Some more of the novel (it’s definitely a novel now):
As the lift finally freed itself from between floors Georgina spilled out into the reception area. The redhead behind the desk stared at her for a minute before speaking, “how long have you been in there?”
“Oh I’d say half an hour. No one responded when I pressed the buzzer,” Georgina replied.
“I guess it just decided to rest itself.”
“Really? That’s your response? Not sorry for all the trouble you’ve been put to? Not, are you okay? Just, oh it must have reset itself,” said Georgina, her cheeks flushing with the heat of rage now boiling up.
The receptionist continued to stare at her blankly in silence.
“Nothing? No apology? Nope?” the red Mist rising higher. “Okay fine. Whatever. You clearly don’t care about the people who visit your offices, so you probably don’t care about the people who work in your offices either. Thanks to your ridiculous lift I have now missed my interview. An interview for a job I clearly would have been perfect for but now don’t think I should even bother about asking to be seen on an alternative date because why would I want to work in a place that treats its people as if they’re nothing!”
“Miss Fitzpatrick?” came a voice to her left
Georgina spun round to face the tall conventionally handsome thirtysomething man in the Ted Baker suit who was calling her name. The mist still at its full height she snapped, “what?!”
“We’re so sorry about keeping you waiting. The last two interviews over ran. If you’re ready we’ll see you now,” he said offering a half smile, half look of incredulity.
“I… Yes, I… Thank you. I will… Yes,” was all she could offer in response.
Not based remotely on experience or factual events – honest!
You’re still here! I’m so sorry – I forgot you. I’ve been busy. Writing! Here’s a little something I’ve been working on – possibly the start of the novel or maybe just the start of a short story:
If the morning had gone differently she wouldn’t have been stuck in the lift. She felt certain of that. The lift was the inevitable result of a catalogue of tiny disasters that day had thrown at her. It had started with the burnt coffee that the twelve year old behind the Starbucks counter had made for her and had ended with the lift grinding to a halt between the 11th and 12th floors. The interview was probably over by now. They’d probably decided that she was one of the worst human beings to have walked the planet. How dare she apply and then not show up at the appointed time. Didn’t she know how busy they were. Didn’t she want the career in journalism her CV had claimed she did.
Between the coffee and the lift there had been the man on the Bakerloo line who had pressed himself into her back, when there was clearly enough room in the carriage for him not have done. That was followed by the infant that spat up their banana over her Mulberry satchel. Then there was the call from Anthony. That just seemed spiteful. He knew the day was important. He knew what the job meant to her. But did he let her have that moment? Of course not. Why would he do that when he could inflict maximum damage with just a well placed phone call. She didn’t take the call, that would have been foolish, but she did check the voicemail. That was her mistake. She knew realistically that she should have checked it after the interview, but the temptation was too great.
“It’s me,” the message began – the King of the Obvious strikes again. “I just need to know when you’ll be out of the flat. I have someone coming to look at it tonight and I could do with it being tidy. If you could stay out until after seven that would be helpful. But more importantly if you could let me know when you’ll be moving out then I can just get everything closed off.”
No goodbye. Not even a hint of kindness. Just business. She could still hear it in his voice: the bitterness. She’d hurt him and he wasn’t letting that go any time soon. He was going to hold on to that feeling for as long as he could. His inability to unclench was one of the reasons she’d decided to leave him. That and, of course, because of Michael.
I’ve got more, but it’s the start.
Idea for novel:
Set in Victorian London. A young woman discovers she has special powers of some sort. She only gets them when she’s 18 or something. She has to hide them or be considered a freak by her family. But then she has to use them to save her sister from a life threatening situation. Her family are deeply religious and decide to ostracize her. She is sent to America to live with her mysterious uncle (some sort of Quaker name – Dutch?) There she learns that he is part of a secret society that foretold her coming and so he agrees to teach her in the ways of The Force (but it’ll be called something that won’t infringe on copyright laws.) After these trials she has to face off against a big bad.
I’m still working on it.