~ Brielle ~
[Can I just say before people start to read Brielle that I am no historian – even though I would love to be – and Brielle is a work of pure fiction and something I wrote for fun, it’s probably not accurate and I don’t know most things involving war and England and such, but I have tried and done as much research as I could without spoiling the experience. Although Brielle may not be the most precise piece of writing, I hope you will all love it anyway.]
- Mercedes x
London wasn’t the same as it was when Brielle Winters had first left it at fifteen years old. She looked at the city through different eyes, and she could see it for what it really was. Spectacular and thriving. The tooting of horns and grumbling of business men brought a smirk to her shapely, red lips. She could smell gas fumes and cologne and the beautiful, wafting aroma of baked goods came from a nearby shop.
She was half tempted to go and buy herself a blueberry muffin. Her favourite.
Big buildings seemed to go up and up forever and never stop. A lady shouted out of a high window, and venders promoted the brilliance of their products on street corners. Brielle watched a newspaper boy bounce around the pavement. Screaming out all of the latest headlines, his socks slipping.
Brielle was pulled from her marvelling at the clearing of a throat.
The taxi driver jabbed an outstretched palm in her direction. Expecting his money
Brielle dropped a note into his hand. “Oh – I’m sorry. Keep the change.”
He grumbled in response before bursting off in another direction like the mad hatter. “What lovely manners,” Brielle snorted, walking past the little newspaper boy.
“Newspaper, Ma’am?” He eagerly offered, lingering on her heels. “We ‘as all the latest headlines.”
Brielle kept walking. “No, thank you.”
Brielle didn’t want to be late to meet George, they were tasting cakes today, and she had been surprised when he said he wanted to come. He even took time off of work to be with her. She did, after all move back in with her parents just to be close to him. But she longed for Pateo, to be woken by her grandmother and the singing of birds. Not to be woken by the maid and forcefully shoved into the bath tub.
She walked past numerous shops, catching her reflection in the glass and thinking about how different she looked. She looked like she belonged in the city, like Pateo had never existed. Like she never used to sit out on the porch in her dressing gown, watching the waves battle to reach the shore first. She looked like your everyday city slicker, elegant and refined, not a hair out of place. If Ronan were to see her -
Brielle stopped herself short, shaking her head, willing herself not to think his name, yet alone conjure up the image of his green eyes. Or his dark hair, or the stubble that blanketed his jaw when he got lazy. She had called it off anyway, hadn’t she? Brielle all of a sudden felt as if she couldn’t breathe, she was drowning, caught in an ocean of businessmen and women. Claustrophobic. She felt stifled and flustered, wanting to forget Pateo and Ronan never existed, then, she might be able to go on with her delicate life like she was normal.
Brielle would be a great homemaker, that is what her father had once said, if she is able to overcome those ridiculous dreams of hers.
Breathing deeply, her brow furrowing, she broke free of the crowd and out into the street, clasping a hand to her heart. George would be waiting, she was late as it was. The taxi driver was supposed to take her to the front door of the cake shop but she’d insisted on getting out a few streets away, just to admire the city. To try and find a speckle of love for it. It had worked, faintly.
Her mother would say she was overreacting and that a woman should always be fashionably late. Brielle laughed sourly, righting her clip-on-earring and thinking about how absurd she was being. “So absurd,” she muttered.
Brielle felt her knees ready
|Jonathan Rhys Meyers||as Ronan O'Connell|
|Rose Byrne||as Brielle Winters|
|Blythe Danner||as Gabrielle Winters|
|Jude Law||as George Wright|