September
I dropped the last item on my bookshelf, a tattered copy of Wuthering Heights, into the small bankers box on my desk and bit the inside of my cheek. Outside, the clouds knotted together, threatening a downpour. It didn't take very long to clean out my office – I threw almost all of my possessions away anyway. Everything else fit in a few boxes, and there was no use in prolonging my departure. I heaved the box from my desk into my arms and struggled to pull open the door, nearly collapsing.
Upon entering the hallway, I met the watery eyes of Angela, who had been my assistant and close friend.
"You'll call, right?" she asked.
"Of course," I mumbled, offering a small smile. "We'll do coffee."
The other employees stared as I moved past them. I tried to ignore the burning I felt along the back of my neck and I had nearly made it to the front door when I heard my name called.
"Bella?"
I knew who it was, the one person in the office I'd been avoiding. I hated goodbyes, especially now. I turned and leaned against the doorframe to Irena's office.
"You can come in, you know," she said, sighing. Setting my box on the ground, I shuffled over to the seat across from her desk and sat down. After an awkward silence, she cleared her throat and ran her fingers through her wavy black hair.
"I may just be wasting my breath, but I'm going to ask you to reconsider anyway."
My eyes flashed. She knew why I was leaving.
"No, Irena," I said dryly. "I need…I need some time. I'm not productive at all and me being here isn't doing any good."
"I don't care about your productivity Bella, you know that," she argued. "I care about you. And this company would not be the same without you, even if you aren't powering through manuscripts like a robot and man handling our pushy clients."
"I need to go," I muttered, pathetically. Meanwhile, an angry voice in the back of my mind was screaming at me to not lose control. She looked at me, clearly disappointed.
"I understand. But if you change your mind, I want you to have this," she said, sliding a sliver key toward me. "You are always welcome to come back at any time."
"Irena…" I started. She narrowed her eyes at me.
"Isabella, take the key. At least so I can have peace of mind in knowing that I've done everything I can to keep you from throwing your life away over what's happened."
That stung, and I flinched. I slipped the key into my pocket and shifted in the chair, gnawing on my cheek again. I stood slowly and reached out to shake her hand. Irena shook her head at me and walked around to me, pulling me from my seat and into her arms.
"You know I'm always here for you," she said into my hair. "Please don't shut me out." I wrapped my arms around her torso and squeezed lightly.
"Kay," I whispered. "Bye."
When I finally made it to the front door, I felt like I was leaving a large part of myself behind. It didn't really matter; I was leaving behind a part of my life that I wanted to forget. I didn't want to think about the way things were because I knew it would never be the same. My memories haunted me and would only make moving forward impossible.
I punched the button on the elevator, waiting for the doors to close. Thankfully I was alone inside, but the disadvantage of working on the 6th floor of a business building is the fact that there's never a one way trip down to the lobby. The car shuddered to a stop on the 4th floor and an elderly man walked in, struggling to lean against his cane. He smiled at me, his deep blue eyes gleaming.
"Good morning," he squeaked, his voice thick with an English accent.
"Hi," I said, quietly, looking down at the ground. The doors closed and the car began to move again, stopping on what I thought was the 3rd floor. But the doors never opened. Instead, the elevator groaned and quivered. As the idea of us being stuck crossed my mind, my pulse quickened. I jabbed the 'door open' button and waited for the machine to respond. Nothing.
"I do believe the car's stuck," the old man announced.
"Great," I sighed, and pulled open the phone box. I picked up the receiver and waited for someone to answer on the other end. After several rings, an agitated woman answered.
"Um, hi, we're sort of stuck in the elevator," I said lamely. I heard the woman snap her gum and practically hiss at me.
"I know that, ma'am. Every elevator on the floor just shut down. We have technicians on their way."
"Well, how long do you think it'll be until they fix it?" I asked, desperate for some fresh air.
"I don't know, I'm not a rocket scientist. When the elevator's fixed, you'll feel it moving." And she hung up on me. I set the receiver back down slowly and sat down on the ground and slumped against the wall.
"All of the elevators shut down," I told the man, not wanted to be rude.
"Ah," he said, still sounding cheery. It bothered me. The stagnant air in the elevator must have been getting to me. He set his cane against the wall and sat down across from me. "Weather's lovely, isn't it?" he joked. I raised an eyebrow.
"You aren't from here, are you?" I asked, stating the obvious.
"No," he laughed. "I'm afraid I'm not."
"London?" I guessed.
"Cambridge," he corrected. "I've just moved here.
I didn't feel much like responding to him after that. I'd never been one for awkward elevator conversations between strangers. But that was just me.
"Do you work in the building?" he asked, peering at me with those odd eyes again.
"Yes," I answered automatically. "Well, I used to," I added, mentally kicking myself. His exuberance morphed into confusion.
"For what company, may I ask?"
I eyed him wearily. "Well, we're stuck in here together, it only makes sense if we talk," he explained.
"I worked on the sixth floor," I answered, hoping it was vague enough for him to get the hint that I didn't want to talk.
"You work for Bennett and Hastings?" he asked, excitedly.
"Used to," I corrected. "But, yes, I did."
"As an editor, may I presume?" he asked. For an old man, he greatly resembled an energizer bunny.
"Yes, as an editor. I quit two weeks ago, today was my last day."
"Well, it's only a matter of minutes before young girls very much like yourself start filing through that front door like it's an amusement park! It's very rare that a position opens up here, let alone for an editor. Might I ask why?"
"Um…" I started, attempting to formulate an answer. One wasn't coming fast enough, so I ran my fingers though my hair nervously, hoping that would get the wheels turning. "It was just time for me to move on." Or try to.
"Oh," he said simply. "Well, judging by your age, I'm assuming you must be very talented. Especially if you have the confidence that you can leave this place behind and still continue on with your life. I applaud you Miss…" he trailed off.
"Swan. Bella Swan," I said hastily.
"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you Miss Swan, my name is Peter McDoyle." He reached across the space between us and I grasped his warm, frail hand in mine.
"A pleasure," I agreed, partially telling the truth. This was just making my morning more difficult, but there was something calming about his presence. Before he could begin to interrogate me some more, the elevator jolted and began moving slowly.
"Thank god," I sighed, standing up and moving to help Peter to his feet. He shook slightly as he reached for his cane and righted himself when he was able to support his weight. I hoisted my box up while counting the seconds until the elevator doors would peel open and grant me freedom. They creaked open and I turned to Peter, offering him a smile of relief.
"Goodbye Miss Swan, I hope you have a wonderful afternoon," he said.
"You too," I replied, walking out quickly and hurrying to my car. As soon as I was safe in the confines of the small sedan, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and felt my face prickle slightly as my eyes began to water.
"Pull yourself together," I grumbled at myself. I cranked the car into drive and sped toward my home, nearly disregarding the rules of the road. I had planned on spending the rest of my free time as a lump on my couch—nothing else seemed worth the effort. I jiggled the key in the lock and swung the door open, dropping the banker's box on the floor. I walked past the stacks of unopened mail on the coffee table in the living room and into the kitchen, opening the fridge, pulling out a cold water bottle. There wasn't really any food in the house.
Once I'd kicked off my shoes and pulled down my hair, I slipped on pair of sweats and shrugged into my tattered bathrobe. I could feel a hole growing in my chest as I plunked down on the sofa. It was pathetic, my couch even smelled like him. I rolled onto my side and stared at the TV. After deciding not to turn it on, I counted the notches in the wooden floor until my eyelids grew heavy.
It never went away. Even while I was sleeping. He was everywhere. The most I could make myself do for the next three days was shower and occasionally eat some crackers. I forced myself to drink water—I didn't want Charlie to be alarmed if I just so happened to die of dehydration, even though the idea sounded faintly appealing.
The phone rang several times. I ignored it and sometimes growled at the unanswered receiver if I could be bothered to utilize my vocal cords. Eventually, I grew irritated with the rings echoing off the walls.
"Hello?" I mumbled into the receiver.
"Hello," a friendly, vaguely familiar voice responded. "May I speak with Miss. Swan?"
"Who's calling?" I asked suspiciously.
"This is Peter McDoyle," he said, politely. I remembered meeting him in the elevator and my eyebrows pulled together. How did he get my number?
"This is Bella," I clipped.
"Miss Swan!" he said, excitedly. "I don't know if you recall, but we met in the elevator last Friday."
"I recall."
"Erm, yes—"
"How did you get my number?" I asked, interrupting him.
"I asked the editor in chief," he said. "It took some finagling, but I got it out of her. I'm calling because I have a favor to ask of you."
"Favor?" I asked, growing tired. "You hardly know me, Mr. McDoyle, what could I possibly do for you?"
"Well, I was hoping I could get a story from you." The statement hung for a few moments.
"I'm not a reporter," I replied.
"Yes, I'm aware. But perhaps you can help me in preparing my next novel," he said, still sounding pleasant.
"I'm sorry, did you say your last novel?" I suddenly remembered where I'd heard his name from. "Peter McDoyle…" I breathed. "You wrote—"
"I've written very many, yes. But I would like it very much if you were to assist me. I'm finding this project to be a bit of a challenge."
Mentally, I was spluttering. This had to have been the most illogical conversation I'd had in my entire life.
"Why me?" I managed to get that one question out.
"I know this is a rather strange conversation, but, Miss Swan, I spoke with Irena. She had only the most wonderful things to say about your talents as a writer, and I would be honored if you would work with me."
"B-but what drove you to talk to her in the first place?" I stammered.
"To put it simply, Bella," he started. "I saw something in your eyes when you spoke to me. I was curious."
What have you got to lose? I didn't have a job, or much of house to come home to anymore. I'd shut all of my friends and family out. Why not?
"I guess," I answered slowly. "What exactly am I going to help you with?"
"All I need from you is a story."
"A story?" I asked, confused again.
"Yes," he said. "Perhaps I could explain this to you better in person? Would you feel comfortable with meeting at my home?" he asked.
"I suppose…"
"Perfect," he said, chipper as usual, and then he spewed out his cross streets and house number. "Would you like to meet this afternoon? Say…in an hour or two?"
"Two hours is fine," I said, a little breathless.
"Wonderful!" he said, and hung up. I ran my fingers through my hair, almost immediately getting them stuck in a rat's nest. I was still in my pajamas and I was sure I smelled. After showering and ripping through my hair with a comb, I took a moments to change my clothes and then dragged myself over to my small, nearly worthless vehicle.
It wasn't difficult to find Peter's home. At first, I thought I might have been in the wrong place, but I was immediately corrected when a staggeringly large, mansion-sized building came into view. It was hidden nicely in a small patch of woods, and it took some maneuvering to drive up the path to his courtyard.
I clutched my jacket around myself self-consciously as I stepped carefully up the front steps leading to the entrance. Cold wind whipped past my face and I grasped the large brass knocker and drove it into the large wooden door. An echoic thud vibrated against the frame and stung my wrist. Almost immediately I heard locks being turned on the other side. The door swung open to reveal a small, rounded woman with warm features. Her graying blond curls were tucked into a neat bun, framing her hazel eyes.
"Hello, Dear," she greeted. "How can I help you?"
"My name is Bella, I'm here to meet with Mr. McDoyle," I said, nervously.
"Ah! Miss Swan! I was hoping it would be you, but Peter's had so many visitors lately, I didn't want to make any assumptions."
"Oh, right," I commented, awkwardly.
"Well, please, do come in. And for next time, there is a doorbell." She pointed to a small button next to the doorframe. Now I felt stupid. I followed her into a large den and felt my eyes widen as we passed through the staggering foyer. The inside of this home was stunning, and the décor struck of chord of familiarity. The wide, open entrance hall centered around an extravagant chandelier that caught light from the large windows, cascading vibrant color schemes across the floor tiles.
"Peter, Miss Swan has just arrived!" The woman called.
"I'll only be a moment!" Peter replied, while I sat down at a mahogany table, not sure what else to do. The woman introduced herself as Jane, and moments later Peter hobbled into the room.
"Good afternoon, Bella," Peter greeted, still too energetic for his apparent age. I smiled, more-so at the odd pronunciation of my name. He sat down heavily in the chair across from me and folded his hands neatly. "So, to continue our conversation, I am in a need of your assistance."
"Mr. McDoyle," I started.
"Call me Peter, please."
"Peter," I continued, "I don't know how I could possibly help you…I have no background in journalism, and I'm not a storyteller. I don't think I really have anything to tell you."
"Bella, I need your help writing a love story." My breath hitched in my throat.
"You're a brilliant writer, Peter. There's no way I could help you come up with the next great love saga," I stuttered.
"No, no, I think you're misunderstanding. I don't need your help in writing the story; I want to know your story. To capture it. " He looked at me kindly, and I felt something odd bubble in my chest.
"My story?" I asked, weakly. "W-what would make you think I have a story? I don't have one."
"I believe you do, Miss Swan. I saw it in your eyes in the elevator, and I can see it in them now."
I looked down at the tabletop and blinked slowly. I couldn't tell him my story. Edward and I no longer existed together, what we had would never be again. At that moment, an odd, almost crazy idea struck me. Peter wanted to turn my life into a novel. If there was one thing I'd learned in all my years of experience, it was that words last forever. And this way, Edward and I would forever exist together on the pages of his next masterpiece.
I looked up and drew in a shaky breath.
"Alright," I started. "I'll help you."
Hi Everyone! I've been rolling this story idea in my mind for a while now, so I've decided to give it a shot. Please let me know if you have any comments or questions. I hope you like it! The plot will definitely be a little different after this - it'll switch back and forth between the past and present. Don't worry, it wont be confusing.
Many thanks to my fantastic beta :)