Well, okay. A good portion of my inspiration has come from my fantasies about him, which are based entirely on his good looks and have nothing to do with his personality. I’m pretty sure that’s non-existent.
But I’ve also been thinking about what he said, about how he shouldn’t bother dating because women are all the same, or some crap like that. He’s clearly a cynical, misogynistic asshat, and that further inspired me. Because while the men in real life are always disappointing, the men in romance novels are not.
Okay, I know. These books are full of mush that isn’t realistic, or whatever it was my mother said. But isn’t that the point? It’s escapism. There’s only an issue if I believe that it could be real.
I’m thinking about this as I dress for my first day of work at the bookstore a few days after Halloween, Stevie watching me from her spot on the sofa. She’s come to like curling up at my feet when I sleep and it’s adorable. I might not have a man right now, but her tiny, furry body keeps me company. I can see why Cat loves her so much.
Grabbing my bag, I give her a quick cuddle, then slip out into the cool morning air. An elderly lady is slowly coming up the front steps. She looks to be in her eighties, in slim-fitting navy pants with a finely-knitted shawl sweeping down over her shoulders. Her long gray hair is pulled back with a shell hair clip and long earrings dangle from her ears. She has an air of elegance about her, even if she is slightly stooped.
“Good morning,” I say as I pass.
She stops and glances at me, a smile warming her creased face. “Well, good morning.” She pauses as if thinking, before adding, “No one says good morning anymore.”
“You’re right. Not here in New York, anyway.”
“Oh, you’re from out of town!”
I nod. I guess you could say New Zealand is “out of town.”
“Have you moved into the building?” She raises one gnarled hand to gesture to the apartment building behind me.
“I’m staying with a friend. Do you live here?”
“For thirty-seven years now.” A light breeze blows past, loosening a few wisps of hair around her face. She turns and, clutching the handrail, begins to take another careful step up.
“Um… would you like some help?”
“Oh, thank you.” She lets me take her arm and I guide her up the stairs. “You’re a lovely young lady,” she says. We reach the top and she turns to me. “I’m Agnes.”
“Nice to meet you, Agnes. I’m Alex.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. If there is anything you need, let me know. It’s an odd bunch in there, but I’m always happy for visitors.” Her gray eyes light with a smile.
I grin in return, pleased that I stopped to talk to her. See, this is what neighbors should be like: friendly and kind, ready to lend you a cup of sugar and all that. Not grumbling because you offered their son pizza or, you know, dared to wait in the lobby.
And then a thought occurs to me. If she’s lived here for so long, maybe she knows Michael. Maybe she knows why he’s so, er, unpleasant.
“Thank you, Agnes. I wonder—” I hesitate, glancing into the building to make sure we are alone, then turn back to her, lowering my voice. “Do you know the man who lives on the second floor, Michael?”
“Michael.” The wrinkles around her eyes deepen. “Oh yes. Wonderful man.”
I frown. We must be talking about two different men.
“No. The man with the son, Henry?”
“Yes, Michael. He’s a very nice man. And Henry is a sweet boy.”
Wow.
“He’s had a rough time of it,” she continues. “Went through a divorce a few years back. I never did care for his wife.”
I stare at her.
“It’s a shame,” Agnes says with a shake of her head. “A lovely man like that without a wife.”
I’m speechless. A lovely man? How is it possible we are talking about the same guy? A thousand questions flood into my brain and I’m desperate to ask more but I don’t know where to begin. After a moment I realize that I’m just gaping at Agnes, and I quickly pin on a smile.
“Well, I should probably get to work. It was nice to meet you.”
“And you, dear.”
I head back down the steps, processing what I’ve learned as I walk the few blocks to work, my head a cloud of confusion.
I love my new job! Well, in my previous job I had to brave the elements in a wedding dress that smelled like B.O. while dodging garbage thrown at me from passing cars, so the bar was pretty low.
But it’s more than that. It’s a bookstore, which at the very least is related to writing. And yes, I know this is what I did back home, but it’s not the same. For one, it’s in the West Village in New freaking York, so that makes it a million times cooler. And two, Geoff is awesome. I haven’t sorted out a working visa yet, and when Geoff brought it up I thought my chance at the job was gone. Instead, he agreed to pay me in cash until I get it sorted. How nice is that?
The more I get to know Geoff, the more I like him. He’s friendly and kind, intelligent and quick-witted, with a dry sense of humor. I can see why his shop does so well. People love him.
The store isn’t huge, but it has a great selection of both new and secondhand books. It’s at street level, with windows where the sun streams in for a couple of hours around midday, and narrow aisles where shelves of books stretch up to the high ceilings.
But the thing I love most is the
