan for her to be the victim of this romance?
But oh, this is the way it must be! Sophie enchants me, there's something so warm and soft about her, I don't think I've ever loved any of my characters as much as I do her. This book, this will be my greatest masterpiece. No longer will I stand in the shadow of others, no longer will my books be placed on the bottom of the shelf. This is the beginning of perfection.
______________________
It's a much weaker second half and one of my least favourite sections but hopefully I'll be able to bring it up to scratch with a little help.
I look forward to more.
Also, kill the adverbs. It can be forgiven for now, because you wrote it for NaNo, so telling is almost impossible to avoid. Now that it's over, though, you should get rid of them.