Eliza Gray's Secret Places, Chapter 1

13:07

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!

14:00

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

14:12

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.

Her gaze followed his ‘Doors opening,’ sang a woman. The doors burst open. in a way that suggested to Eliza and Eliza’s gaze fell upon

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.

a sex god. the most handso followed swept travelled from the riding boot to a Levi’s 501s-clad leg (Franny will like that bit), to a well-worn scuffed donkey jacket sharp charcoal suit leather jacket to a rakish white silk scarf. Eliza felt a liquid warmth flood course through her nether regi veins. The man looked like Brad Pitt George Clooney a young Pierce Brosnan Jeff Bridges without the beard.

Oh dear. I look up. Hope nobody's noticed me sniggering behind my palm.

was 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!

‘Thank you,’ spluttered 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 was practically virtually almost brushing her body She could still feel the light pressure of his palm as he followed her out of the lift. She turned to look at him. ‘Are you going to Nanowrimo?’ Damn! How ridiculous it sounded!

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 said blushed.

‘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.

The sound of unoiled wheels rattling and squeaking invade The lift doors open. Out steps a man in a black leather jacket and Levi’s. He looks uncannily like Brad Pitt. He meets my gaze. His eyes are like chips of blue… Oh my God!