Living in Manhattan.
For Grace, life had been a blessing. Not only had she been raised in New York but she was also with the man of her dreams, doing the job she loved and living her life to the full. She wasn't too rich or too poor; every part of her was real, even her perfectly straight nose. The only part of her that she wasn't real was her hair colour. She had dyed it from the bright orange of her youth and settled with a dark blonde. Her light green eyes matched those of her mothers and her slim figure was the new addition to the recovery of her last heart break. Her previous boyfriend (who shall remain unnamed) treated her like she was a pile of shit on the floor. He had walked all over her and made her feel useless for months. A year after she finally escaped his nagging grasp, she had met Michael. Oh Michael, with his sandy hair and blue eyes. She had fallen for him like he was the keys to the largest collection of Sherlock Holmes books. She knew this was real and that the kind, loving, gentle Michael would do nothing to hurt her. Or so she thought. Grace remembered that day well. The day her life crashed before her eyes.
'We're moving you to the Wednesday Colum.' Her boss at her magazine had told her.
'The Wednesday Colum?' She repeated in a horrified voice. 'But nobody reads it! It's a waste of time!'
'We've been talking and we all agreed that you will suite the post better than your current position.' Her boss said over his cluttered desk.
'So you're taking me from being the head writer of this entire freaking magazine and demoting me to the History Colum?' She said the words carefully to get the message across to her boss.
'Like I said, we all agree on this decision.'
'I bet it was Tracey's decision!' Grace snapped. 'That bitch has been on my case for months!'
'Continue with your rage and you won't have any job at all.' Her boss said sternly. Feeling like a scolded kid Grace walked out of the bosses' office and through the large, low ceilinged, blue carpeted office of the magazines editing room. Heads turned to see Grace walking in her tall black heels and new black suite down the aisles of cubicles where the inhabitants were typing away at their computers.
Demoted and raging, Grace sat in her car and screamed in anger. She slammed her hands down on the steering wheel and jumped a mile when the horn rang. She composed herself and drove home early. Craving a coffee and a cuddle with Michael, she drove through Manhattans busy streets in a hurry. Scowling at the pink convertible parked in her space, she crawled out of her car and up the marble steps to her apartment. She knew there was something wrong when she approached the green painted door. The noise was slightly familiar to her. A creaking of sorts. A frown hit her when she wondered what it was. Opening the door and gasping in horror to see through the crack in her bedroom door that Michael was shagging another woman. In her bed!
'Michael!' She yelled. He jumped up like a scared puppy. The bitch on his lap turned and scowled at Grace. Ignoring his pleas to make her understand, Grace grabbed a few clothes and made her way out of the house. The bitch got into the pink convertible. Seems obvious when you think about it. Grace drove aimlessly through the darkening streets. Tears falling angrily down her face. She ended up staying at her friend Jerseys house. Sleeping on the couch and crying on her friends shoulder. It wasn't until the following day that her life became completely wrong.
'We'd like you to make a presentation about the next subject you're working on.' Her boss told Grace the next day.
'A-a what?' Grace asked.
'A presentation. About your subject. See, we're over staffed, so we've decided to let some baggage go.'
'Are you saying I'm baggage?' Grace snapped.
'That's what we need to decide.' Boss man said. So that night, curled up on Jerseys couch, Grace wrote her presentation for the following day. Nerves played in her stomach as she ate a piece of toast before making her way to work. She walked through an unfamiliar corridor to get to the room where meetings were held. The room was full when she entered. Managers from all the departments were there. She set up the computer and looked out over the large oval table that held the managers in black suits.
'Good morning gentlemen.' Grace said, doing a quick gender count. 'I'm Grace Henderson, editor of the History Colum. I'm currently writing a Colum on the British writer; Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle.' A hand raised at the back of the room.
'Yes sir?' Grace asked the owner of the hand.
'How much do you know about Conan-Doyle?' A deep, playful voice asked.
'I've pretty much followed his entire story.' Grace replied.
'Enlighten me.' The voice replied. All heads at the table had turned now, exposing the man behind the voice. He was thin with mousey brown hair, his face round with a protruding chin. A grin was spread across his face, giving him the look of a twelve-year-old boy.
'Well, he was born on May 22nd 1859, he was raised in Edinburgh, he derived from a Catholic family and his Dad was called Charles who was a drunk.' Grace took a deep breath. The strangers face had not changed. Grace's eyes moved to observe what he was wearing, upon doing so she concluded that this guy was a total nutter. He wore unlaced boots that surrounded the hem of his trousers, a blouse hidden beneath a tweed jacket and a blue bow-tie around his collar.
'Is that everything?' He probed.
'No.' Grace snapped defensively. 'I know that the first woman he loved was called Louisa Hawkins and-'
'Wrong!' He shouted. His voice wasn't harsh. In fact, it held a hint of amusement. 'The first woman Arthur ever wrote about was called Grace.'
'Well, she's not really important, is she?' Grace lost her formal composure.
'That… is where you are wrong.' The stranger linked his fingers together and rested them on his torso as he leaned back in his chair.
'Is this hardly necessary?' One of the managers at the table said.
'No, it's not.' Grace said. She resumed her explanation and ignored the man at the back. She managed to end her presentation with much admiration from the onlookers. Grace waited for the room to vacate before seeking out the stranger. By the time she looked for his tweed jacket however, he was gone…