God, it's loud!
I open my eyes one at a time, having a terrible time adjusting to the room's brightness. I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The incredibly annoying buzzing sound of my alarm hurries me.
A massive headache has nested itself in the back of my head. I slowly bring my covers over my face to hide from the white light blinding me through the windows of my room.
That's right... I'm in London. But why did I have to wake at... 7 AM? It's too fucking early. I look at my phone under the covers, and the light makes me frown until I adjust my lighting to its minimum. I have a text from a contact named 'Ash ;)'. I don't know anyone by the name 'Ash'. I click on the message and unlock my phone to read it.
Ash ;): It definitely was. I hope to see you again.
Oh my God! Who is this person? What happened last night?
I look through my phone for more clues. I read my last text before Ash's. It's from Sophie. Reading her name rings a bell, and it takes about four seconds for some memories to come back.
I remember that she works at Wright Books and we met again at the pub next to the hotel. We got talking, and she definitely said something about a band. Yeah! The band! I remember them. Ash is the drummer. He was hot!
Oh god, what happened? I can't seem to remember what went on after that. Thinking about it thoroughly makes my headache even more. I let it go and give another look at my phone. Who is 'Arrogant Jerk'?
I clicked on his name and read our messages. Whoever it is, I seem to be comfortable with him enough to talk like trash. Why would I want to meet someone I don't remember about that early in the morning? I know no one here.
I look at my phone again, and it seems like we talked for seven minutes, twenty-two seconds. I decide to trust the last night's overly drunk me and go to brunch with this person. I won't dress up. I don't feel like it, and I feel like I don't have to with the language I used in my texts yesterday.
I swing my legs out of bed, and my head spins a little. I get up and walk to the bathroom to brush my teeth and do something with my hair. My blonde locks fall messily on my face. I gather all my hair and tie it loosely on top of my head in a messy bun.
I head back to the bed and put back the jeans I had on yesterday that rests on the floor. I see my AC DC shirt next to it but decide to wear the Rolling Stone shirt I also brought in my bag. I put on my black Converse and gathered all of my stuff in my luggage to be ready to go when I return from the brunch. I take my purse and look for painkillers to buzz the headache away. Thank God I find some. I swallow them quickly with some water before heading to my vibrating phone.
I take it in my hand and see the same number as yesterday written on it.
Arrogant Jerk: I'm here a bit early. I am waiting for you in the hall.
Great... He is here early. I already don't feel like meeting anyone today. I have to meet somebody I can't even remember talking to. I feel like I should hurry and get out of my room, so I take my purse and walk through the door.
The door closes loudly behind me, and it awakes the pain in the front of my skull now. I can feel my heart beating through my head and it. Is. HORRIBLE. Every step I take is making the pain echo through my brain. I click on the lift's main floor button to get me down and then press both of my temples with my fingers to relieve some of the pain away.
It works when I get to the main floor and walk to the hall to meet the 'Arrogant Jerk'. It turns out I had picked out the perfect name for this person.
Marcel Wright stands up from the couch he is sitting on. He sees me. Both of my hands fall next to my body, the pain taking over every of my nerve. Why would I agree to meet him again? Just the sight of him would have sufficed to give me a headache. I can't help but roll my eyes, which hurts me more than anything.
I step closer to him, meeting him halfway, minimising any facial expressions to avoid my headache getting any worse. I really regret drinking that many beers last night.
He is standing tall in front of me, very well dressed with another polo and marine pants. He still looks classy as hell.
A quick look down at myself reveals a shitty hungover immature girl. I am clearly underdressed and not mentally prepared for this. My outfit reflects precisely how I feel on the inside, and now that I know with whom I'm having brunch, I really don't feel like putting on a fight.
"Hungover?"
I frown at him. His tone wasn't judgy or cold, but how would he know?
"Mm-hmm..." I murmur, barely having the strength or the nerve to look him in the eyes. "Can we go now?"
One look at Mr Wright reveals a slight cold smile. I sigh. Everything happens for a reason. I need to try to make this work. I follow him, guiding me out of the hotel to his car parked right up front. He opens my door and closes it very softly. I didn't realise right away that his gentleness was actually a nice gesture from him, considering my headache. I also realised that he was overall not as cold as yesterday towards me. He had talked to me with a slightly amused tone, and I decided to be the cold one responding almost harshly to him to get this meeting over with.
He sits next to me, and he doesn't close his door with the same care. It hints that I ruined the only chance to have him in a 'good mood'.
I try to change my mind, but the only thing that strikes me right away is the smell in the car. It's delicate, but it awakens my senses. I tried to shut them down because of my headache, but it was so smooth and appealing. I am not good at recognising scents, but it smells sweet. It's maybe a little spicy too, but I can only guess that it's his cologne. Whatever it is, it comforts me as I find myself slightly more at ease in his presence.
He ignites the car and slowly drives away through the streets of Hayes to get us I don't know where. I decide to take this time to take in my surroundings. His car is immaculate and quite luxurious. I quickly look at the back seat and see loads of books next to a worn-out leather satchel. It must be old.
"You are a curious one, aren't you?" He says, and even though it's a question, it's more of a statement.
I stay silent and get my attention on him. I know I shouldn't stare, but I'm a 'curious one' like he said. His posture is very straight, but I could have guessed yesterday that he has a stick up his arse. Although, he seems very put together. The books on his back seat agree with my initial thoughts. Is he still at College? How old is he?
"If you are going to stare at me, maybe you would want to let me in on your thoughts." He coldly says, not making eye contact.
I decide to go all in. He wants to know what I've been thinking about. That's what he is going to get.
"OK." I take a moment to look at and analyse his attitude. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-six." He responds as quickly as I have asked.
"What are all these books on your back seat?"
"They are for my research."
"So you are still in College?"
"I'm finishing my PhD."
"What do you study?" I ask. My interest has clearly peaked. I must admit to being a little impressed.
"Comparative Literature."
"Where?"
"King's College in London."
"When are you graduating?"
"End of the term in May."
"Why would you take on my book if you have your hands full with graduation?"
For the first time, he actually turns his head to consider the response he will answer me. My questions were all coldly asked, and he responded the same, just as quickly. He looks at me a second and returns his attention to the road.
"Like I said to you yesterday-"
"We haven't talked about anything yesterday. You were too busy ignoring and insulting me." I let out in the heat of the moment and regret adding fuel to the fire instantly. It just immediately confused me.
He gives me a stern look, and I quickly look away, being maybe a bit scared to feel his cold wrath again.
"We talked on the phone last night."
I frown, and he gazes at me just in time to notice my not so subtle reaction of surprise.
"I don't remember a lot about last night..."
He looks at me again furtively, and I think I catch him smirk. It lightens the air in the car. I seem to relax as well. It changes the mood drastically.
"I don't know if I'm glad about that or not." He says, and I frown. What could he have told me that he would want me to forget? "Anyway, I think your story is good, and I really like your way of writing. I... It spoke to me. I don't want anyone working on it except me."
"Possessive much?" I let out with an arrogance I didn't know I had. I feel kind of sorry to act so immaturely with him. It's not me at all. But I calm myself by thinking it's truly justified.
"I just don't want anyone to crush the fundamental essence of the story."
Ouch! I replied coldly to his compliment, and he came back to me with the sweetest comment about something I wrote, something I created. Yet again, I crushed the glimpse of kindness he was showing me as he responded very coldly.
"So, what is this brunch about?" I ask, agreeing to give him a chance.
"I want to convince you to work together on your story to share it with the world." He says and looks over my shoulder before making a wide turn right.
"The world? That's a bit ambitious!" I giggle lightly, faking half of it to lighten the mood between us. "Why don't we just start by getting to know each other?" I suggest as I would prefer seeing him as a potential friend than the arrogant jerk he is known as on my phone.
"I'm a hard shell to crack." He only responds, and it lights up something in me. I take that as a challenge. I will crack his shell one day, and I won't stop until he does if he wants to work with me.
"Let's just begin by telling me your birthday." I smile at him, and he looks at me with a 'really!?' look.
"It's November 17th." He answers and looks at me, puzzled as I don't ask anything, waiting for him to question me back. Which he doesn't.
"You can be polite and ask me mine, you know..." I see him roll his eyes, and I'm slightly amused that we share the same habit, even if it is considered bad.
"When is your birthday?" He finally obliges, and it makes me smile brighter than expected.
"October 31st."
"On Halloween?" He frowns at me. His curiosity is definitely peaked.
"Yes, sir!" I proudly smile.
"That's why you are a nightmare to be with..."
I'm taken aback by his comment, my brows high on my forehead. I look at him, and he looks back at me. For a second, we don't say a thing, but I end up bursting into laughter. That was unexpected.
"Is that your attempt at a joke?" I ask him as I can see the corner of his lips lifting a bit.
"I guess you got me figured out."
"Then why were you a jerk to me yesterday?" I risk myself asking, very gently, because I really can't figure him out.
One minute he seems calm and almost playful. The next, I want to rip his head off his shoulders, and I'm back at finding him very intriguing and pleasant until he screws it up with a mean comment or his usual cold tone.
"I'm not a jerk." He spits out arrogantly again, and I get this déjà-vu feeling.
"Then you are just acting like it because that is how it comes across."
He doesn't respond anything. He instead focuses on the road to find parking in front of the café. He finally does, turns off the car and gets out quickly. I find it arrogant, but I feel instantly sorry for thinking that badly of him. He opens my door gallantly and gives me his hand to help me climb out.
Why is he so cold but yet so polite and gentlemanly towards me? It charms me. Never did Steeve do something like that. My father might, but I don't reckon if he ever did.
He stops by the back door to take his brown satchel and locks them with the sound of his horn. It makes me cringe as my headache persists.
From now on, he stays cold, but he is very polite and professional with me. He seems to know what he is doing, and I can't help but trust his words. He came here prepared, and he has the good arguments to sell himself to me. If he hadn't told me about his studies earlier, I would have learned them now by his very distinguished use of his vocabulary. His intellect is undeniable, and it charms me to have a thorough conversation on art and literature with somebody as passionate as I am on the subject.
Even though he looks pretty professional and collected throughout the whole time we eat, I can see the passion that actually drives him to publish my story. That's the main reason why I won't say no to him, but I make him work for it. I can't seem weak. He mustn't know how half desperate I really am.
My sight gets lost on his hand as he takes the salt before me to put on his beans. It both strikes me with a memory of tequila and frightens me with the scars I notice on his large hands. I can conclude by his knuckles that he has a temper. Why else would he punch something or someone?
"Like you said yesterday, my name is on the building, but I feel like I have to constantly prove myself. I want to do that with your story. We can make it into a success that will connect with a lot more people than just you and me. Together, we can mean something more than what people expect of us, and we can be doing something that we actually love doing. We could be a great team."
He won me over with his final sales pitch because it proves how he is willing to work on my story. It's not just about me publishing my book with him. It's also about him and his place in his family's business. I respect that. It assures me of his commitment.
What I've also realised, and it has really been captivating me, as he was speaking, is his eye contact. His eyes never left mine the entire time, at a point where it was almost intimidating. His brows were furrowed, and he was staring right at me, never letting something distract him, not even the food in front of him. I felt important, I had his full attention, and I loved that.
He was looking at me through his squared glasses. In a way, I felt myself both attracted and warned by his deep soulful green eyes. They scrutinised every detail of my face as he wouldn't stop telling me why he really wanted us to work together. He told me he was a hard shell to crack, and that haunts me. I see in his eyes that he has a depth I can barely imagine about.
His confidence strikes me, and again I find myself torn between how irresistible it is to me, principally on a professional level, but it also makes me doubt that we would be a good team. I think we would both be too strong-headed for this to work, but what do I know about editing a book? I know nothing, and I think I must let my guard down with him and trust his will to make my story the greatest it can be despite the feud between our personalities. I don't condone his behaviour towards me, but I'm willing to let it slide to make my dream come true.
"So? What do you say?" He asks as if his confidence has melted away. He almost seems insecure, but it lasts only the time of his questions.
"Yes." I smile at him, nodding, excited to begin a new chapter of my life.
"Yes? You want to work with me?" He shows yet again a bit of vulnerability, so I take it in, hoping I will get more of that as we indeed work with each other.
"That's what I said." I smile wider as I am glad my headache has faded away.
He mirrors me, and I get a glimpse of a smile back, but he stays collected. It makes me frown to see him fight the expression of his feelings like that. Why is he not expressing his joy freely? I get the feeling that I'm going to have to work with an emotionless robot. At least, he made that pretty clear that my story is something we both will be working passionately on. That suffices me. It makes me happy.
The waiter comes by our table and looks from Marcel to me, smiling.
"Are you done?" He asks, and I nod, so he hurries himself to take our plates away. "Would you like something else? Maybe something to drink? Tea? Coffee?"
"Tea." Marcel and I speak at the same time.
"English Breakfast for me, please." I smile at the man.
"Same. Thank you."
He goes away, and I look back at my new editor.
"So? Now that I have agreed to work with you. What does it imply?" I question him, straightening myself on my seat, resting my arms on the table to bring me a bit closer to him, very interested in the task at hand and my responsibilities.
"I have reviewed your story and coloured it with notes and Post-its. You need to read them all and correct the changes that need to be made." He explains and gets in the same position I am. It shows me his great interest in the matter.
"What if I don't understand your point of view? Or if I don't understand the changes you want me to make?" I rush out, slightly panicking, as I remember the big pile of paper he had on his desk yesterday and all the Post-its stuck on it.
"You've got my cell phone number. You can text me. I can give you my email address if you want to send in revised parts. We can also meet on weekends to work on it in my office if you want." He suggests as he is super open to my insecurities.
"I would prefer not having to meet often," I say, and he steps instantly back against his chair, his wall shutting down on me as he seemed to have opened himself a bit. He offered me to text him personally, make things easier for me, put his life on hold to fit me in, and say something like that?! "I didn't mean it like that. It's not that I don't want to work with you..."
"It's OK, skip your excuses." He says coldly as the waiter serves our tea in front of us. "I would like the check, please."
"Now, sir, or after your tea?" The man politely puts his hands together and asks an arrogant Marcel.
"Now."
"Right away." The waiter smiles shyly at me, locking our eyes a second, and he leaves us alone.
"They are no excuses. Why are you not believing me?" I whisper with a stern tone, clearly upset he would not hear me out.
"I've heard enough." He lets out as he lifts his bum to take his wallet in his back pocket.
"You need to trust people, and it starts with me if you want to make this work." I fight his arrogance, but I cringe under the headache coming back.
I take the painkillers out of my purse and swallow them down with my tea. The hot steam helps calm my nerves as it's precisely the opposite of what he does to me. I feel angry when I'm around him, and I hate that. I feel like he drags me down with his mood all the time. It's not my fault he has issues. He needs to stop acting like that around me because he makes me mean the words I say.
Marcel takes money out of his wallet and puts it on the bill the waiter just brought. I take one last long sip of my tea and get up. I thank the waiter and exit the building without even glancing at Marcel. I walk to his car and wait for him to unlock the doors. At the sight of the flashing headlights, I open the door and sit on the passenger side.
With all the fuss that went on inside, he did not even give me my manuscript back. I just have to remind him to give it to me when we are back at the hotel.
He gets furtively inside the car and ignites the engine to drive me back to where he took me from. The silence is weighing on me. It's not in my nature to keep things bad with someone, so I really want to try to make things OK between us. We are going to be working together. There is no place for immature fighting.
I sigh deeply and look outside my window. My hands are getting cold because of the stress he makes me feel. I really can't stand this negativity. So I build my confidence up to talk to him. It doesn't seem like much, but it takes four minutes for me to rehearse in my head what I want to say to him to break this silence.
"I'm from Manchester. That's why I don't want to meet often." I whisper calmly, and since he doesn't say anything, I go on. "It's a six-hour bus ride. I have to take off work too, and I just can't miss school. These are the only reasons why I wouldn't want to come here every often."
He stays silent, and I haven't dared to look at him. I just wanted to clear my conscience.
"What do you study?" I hear him ask politely, and it surprises me to a point where I hurt my neck for looking at him so suddenly.
"I'm completing my Bachelor in History of Art at the University of Manchester." I shyly smile at him. I'm so happy he seems interested in me.
He actually asked me a question about myself. I had to make him ask me about my birthday earlier, so I feel happy that he willingly asked me something.
"Do you like it?"
"I do. I love it. I've always loved literature, and I initially wanted to study that, but analysing books thoroughly isn't my cup of tea. I don't like to destroy stories to insinuate things the writer probably did not even think about. It drives me crazy. I hate it. So I warn you, there will be none of that shit with me." I let out, getting caught up in my own thoughts.
"What do you want us to focus on when it comes to your story?" He asks me, making a brief eye contact that relieves me from the stress I had to start a conversation with him.
"I like that you don't want to destroy the 'essence of the emotions in the book. Emotions are the key for me. I want to take the readers on a journey and make them feel something."
"Then, that's what we'll do."
"Good." I risk myself a cheesy moment as I am the queen of that. "I'm glad you called back..."
He doesn't respond, and I take it far better than if he would have rolled his eyes. He keeps silent, biting the inside of his cheek.
"Look... I am... happy that you agreed to do this with me. I know it won't be easy, but I know I'm going to commit completely. You have my cellphone number, and I don't give that easily."
I wanted to joke and say that I figured so, but I don't want to risk another fight. I content myself to look at him and smile, wondering why and I can't help myself but question him.
"Why don't you?" I ask calmly, trying to have the most innocent tone so that he has no way to get angry at me.
I think about when I woke up this morning, finding all these new contacts in my phone, including him.
"Because I am not one to talk a lot."
Tell me something I don't know.
"Don't you have friends you want to reach out to?"
"No... My life pretty much consists of being at school or being at work."
"So you get me?" I reply, trying to make him talk more, but he doesn't answer.
"You never told me where you work." He changes the subject.
"Nando's. There's one right under my flat, so it really makes things easier."
"You live by yourself? I would have guessed you still stayed at your parents..."
"I live with my boyfriend."
"Again, I never would have guessed." He looks amused, genuinely surprised. It excites me. His reaction makes me very curious.
"What would you have guessed, actually?"
"I thought you would be a spoiled brat, still living with her parents, still having whatever she wants. Single, of course, blinded behind her perfect vision of what a man should be. Educated by the little portrait of a too kind and loving man in the books she would have read and the movies she would have seen. Strong head because she is always used to getting what she wants. Feisty and fun, until she makes up her mind that she doesn't like someone. Kind of afraid to take risks. That's why she would have chickened out on me."
"You are wrong." I let out firmly.
"I know. I'm glad I am, but don't get used to it. I'm hardly ever wrong about something, and it's even harder to get me to admit it."
"I don't know whether to feel hurt or glad about what you thought of me."
"I'm sure you have some preconceptions of me, too."
"One thing I want to make clear, though, I didn't chicken out yesterday. Your negative attitude drove me away. But I do have a delusional idea of love. How did you know that?"
"Your protagonist. She is very innocent, very naive. I thought you would have made her to your personality." He very obviously ignores my remark on his negativity and goes on with answering my question.
"I might have, but it wasn't intentional. I write about what I know, so it seems obvious that I would paint her the way I am." I murmur, thinking back on what happens in the book to support his point of view. "You told me when we first met that you were expecting someone more mature. What did you mean by that?"
He frowns and sighs deeply. He bites the inside of his cheek and finally looks at me, only briefly, just to feel his gaze apologising to me for his behaviour yesterday.
"Your story is so mature and well written, something I came across only with experienced writers. I never would have guessed it would have been written by a first time writer. It was actually a compliment."
"Well, thank you. See? We can make it work."
"Wait until you read my comments on your book to decide if you like me or not."
"I have this feeling that you won't make it easy for me to do so."
"My job is to make your story the best it can be."
"You know, you can be human and decide to be friends with me too. Being an editor doesn't mean to be an arse."
"I'm not an arse." He responds coldly, and I know fun time is over now.
"Suit yourself," I respond to him in the same tone to maybe make him understand how his attitude sucks.
Spending time with him today made me understand that he can be OK. But he guards himself with so many walls that he often decides to shut one in my face when I feel like I could get to know him. I don't know if he has attachment issues, but I feel like, with him, it's going to be, most of the time, me wondering when the next roadblock is going to be.
We finally get to the hotel, and he parks right up front like he was two hours ago. He, yet again, opens my door for me, despite my quick attempt to do it by myself. He then opens the backdoor to take his satchel. He slides the leather flap and reveals my book, all printed and colourful from all the notes he made. He takes it and puts it in my hands. Clearly, I underestimated the weight it would have, but I don't flinch.
"I'll try not to bother you too much with my questions," I say to him as I turn my heels and walk towards the hotel.
I realise I didn't thank him for breakfast, but I don't want to break my mood and right now, I want to keep being bothered by him.
"It wouldn't bother me." He finally says, and it sparks up my heart with happiness. It completely surprises me, and it melts away my anger towards him. I can't help the smile growing on my lips to already know how I mean to him as a writer.
"Thank you for breakfast. I should get back to you in a few days."
I am not expecting a response, so I start to make my way back to the hotel. His baritone voice stops me, and I see him reaching to me.
"If you want, you can work with each chapter and review them one at a time."
"As you wish. I'm still very new to all of this."
"Me too. We are doing this together. Have a lovely way back home, Grace."