Hello All! Stephanie Meyer owns everything, but Englishward and Bella are all mine! As I publish this chapter I am sipping a shandy and feeling slightly nervous of how this chapter will be received. Whilst I don't go into too much detail about the abuse that Bella receives it is hinted at so please don't read if you would find that offensive. Enjoy and let me know what you think, getting review is absolutely lovely.

Chapter 2

Weeks turn into months and I struggle on with the dull monotony that my life has become. I fail to gain any satisfaction from maintaining an agreeable home. My only delight is being frugal with the meagre money that James provides, I do this to ensure I can put some money aside to fund my book habit. If only my husband had an ounce of gumption, I'm sure he would be capable of earning more money and we wouldn't have to watch the purse strings so closely.

His pride and feelings of inadequacy keep me at home, and his sheer lack of drive and people skills, keeps him firmly in place on the bottom rung of the corporate ladder. James works for a plastics company as a Salesman, apparently business is tough at the moment and he barely makes his sales targets let alone bonuses. I have my doubts however, I'm curious as to where he finds the money for his bottomless pint glass at the pub.

It is on this cold morning that I find myself leaving the house to collect a parcel from the local Post Office. I button up my double-breasted coat and tuck in my scarf, smoothing a wayward tendril of hair behind my ear. As I set off down the garden path I find myself wishing we own two cars. We can only afford to run one car, which he uses to travel to work. The village bus service operates a reliable two buses a day service, you can't guarantee what time the buses will appear, but there are always two buses a day! So the limited smattering of local shops was the only available option.

As I walk past the property of our recently deceased neighbour, I pause noticing that the 'For Sale' sign has been upgraded to a 'SOLD' sign, the letters printed in big blood-red capitals. The house itself is in desperate need of attention, new plumbing and re-wiring are essential, the new owners must be extremely wealthy or poor and incredibly patient. It is, however, a beautiful detached cottage with so much character. The intricate thatched roof, local Cotswold stone and lead lattice windows lend a certain charm to the period cottage.

The rambling wisteria trails a path up the side of the building, it looks beautiful in spring when its lilac flowers are in full bloom, hanging like large bunches of grapes. The cottage is the largest property in the village and it dwarfs our post-war ex-council monstrosity of a home. The long rambling garden that surrounds the cottage runs parallel to our own modest garden, and it contains a sizeable orchard which has been neglected for quite some time due to the ever declining health of the previous owners. The garden comes to a stop where it reaches the river which runs along the bottom of the land.

I have been scrumping for apple pie ingredients in the orchard in the past. Mrs Roberts had terrible eyesight and virtually non-existent hearing. My thoughts cloud over as I remember how her ailments have been of great benefit in the past. I regularly visited Mrs Roberts and it meant I didn't have to worry about inventing reasons to explain away a bruise here or there, or apologise for any of the disturbing noises emanating from the house from time to time during the nights. I shake my head to clear it of the dark thoughts and carry on with my journey.

Arriving at the village shops I wave at a few of the villagers I recognise and take in the sights around me. The local Public House, The Carlisle Arms is always shut on a Monday, which explains why the drayman is delivering barrels to be racked for tomorrow's opening. This discovery upsets me as it means James will be home tonight for the entire evening, so I can look forward to an evening of serving him alcohol and listening to his constant criticisms.

As I get closer to the Post Office, I am reminded of the reason why I was originally so excited to be coming into town today. A delivery arrived on Saturday and I was unable to sign for it. I was home, but James was busy humiliating me. He found some creases in one of his shirts that he wears to work, I was made to wash all of the items in his wardrobe and all of our linen by hand in ice cold water. My fingers are so red and cracked now, they are incredibly sore. Thinking back I'm actually pleased he was preoccupied with 'educating' me, because my punishment would have been so much more severe if he saw my parcel. I didn't usually get items delivered to the house, but this was a necessary exception.

Clutching the 'sorry you were out card' I push open the door to the Post Office, the small bell above the door rings as I stride up to the service counter. My face falls as I realise it's Joan at the serving hatch and not her gentle, patient and considerably less nosey husband Norman.

"Good Morning Isabella, how are you today?" chirps Joan, she owns the Post Office and is also a full-time maintenance engineer for the local rumour mill.

"Oh… I'm very well, thank-you Joan. I've just stopped by to collect my delivery. Here's the card." I speak politely yet hurriedly and slide the card through the gap under the counter.

"Ah yes, I remember when this parcel came in the other day." She announces, brandishing the parcel and waving it around, teasing me, as my eyes follow the moving parcel praying she doesn't drop it or damage it in anyway.

Joan continues to prattle on "I said to myself, a delivery for Isabella Swan, must be something important as she never has deliveries. It's heavy mind, is it something expensive dear...? Something for the lovely Mr Swan dear…? Getting your Christmas shopping out of the way early are we…?" She shakes the package trying to ascertain its contents.

I wouldn't be surprised if Joan has already steamed the package open and checked for herself to see what the contents are. I am anxious to get my hands on the parcel. "Umm, it's really nothing special Joan. Just a free book from the Readers Digest I think!"

Separated from the parcel by a mere pane of glass I itch to prise it from Joan's old gnarled hands, my mind begins to conjure up murderous thoughts, completely unaware that Joan is even still talking…"have you seen that the old Robert's place has been sold dear? I don't envy whoever has bought it. They'll have a huge job on their hands."

"Isabella…have you heard a word I've said?" Joan waves her hand in front of my face.

"Uh…yes!" I shake my head "Sorry Joan…I just have so many other errands to run today – please, can I just have my parcel?"

"Of course – I'm sorry to waste any of your precious time." Joan viciously stamps the card and slides the parcel under the counter towards me, whilst mumbling something about manners and wishing that she could be a lady of leisure and have a husband as lovely and attentive as mine.

My cheeks flush as tears spring to my eyes, her words cut right to my heart, if only she knew the half of it. I grab the parcel and almost run out of the Post Office to the nearby bench. I sit and close my eyes breathing deeply, holding back the tears that threaten to fall. As I open my eyes they linger on the boards outside the newsagent which displays today's headlines. One such headline catches my eye, I dash into the shop and grab a copy of the newspaper, quickly leafing through until I reach page 5;

WIDOWED AUTHOR COMES OUT OF RETIREMENT
FOR FINAL FICTIONAL FORRAY

The renowned author E.A.M Cullen
has announced that he is temporarily coming
out of his self-imposed retirement to
complete the final instalment of his successful
romance series The Magdalen Saga.

Cullen, withdrew from the spotlight in late
2004 after the untimely death of his wife.
Originally a suspect in the enquiry into his
wife's death, his name was later cleared
and the cause of death was reported as suicide.
Recent details about where Cullen is residing
are still unknown as he now leads a
somewhat reclusive and isolated lifestyle.

A limited re-print last month, of his earlier books in
Collector's Edition Hardback have been
received extremely well both in the UK and abroad.

I smile to myself, knowing that in my hands I clutch a limited edition set of the very saga the article refers to. I am overflowing with happiness as I put the newspaper back and almost float out of the shop. The great author E.A.M Cullen will be writing another novel – hmm I wonder if they'll update the eye-candy in the front sleeve.

****

With all of the chores complete and a window of at least 2 hours before James is due home, I settle down in the spare bedroom and carefully open the package I collected from the Post Office this morning. Sliding a finger under the tape and peeling back the brown parcel paper, I slowly unwrap the book that I have saved for, over the last three months. I stroke my hands across the smooth glossy paper of the book jacket and revel in the feel of the firm and heavy hardback as it nestles in my hands. Bringing the book up to my nose I close my eyes and breathe deeply. A heady mixture of ink and paper assault my nostrils as I hum with joy.

Opening the cover - I'm careful not to crack the spine, it's one of my pet hates and the sole reason I never lend my books to friends – not that he lets me see any of them anymore.

On the inside cover is a more recent picture of E.A.M Cullen, his face looks thinner and older than in my previous editions, dark circles present under his eyes… but he is still heart-stoppingly handsome. Although the picture is black & white, I know that he has the most beautiful piercing green eyes, and a shock of messy bronze hair that I am just dying to run my fingers through.

I lean back on the bed, closing my eyes and clutching the book to my chest, I drift off into the sweetest sleep, with a content smile on my face. Dreaming of my life as though I were a character in an E.A.M Cullen novel.

*****

I shake my head groggily as I look around the spare bedroom, I'm confused and complete disorientated – how did it get to be so dark? I check my watch – SHIT! I've been asleep for just under two hours… shit, shit, SHIT!

I feel my hands begin to shake and I wipe them on my trousers, my breath comes in gasps and I feel myself starting to panic. Beads of sweat break out across my forehead. Relax Bella! There's still time to get everything done, there'll be something you can prepare quickly for dinner, your make-up won't take long. I squared my shoulders and smooth the bed so that it will not be obvious that I fell asleep. He hates me to slack off in the day when he isn't around.

I tuck in the sheets and feel positive that I can escape this current misdemeanour unscathed when I hear the front door open…

It's too late!

"Isabella…?"

"Isabella"

"ISABELLA" James bellows.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention and I struggle to suppress the whimper that wants to burst forth from my mouth. My whole body starts to shake.

"There had better be a FUCKING…GOOD…REASON why you're not at the door to greet me" he roared.

"Or so help me, there will be consequences!" I can almost hear the evil smile in his voice.

I nervously tuck the book away in its hiding place, and run down the stairs to meet the wrath of the monster that awaits me.

A/N Here are some definitions, if I have used any other words people are unfamiliar with please let me know! Please review, it'll cheer Bella up, like you wouldn't believe.

Scrump, v.- trans. To steal (apples), esp. from orchards.
Drayman, n.- A man who drives a dray (in England, usually a brewer's dray).