Chapter One
An Appointment with the Boss
The sight which met the receptionist’s eyes as I stumbled through the glass revolving door must have been one worthy of a comedy award. My face was flushed red from all the running and the wind had swept every dripping wet hair over to one side of my head. With my coat buttoned crooked and the heel of my shoe in my left hand, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was mistaken for a drowned rat.
Andrea, the receptionist standing behind a semi-circular white desk, barely looked up from her computer as I walked further into the lobby. I swung my bag onto the counter and panted loudly, resting my head on my crossed arms. Andrea continued to type and only spoke once she’d finished her email.
“You’re late,” she said. She was trying to sound angry but there was laughter in her voice; no doubt she found my unusual appearance highly amusing.
“I know,” I straightened up, “I was late leaving school...and then I missed the train...’cos it started raining and my heel came off...”
“Well you’ve missed your appointment...” she scrolled down the endless list of bookings she had typed up in a spreadsheet. “Your father should be finishing up with the editor in about ten minutes, and then he has a five minute window until the photographer gets back.”
“Ok. Do you know why he so urgently wants to talk to me?”
My mother started hurriedly tidying behind the desk, putting pens back into pots and gathering empty mugs. “I think we both know, don’t you?”
I nodded sadly, dragging my bag from the desk and limping down the nearest corridor.
“Don’t expect any coffee,” Mum called from the lobby, “we’re running desperately low and it’s so expensive...”
I’m sure I’ve told my mother a hundred times before that I can’t stand coffee, but I didn’t say anything and carried on towards my father’s office. I reached the end of the corridor and threw myself into a soft leather armchair, resting my head on the wall and staring at the ceiling. This foyer was smaller than the main one, painted bright white and was studded with little round wall lamps that gave out light so dazzling it made me squint. On black metal tables were tall, spiky plants and as it was nearing Christmas, ice-blue tinsel was draped on every possible surface. A rather dead-looking tree twinkled dimly with fairy lights.
When I left school an hour and a half ago at four pm (was if really only an hour and a half? It felt like half a day), I found I had received a text message from Hannah, Mum’s personal assistant, telling me I had to be at the office by five as my Dad wanted to talk to me. This was unusual; I rarely have to make an official appointment to see my own father.
But I was more worried about the fact that I was already late, and the next train to the other side of London left in just fifteen minutes time. It would normally have taken me twenty minutes to run to the station, but in the bitter cold, heavy rain, growing darkness and herds of people on every street, I was unlikely to get there in less than half and hour.
It was worth a try anyway, I decided, pocketing my phone and breaking into an ungraceful skip. Soon I was soaked to the skin and my fingers were numb, despite the thin woollen gloves I wore. You might be wondering why I was going to so much trouble just to catch a train which ran several times an hour anyway, but I’m not telling you now because I think you’ll find out soon enough.
It couldn’t have been much earlier than ten past four that I was weaving through the never-ending swarm of people, occasionally tripping on a loose paving slab or running into a small child. Catching the heel of my shoe down a drain-grate it conveniently snapped in half, leaving me to hobble the next mile to the station.
I really was kidding myself that I would catch the train in time. Flying down the two flights of grey stone steps to the Underground platform, I could literally hear my train leaving without me on it. That’s when I gave up the running, bought a ticket for the four fifty-two train and sat in a coffee shop for the next quarter of an hour, knowing I would be in trouble when I did finally make it to CHAT Magazine Headquarters. I sipped at a weak hot chocolate which looked and tasted of dishwater, texting Hannah and telling her to please beg for mercy from my father on my behalf. She refused.
On the train, I got looks of both sympathy and...more sympathy. I couldn’t bear to think of what I looked like at that moment, but I guessed people were thinking I’d just gone surfing fully-clothed. I stood lopsided, pushed up against the doors, wondering why on earth I was putting myself through this. I arrived at my destination by quarter past five.
It seemed like I had only just caught my breath, and then I was running again. By now the sky was inky-black, but Trafalgar Square was illuminated with golden and glittering Christmas lights. I made the executive decision that the fastest way across was to go straight through the crowds, trying my very best not to kill any pigeons in my haste. I have to admit I was a bit jealous of all these happy tourists wrapped up warm in fur coats, bobble hats and pashminas. They also seemed to take great joy in standing in my way. Living in London all my life, I have learnt that this is what tourists do best.
By now the rain was falling in sheets. Even if I had jumped underneath a fountain I couldn’t have got much wetter, and the water was so cold my cheeks felt like they were being pricked with hot needles. I was tiring quickly too, not used to so much physical activity in one go.
At half past five I arrived at the office, thoroughly stressed out and really not in the mood to talk to anybody politely.
Dad’s office door swung open and out walked Editor in Chief Tommy Beadle. Straightening his thick-framed glasses, hugging a pink clipboard and pulling down a tartan waistcoat he saw the state I was in, and smiled awkwardly. He shuffled over to me and said in his hushed voice, “I’d be nice to him if I were you, Lydia. He’s in a worse mood than usual.”
“Why?” I asked.
Tommy said nothing and shuffled away towards the elevator, pretending he hadn’t heard me.
Reluctantly leaving my chair I walked over to the door and pushed it slowly open.
“Dad?”
The room was blissfully warm compared to outside, the heaters pumping out far too much hot air for what we could afford. The curtains were drawn firmly shut, blocking out the hectic scenes from the street, and my feet sunk into the thick burgundy carpet. The walls, also painted the same boring white as every other wall in the building were decorated with modern, artistic paintings with swirling colours. Framed magazine mock-ups dominated the whole of one wall and a few tacky awards sat proudly on the shelves. Several piles of paper surrounded my father as he tapped on the keyboard behind his desk in the corner of the room. Seeing me, he glanced up, only to lower his head again to the computer as he talked to me.
“It’s nice of you to grace me with your presence, Lydia,” he said with his usual sarcasm.
“Yes. I know I’m a bit late...”
“Over half an hour. What kept you?”
“Mr Harley asked me to help with the after-school auditions for next term’s musical. It was only when I left school at four that I got the text from Hannah, and by then it was impossible I would catch the train in time, so I had to wait for the next one.”
There was no point in telling the full story as it would only bore him even more, and I doubt he was listening properly anyway.
“Well, I have five minutes. Luckily,” he added deliberately to make me feel bad, “sit down.”
Points:
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Canary word: Present
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Original Text:
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125,013 Literary Works • 672,844 Reviews
Yeah, the Dad is sort of getting desperate there... he's so fed up of his daughter not wanting to do what he wants her to do, so he's clutching at straws!
Thanks for your suggestions, kitty! I've actually fully described the background to the introduction at the beginning of chapter 2, where I tell the reader all about the firm and the attitude of the characters to each other, which is too complicated to explain now lol. Looking at your opinions though, I think I might try to incorporate more of it closer to the beginning.
Oh, and about the shoes in the reception. I figured that, as the reader finds out in the next chapter, the main character spends A LOT of time in that office so maybe she would have a spare pair of shoes somewhere. I didn't make that very clear did I? Lol.
Thanks again.
It's well written, except I just have to draw attention to
I took the paper from him and nodded as I read it. The grades were no surprise to me. A ceremonious column of Es was listed down the page next to English, Maths, Science, Languages, History, Geography and Religion. There was one C - PE. The only two subjects which met my father’s standards were the two which meant the most to me but the least to him; Music and Drama, both As.
Perhaps you should leave the As until the dialogue? Also:
“If you really want to pursue a career in...performance,” he said it as if it pained him, “then you should at least get a well paid job first, just to get you started. What about a doctor, or a scientist or a -”
It's just that it's pretty obvious she's not going to be a doctor. Sorry. Although aybe her father's just getting frantic. Maybe you could put in a different occupation? I don't know...
I think this is good but a little confusing. Maybe you could move the flash back of the text message and the journey and everything to the beginning? Because I think your current introduction isn't that appealing and the receptionist is her mother so why would your persona expect her to react in an alarmed manor? Naturally, the reader might but you're writing in first person so that doesn't really make sense.
Other than that, I thought your dialogue was nice and the persona is quite well developed as are the parents but maybe add more description so your reader can visualise everything. Where do the family work? A hotel? Or a business firm? And the characters. There was a little about the mother but how does the father look? Remember the five sense because they're essential to writing. Does the building maybe smell of mould? A sign that it hasn't been very well looked after through lack of money and such. Or is there the smell of decay maybe? And sound. What can be heard? Are the windows open for circulation?
Grammatically it was quite well written and I thought you had a nice variety of sentence lengths. Here's a few small suggestions -
“I was late leaving school...and then I missed the train...’cos it started raining and my heel came off...” [An ellipse is just like any other punctuation. It follows straight after the word before it and then you need a space before the next word so space before 'and' etc.]
A ceremonious column of Es was listed down the page next to English, Maths, Science, Languages, History, Geography and Religion. There was one C - PE. The only two subjects which met my father’s standards were the two which meant the most to me but the least to him; Music and Drama, both As. [You don't need to mention anything other than the E's at this point because your persona draws attention to them later through speech which is much more effective than this list.]
“If you really want to pursue a career in...performance,” [Space before performance.]
“She said you have an amazing talent for drama...and that you’re quite musical as well.” [Space before and.]
“Really!?” I said smugly, [Just use the question mark. Double punctuation looks untidy and it isn't necessary.]
I smiled, and set about trying to find a new pair of shoes. [In a reception? Why would there be shoes in a reception?]
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Overall, I think you have a good start but it would benefit from a little more description. It will be interesting to see where the plot goes from here.
Yay I'm so glad you liked it! Here's the second part of chapter 1.
I took the seat opposite him and waited for him to finish what he was typing, print it out, and call his assistant for a cup of the scarce and expensive coffee. He removed a jacket revealing a light pink shirt and silver tie then ran his fingers through short, dark hair. Only then did he look at me properly, and scowled.
“I hope nobody important saw you as you came in,” he said, “We wouldn’t want clients thinking we hang around with drowned rats.”
My suspicions had been confirmed.
“I’m sure you’ve guessed why I asked you to come straight from school,” Dad said, pulling a folded piece of white paper from an envelope. “It’s about this term’s grades. I’m afraid they’ve got even worse than they were three months ago.”
I took the paper from him and nodded as I read it. The grades were no surprise to me. A ceremonious column of Es was listed down the page next to English, Maths, Science, Languages, History, Geography and Religion. There was one C - PE. The only two subjects which met my father’s standards were the two which meant the most to me but the least to him; Music and Drama, both As.
“What sort of employment are you going to get at this rate Lydia?” he asked me, raising his voice slightly at my uncaring expression. “Do you not care about your future? Do you want to end up without a job, living off microwave meals and child benefits by the time you’re thirty...?”
Undeterred by Dad’s scrutiny I set the paper down on the desk in front of him and pointed to the bottom of the page.
“I think you might be forgetting these two,” I said, “two As in Music and Drama. I think you’ll find if you do some research that I won’t require a qualification in most of these other subjects as long as I can sing and as long as I can act.”
“Not this again...”
“I don’t care what GCSEs I get as long as I pass those two. Then I can do whatever I want.”
“Lydia, darling,” Dad said in his patronising tone, “what you have to remember is you only turned fifteen less than a week ago. There’s no need for you to make rushed decisions about what you want to do with your life.”
I leant back into the chair and folded my arms to my chest, ready to repeat the argument we had had so many times over the past few months.
“If you really want to pursue a career in...performance,” he said it as if it pained him, “then you should at least get a well paid job first, just to get you started. What about a doctor, or a scientist or a -”
“Dad. Look,” I said matter-of-factly, pointing harder at my grade card and pushing it further under his nose. “Music, A. Drama, A. Everything else, C or lower. Can it be put any clearer than in black and white? I don’t want to do well in all those cruddy subjects because I’ll never need them! I don’t want to sit at a desk all day no matter how much I’m getting paid!”
The door swung open and in the doorway stood a man who must have been approaching seven foot tall. He was dressed in scruffy blue jeans, a red polo shirt and anorak, and around his neck hung his camera - the only possession he never let out of his sight. His trainers were splashed with muddy water.
“Oh,” he said in a thick Welsh accent, when he saw me leaning over the desk with a look of rage on my face, “I’m sorry, Mr Chambers. I didn’t expect your daughter to be here. Should I wait outside for you to finish?”
“No Jim, it’s ok,” Dad said, not taking his eyes off me, “Lydia was just leaving.” He looked at me. I knew that look. It was the ‘don’t you dare argue with me’ look. Gathering up my grade card and lifting my bag onto my shoulder I got up and marched straight passed Jim the photographer without even acknowledging him. I felt bad about this later because he is probably the nicest man who works in that building. I strode decisively back down the corridor, frustrated. Mum saw my face when I got back to her desk and she bit her lip.
“He’s right you know,” she said.
“Not you as well.”
“I’ve seen your grade card. Quite frankly, it’s appalling. I had your head teacher on the phone twenty minutes ago, and it seems she thinks much the same as me.”
Mum had taken her hair out of the tight bun which had previously been piled on top of her head, and it was now flowing down her shoulders in black waves.
“Let me guess. I’m having extra classes after school, lunchtime detention for two weeks and homework over Christmas.” I was all too familiar with Mrs Kay’s methods of discipline.
“Yes. But she also mentioned something else.”
“What?”
Mum looked down at her desk and pretended to be doodling on a piece of paper. “She said you have an amazing talent for drama...and that you’re quite musical as well.” She looked embarrassed, and I was glad.
“Really!?” I said smugly, throwing my bag down onto the chair beside me, “Well isn’t that surprising!”
The phone rang and Mum took the call, putting on her best posh voice and writing notes on a fluorescent yellow sticky-note. I smiled, and set about trying to find a new pair of shoes.
Hello Tres*Chic,
Wow, very nice piece ! I don't have time to go over grammar but I definitely enjoyed reading it. I'm excited to know what happens next so hurry up with the next chapter ! =]
- afamilarsmile