Chapter One

Tom Branson hated queing for anything, especially coffee at Nero. The woman was old, wrinkly and looked like a battered shrimp. When he moved down the line he noticed that the woman in front looked sad. Normally at 8.35am on a Monday morning he was ratty, tired and too pissed off to talk to anyone let alone look at them (he always seemed to have an 'i'm gonna kill you' expression on a morning )but - when he noticed how sad this girl looked - he couldn't help smiling. She smiled back at him and gave her order to shrimp lady. Irish Cream Latte? My kinda woman. Being from Dublin, I loved a good Irish Coffee, but I had work at the office until 6 - fuck! It was Tom's turn to order, so he ordered my Coffee and when it had been handed to him, he left through the side door. Tom loved Ripon, he had to admit but he missed Ireland. The only thing that was the same here as it was in Ireland was the abysmal weather. Tom walked up Coburn Street and just as hewas about to turn left onto Hopheath Street, he noticed the Irish Cream Latte girl. She was being dragged by a tall, dark haired man. She was screaming, her Latte spilling out of the cup she had obviously squeezed so hard that the lid had fallen off. He could either leave it or do something about it. But he thought, if he left it - would he be able to cope if he saw her face appear on the 'ITV News at 10' with the headline 'girl found dead in back alley'? No way would he be able to handle that, so he walked faster and at that moment saw the man back hand her across the face. When Tom had got passed them, h decided to use the only force he knew to deal with nobs like this man - violence. He tore the lid off the top of his coffee cup, threw the contents into the man's face and - grabbing the girl's hand - screamed,

"RUN!" Which thankfully, she did. They looked around and he was falling to the floor, screaming and clutching his face. We ran until we were at the bottom end of Coburn Street - the opposite end of where we had been that morning, at the Coffee Shop - and then we stopped, panting. After a few moments, she looked at him and smiled.

"Thank you. For what you did." She said.

"I wasn't about to let him hurt you. Who the hell was he, anyway?" Tom asked.

"Oh my, you're Irish." She said. "And he's my boyfriend. I know, he's a nob. But my parents think the sun shines out of his arse. It doesn't." Tom looked at her and realised that a vivid red mark was appearing on her pale face.

"Yes, I'm Irish and yes, your boyfriend is a nob. You shouldn't be with him if he treats you like that." Tom said. He face turned sad and he added, "But, it's none of my business." She wrang her hands within one another and winced,

"OW! I think the coffee burned my hand." She said.

"You should get that seen to. Don't put it in cold water, it damages tissue. Put it in luke warm water and bandage it after you've dried it and put cream on it. Do you have anywhere to go where you can do that?" He asked.

"Yes. I'll go home." She said.

"But, won't he come looking for you there?" He asked, bemused.

"No. I live with my parents. He won't come because he'll have to explain why I have a burned hand and he's got a burned face. Thank you though, so much." She said.

"You really should leave him you know." He added.

"You should mind you own business." She replied. "But thank you again. Goodbye.." She held out her right hand that wasn't damamged, clearly asking for his name.

"Tom. Tom Branson." He said.

"Sybil. Sybil Crawley." She said. "You look as if you're on your way to work. I am sorry if you're late. Goodbye."

"It's fine, I work on Charlesworth Grove, just at the bottom of Hopheath Street. Won't take me long to get there." He said. "But you're welcome. And goodbye."

They parted ways but - when he turned around to have one last glance at her - he didn't realise that she had just turned away from looking at him.

Sbyil Crawley? Where had he heard that name before?

Well there was no time to dwell on it now because he had just five minutes to get to work, clock in, hand his reports to his boss, make a coffee, switch on his battered laptop and begin the report he was supposed to begin last night, but hadn't because his mother had once again lectured him on his lack of wife and children. He shuddered as he thought about it.

"Thomas Brendan Branson. You are twenty-six years of age and when I was your age, I had two children and a lovely husband. You should be married and at least thinking of children." Una had said.

"Well, I'd have a wife by now if Ethel hadn't run away with her fifty-three year old rich-as-fuck boss. As for children, I can't help that I have none. Would you rather I married someone I didn't love and have children that I wouldn't be allowed to see because we'd divorce on bad terms?" He asked her impatiently.

"No of course I wouldn't.." She began but he cut across her,

"Well, there we are then. I promise you'll have grandchildren before you die." He said. "Goodbye mother." He had put the phone down and removed the line from the socket. He's have a dozen angry messages from her when he put the plug back in.

He reached work at precisely 9.00am and fifteen minutes later, he was waiting for his computer to load up.

Tom Branson was a writer. Well, a columnist. But he wanted to be a novelist. Not of a certain genre - like Cecelia Ahern was an Author of magic, love and happiness, or Martina Cole specialised in crime. He wanted to be the kind of Author that dreampt up a scenario and could write a book about it. He wanted to be known for his un-predictability. Not "Tom Branson pops out another crime spectacular" - not unless he decided to write a series.

No, Tom Branson wasn't predictable. He was Irish, gorgeous (though he didn't know it) and a bit cocky, but he was lovely, funny, would do anything for anybody and wanted more than anything to have what his Mother wanted him to have. Unfortunately, he nasty ex had seen to it that that wouldn't happen for a while yet. He had taken away his confidence, trust and self-worth - maybe he should write a book about that? No, too depressing. People would have him on suicide watch. No. He would write about something different.

Sybil Crawley.

Yes. That's it. I'm going to write about a girl called Sybil.

Now. What can the plot line be?

. x .

At 6pm, Tom made his was out of his office and towards the street leading home. He had come up with the perfect column story for work - violent relationships - but as for his story, he had only got as far as the Character's name - and the real Sybil was all he could think about. Those sad blue eyes - they were blue, weren't they? - made him feel ill to think about.

As he made his way up his street and into his three-bedroomed home, he noticed how lonely it seemed. He wanted to be with someone, not alone. Sure he had a cat, but she was as much of a tart as Ethel. Always having kittens, Poppy was. Oh well. He put some food out for her, put some simple jeans and a t-shirt on and settled down to watch Emmerdale.

And the shit single life, carries on.