Text copyright © 2015 Katie L Thompson
All Rights Reserved
Preview Extract: The Week after Christmas
Sophie clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth while trying to decide whether to pack her thick fluffy cream jumper, which would keep her warm, or the thinner black one which looked more professional but wouldn’t do anything to protect her from the harsh Devon air.
“But, it’s Boxing Day,” a high pitched voice screeched downstairs.
She could hear her sister trying to calm her mother down but it didn’t seem to be having any effect. The tap of her mother’s suede boots hurrying up the wooden staircase was already echoing through the house. Sophie braced herself for a confrontation.
“Is it true? Are you leaving today?” In her rush, she tripped and fell into Sophie’s bedroom.
The open suitcase on the bed was enough to answer her mother’s question. “I’m sorry.”
“But we were going to see nana today. We only see her once a year and you know how disappointed she’ll be if you don’t come.”
Sophie nodded. She felt guilty enough without her mother adding to it.
“I thought you’d booked this week off work.” Her mother plopped down onto the end of her bed as though the energy had drained out of her.
“I had but you know what it’s like there at the moment.”
Sophie’s life aim was to be a journalist. Up until two months ago that dream had seemed like a shot in the dark but then she’d been hired by one of the bigger newspapers and things had begun to look up.
“Are you sure there’s not something else? There’s not something you’re hiding from me, is there?”
Her mother’s ability to see through her was something she both loved and loathed in equal measures.
“Sophie?”
She rubbed her eyes and joined her mother on the bed. “They’re making cuts at the paper. As you know I was one of the last people in and last one in–”
“First one out,” her mother finished.
“I need to get a really big story if I want to stay and I’ve got to get it in before the New Year or I’m out of a job.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“People are always talking in the office about Toby Michaels. He’s a twenty-six year old artist in Devon who’s just tipped over the line from amateur to pro. People say he’s going to be the next big thing. So far he’s refused to let anyone interview him, but I’m going to give it a try. It’s my only hope.”
Her mother shook her head. “I know you’re going to do this because you want this job really badly but don’t get your hopes up. There’s a large chance that he won’t spill his guts just because a pretty young lady has turned up on his doorstep on Boxing Day.”
Sophie smiled to reassure her that she’d be fine but they both knew it was fake. If she lost this job after only two short months, she’d never forgive herself.
“In two hundred yards turn left.”
Sophie turned the Satnav off. It was sending her round in circles. “Back to the old fashioned method,” Sophie muttered. She pulled over and heaved her dad’s old road map onto her lap.
She’d circled the location in red pen before she’d left and her dad had helped her plot the best route to it. The Satnav was fine for the main roads but after that it was too out of date to be of much help. When she’d told her boss what she planned on doing, her only advice had been to look for a steel gate and a cattle grid which led to a long unmade road. The house in question was supposed to be located a mile or so down it. This advice was proving little help.
After several left turns, a right turn and far too many steel gates and cattle grids to be able to count, Sophie was certain she was lost.
“Damn it.”
She stopped the car and rested her head in the centre of the steering wheel. By now she could have been tucked up under a blanket with her sister by her side, a glass of mulled wine in her hand and her nana telling stories about the Christmases she’d had as a little girl. Instead, she was in the middle of nowhere, looking for a stuck up artist who was as unlikely to give her an interview as she was to be teleported to her nana’s house by a group of friendly aliens.
When she looked up, her windscreen had been covered by a flurry of snowflakes. She cursed loudly, flicking the windscreen wipers up a notch to clear the screen.
“Manor Farm,” she read from a sign which was sticking out of the ground at a forty-five degree angle. “I made it.”
With a new spark of enthusiasm, she coaxed the car into first gear and head off down the unmade track.
She bounced in her seat, partly from nerves and excitement, but mainly because the road was taking the term ‘unmade’ to a new level. By now her fingers had gone numb and she was bursting for the loo. She wondered how long you had to be in an artists’ house before it was acceptable to ask to use the toilet.
As she drove she reminded herself what she was doing there. It was the only way to stop herself from crying. The thought of being alone in the countryside would normally leave an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, but to be separated from her family on Boxing Day was another matter entirely. She couldn’t remember a time that they hadn’t all spent the day together. Even the year they’d gone down with the flu, they’d spent the day tucked up in bed with the three single beds butted up to one another in her nana’s back bedroom.
At the end of the road, Sophie stopped the car. She wondered if she’d somehow missed the house or maybe she wasn’t in the right place after all. The only building she’d seen was a tiny brick cottage; it didn’t even have a thatched roof.
When she climbed out of the car, the snow was just thick enough to hold a pattern of the tread of her shoe. The car’s thermometer confirmed that it was quickly growing colder. Overhead a threatening white cloud suggested there was a lot more snow to come. She’d see if there was anyone in the cottage to give her directions and then she’d be on her way. With any luck the snow would hold off long enough for her to find somewhere safe to stay, even if that somewhere safe wasn’t where she’d intended to be going.
On the doorstep she transferred her weight from one foot to the other and back again while waiting for someone to answer the door. After a short while, she rang the doorbell again.
“I’m coming,” a voice shouted from inside. “The first time was more than enough.” It was obvious that the person, clearly male, did not want to be disturbed.
There was a rattling of a metal, as though the safety chain was being removed, and then the door swung open.
“Can I help you?”
Sophie stood on the doorstep, trying to remember all the opening lines she’d been preparing in her head on the drive over. “I’m… I was wondering… Sorry to… Sophie,” she held out her hand. She recognised the man instantly. There was no mistaking him. It was Toby Michaels’ himself.
All Rights Reserved
Preview Extract: The Week after Christmas
Sophie clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth while trying to decide whether to pack her thick fluffy cream jumper, which would keep her warm, or the thinner black one which looked more professional but wouldn’t do anything to protect her from the harsh Devon air.
“But, it’s Boxing Day,” a high pitched voice screeched downstairs.
She could hear her sister trying to calm her mother down but it didn’t seem to be having any effect. The tap of her mother’s suede boots hurrying up the wooden staircase was already echoing through the house. Sophie braced herself for a confrontation.
“Is it true? Are you leaving today?” In her rush, she tripped and fell into Sophie’s bedroom.
The open suitcase on the bed was enough to answer her mother’s question. “I’m sorry.”
“But we were going to see nana today. We only see her once a year and you know how disappointed she’ll be if you don’t come.”
Sophie nodded. She felt guilty enough without her mother adding to it.
“I thought you’d booked this week off work.” Her mother plopped down onto the end of her bed as though the energy had drained out of her.
“I had but you know what it’s like there at the moment.”
Sophie’s life aim was to be a journalist. Up until two months ago that dream had seemed like a shot in the dark but then she’d been hired by one of the bigger newspapers and things had begun to look up.
“Are you sure there’s not something else? There’s not something you’re hiding from me, is there?”
Her mother’s ability to see through her was something she both loved and loathed in equal measures.
“Sophie?”
She rubbed her eyes and joined her mother on the bed. “They’re making cuts at the paper. As you know I was one of the last people in and last one in–”
“First one out,” her mother finished.
“I need to get a really big story if I want to stay and I’ve got to get it in before the New Year or I’m out of a job.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“People are always talking in the office about Toby Michaels. He’s a twenty-six year old artist in Devon who’s just tipped over the line from amateur to pro. People say he’s going to be the next big thing. So far he’s refused to let anyone interview him, but I’m going to give it a try. It’s my only hope.”
Her mother shook her head. “I know you’re going to do this because you want this job really badly but don’t get your hopes up. There’s a large chance that he won’t spill his guts just because a pretty young lady has turned up on his doorstep on Boxing Day.”
Sophie smiled to reassure her that she’d be fine but they both knew it was fake. If she lost this job after only two short months, she’d never forgive herself.
“In two hundred yards turn left.”
Sophie turned the Satnav off. It was sending her round in circles. “Back to the old fashioned method,” Sophie muttered. She pulled over and heaved her dad’s old road map onto her lap.
She’d circled the location in red pen before she’d left and her dad had helped her plot the best route to it. The Satnav was fine for the main roads but after that it was too out of date to be of much help. When she’d told her boss what she planned on doing, her only advice had been to look for a steel gate and a cattle grid which led to a long unmade road. The house in question was supposed to be located a mile or so down it. This advice was proving little help.
After several left turns, a right turn and far too many steel gates and cattle grids to be able to count, Sophie was certain she was lost.
“Damn it.”
She stopped the car and rested her head in the centre of the steering wheel. By now she could have been tucked up under a blanket with her sister by her side, a glass of mulled wine in her hand and her nana telling stories about the Christmases she’d had as a little girl. Instead, she was in the middle of nowhere, looking for a stuck up artist who was as unlikely to give her an interview as she was to be teleported to her nana’s house by a group of friendly aliens.
When she looked up, her windscreen had been covered by a flurry of snowflakes. She cursed loudly, flicking the windscreen wipers up a notch to clear the screen.
“Manor Farm,” she read from a sign which was sticking out of the ground at a forty-five degree angle. “I made it.”
With a new spark of enthusiasm, she coaxed the car into first gear and head off down the unmade track.
She bounced in her seat, partly from nerves and excitement, but mainly because the road was taking the term ‘unmade’ to a new level. By now her fingers had gone numb and she was bursting for the loo. She wondered how long you had to be in an artists’ house before it was acceptable to ask to use the toilet.
As she drove she reminded herself what she was doing there. It was the only way to stop herself from crying. The thought of being alone in the countryside would normally leave an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, but to be separated from her family on Boxing Day was another matter entirely. She couldn’t remember a time that they hadn’t all spent the day together. Even the year they’d gone down with the flu, they’d spent the day tucked up in bed with the three single beds butted up to one another in her nana’s back bedroom.
At the end of the road, Sophie stopped the car. She wondered if she’d somehow missed the house or maybe she wasn’t in the right place after all. The only building she’d seen was a tiny brick cottage; it didn’t even have a thatched roof.
When she climbed out of the car, the snow was just thick enough to hold a pattern of the tread of her shoe. The car’s thermometer confirmed that it was quickly growing colder. Overhead a threatening white cloud suggested there was a lot more snow to come. She’d see if there was anyone in the cottage to give her directions and then she’d be on her way. With any luck the snow would hold off long enough for her to find somewhere safe to stay, even if that somewhere safe wasn’t where she’d intended to be going.
On the doorstep she transferred her weight from one foot to the other and back again while waiting for someone to answer the door. After a short while, she rang the doorbell again.
“I’m coming,” a voice shouted from inside. “The first time was more than enough.” It was obvious that the person, clearly male, did not want to be disturbed.
There was a rattling of a metal, as though the safety chain was being removed, and then the door swung open.
“Can I help you?”
Sophie stood on the doorstep, trying to remember all the opening lines she’d been preparing in her head on the drive over. “I’m… I was wondering… Sorry to… Sophie,” she held out her hand. She recognised the man instantly. There was no mistaking him. It was Toby Michaels’ himself.