Chapter Two
Olivia lived in a shabby one-bedroom apartment north-west of the Hammersmith line.
Adorned with various mismatched colours and textures, the boho chic apartment looked like an old fabric store.
Fluffy pillows, dark oak, and mustard yellow splattered on the walls in frames and woven through the old woollen living room rug gave it warmth, while her exposed kitchen shelves housed copious amounts of cacti and tacky handmade mugs.
It was small and filled to the brim with far more knickknacks than any girl would need, but it suited her perfectly fine.
With large windows overlooking the London cityscape and situated down the street from a Tesco Metro, she had everything she needed at her fingertips to write a bestselling novel.
Yeah, sure, she scoffed. If only I could think of a leading man…
“You know what would look amazing in here?” Danielle interrupted her thoughts, opening the plastic supermarket bag on the dining table, reaching in and grabbing out a bottle of rosé.
With a cling of glass, she placed the bottle down on the kitchen worktop.
If they stood side by side, the two women would encompass the entire length of her small and semi-improvised kitchen set-up.
An old wooden sideboard acted as an island, with second-hand round-top stools far too tall for it shoved on the other side.
Olivia hummed, “Enlighten me.” She dragged herself away from her thoughts and instead grabbed two generous wine glasses down from her glass cabinet.
Danielle flung the rest of the shopping bags on the creaky island with a heavy thump.
“Roses,” her friend continued, her arms spreading out as if she pictured the flower upon the mantle in front of her. “Pink roses.”
Her best friend, Danielle, owned a small boutique flower shop down the way, where they had spent hours discussing arrangements for her small living room, eventually settling on buying a little bunch of peonies to sit on the white wooden mantel above her fireplace.
She had known Danielle since high school, both moving to London from the south-west for big city life and to chase their dreams. Not even two years after their big move, Danielle had met John at some swanky hotel bar in central London.
Flash forwards a few years, and they were now happily married and even more in love than they had been when they first met each other.
It was sickening. In all the lovey-dovey ‘please stop reminding me I’m cripplingly single’ romantic ways.
From the very start of their love story, Olivia partially blamed them for her unrealistic expectations of love.
After all, meeting your soulmate in a random hotel bar, in 2024, while asking for directions seemed too easy.
Too simple. When, for the rest of us twenty-something folk, it was near impossible.
When Danielle met her husband, she had vowed nothing would change between her and Olivia.
That the two of them would gossip to the heavens without his presence once a week whether he liked it or not.
She had even written it into her premarital clause (a totally fake document that she had made up, the type of thing Danielle always did) and made him sign on the dotted line before sealing the deal with little more than a kiss.
Olivia didn’t need the details. But she got them anyway.
As best friends did, she knew far too well that her best friend was getting laid on the regular.
It made Olivia’s interactions with men look completely complex, even if she was just asking them to help get some ready-salted Pringles down from the top shelf at the supermarket.
Until she met him.
Olivia paced her apartment with anxious strides, shoving the thought of him deep into the archives of her mind and locking them away with a mental key. Tonight is not the night to remember him.
She looked around her autumnal-coloured apartment, from the mustard pillows to the rust-orange throw crumpled up on the edge of the two-seater sofa. Then at the peonies they had only just purchased but which didn’t really match her decor. “Roses. Are you sure?”
The evening was cool, rain pelting the windows in typical British fashion. She had made the room feel cosy, turning on only her fairy lights and warm white lamps, something she preferred over switching on the harsh overhead lights.
It was their weekly ritual to buy the cheapest bottle of wine, turn on trash TV and gossip. They had done it for years, and after the meeting with her literary agent earlier that day, Olivia was in desperate need of some girl time. And a ginormous glass of rosé.
Danielle nodded her head, “Oh yeah, I’m sure. With the orange, it would look like a beautiful clash of retro colours.” She popped the bottle’s cork and began to pour generously into the wine glasses.. “It would totally amplify the vibe you’ve got going on here.”
Olivia looked around the small apartment once more. Her vibe was second-hand, thrifted and comfy fabrics. It looked a mess and didn’t match at all.
“I’ll go to the shop early next week for a fresh bunch then.” Olivia took a deep slug of her wine, humming in delight.
Making their way to her small sofa, they both kicked their shoes off and sat down.
“Anyway, how’s the writing going? Still got a huge red stop sign flashing in your brain, or does green finally mean go?”
“Currently in the orange. I’ve written a little bit, but nothing noteworthy.” Olivia sighed heavily. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I’ve just lost the ability to write.”
Normally, Olivia would settle herself in the corner of the closest coffee shop – her favourite being Caffè Nero as of late – and hunker down with her laptop and a latte, listening to the conversations of those around her.
There was a sort of magic about taking in the variety of London fashions and accents it had to offer.
She would sit there all day making countless notes, writing descriptions of peculiar people or unique wardrobe choices that sparked ideas for her.
But this time, she had tried that.
She had even tried travelling to the Cotswolds, taking a week to go on country walks, and having baths with lavender-scented soaps. Something that was a luxury for her. She’d thought that a getaway was what she needed to refuel and hit the writing hole at top speed.
She had also tried to find inspiration in other places. By trying new things like tennis or a yoga class she would definitely not be returning to.
Nothing. Nada.
Absolutely bugger all came to her. She had no ideas, no bursts of inspiration, and for a while, she had thought her career as an author was over. She would never write again. This was the writer’s block she would never recover from. She was sure it would be her downfall.
Olivia’s fifteen minutes of fame was over, and what did she have for it? A trilogy of soppy romance novels with her name plastered on the front of them, and a mother who didn’t approve of her career no matter how many bestseller lists she got on.
“Livvy, you’re the best writer I know. You’ve been through a lot; give yourself a break. I know you’ll think of something. Whatever it is, it will be nothing short of amazing.”
“Your optimism is appreciated.” Olivia took a heady gulp of her wine, basking in the warm berry notes.
“It better be,” Danielle joked, nibbling on a row of chocolate before swinging her feet up under her and turning towards her friend. “Let’s brainstorm then. What are you stuck on?”
“Oh, just everything. The meet-cute, the love story, the leading male character. I have no idea who he is or who he will be.”
Danielle hummed in thought, glancing mindlessly at the television. “Okay, hear me out then. The best ideas are always constructed under the influence of cheap rosé.”
Olivia nodded, slumping her head back against the sofa hard and sinking further into the soft seat.
“Coffee shop meet?” Danielle suggested. “Cliché, but I’m a sucker for them.”
Olivia shook her head. “Overused.”
“Best friend’s brother?”
“Already done.”
Danielle quirked an eyebrow. “Mafia boss?”
A possibility… but Diana Weisman, another romance author, had recently topped the charts with the third instalment of her Mafia romance series, and her publisher had asked for something fresh. Something no one had done in a hot minute.
“No,” Olivia quipped, reaching over and nabbing some chocolate from the bowl of sweet treats laid before them..
“What about enemies to lovers? He could be a vampire?” Danielle suggested. “Maybe there could be a blood kink; I heard that’s popular with the kids nowadays.”
“No. Not vampires. My novel is a romance, not a tween fantasy about iron deficient boys who don’t age.” Olivia cringed. “And don’t use the words kids and kinks in the same sentence, please.”
Danielle hummed. “CEO?”
“Did that last time.”
“Werewolf?”
Olivia felt like doing the biggest facepalm of all time.
It wasn’t that the ideas lacked substance.
Though they did. But for her fourth novel, the meet-cute was a pivotal moment.
It needed to be fresh. New. The ideas suggested were missing something.
They didn’t seem to fit with where she wanted to go with the story.
At least that was something she knew.
Danielle shrugged her shoulders. “You’re right. Silly suggestion.”
“I feel like I’ve exhausted all avenues.”
Her friend glanced at Olivia and muttered into the rim of her large wine glass. “Not… all avenues.”
Olivia laughed, her hair flicking over her shoulder as she turned and faced Danielle with a defeated smile. “What else could I possibly try?”
“Well, it’s been a year since the accident, and you haven’t been on a date since…
” Danielle spoke carefully. Olivia had been through a whirlpool of emotion and trauma in the past twelve months, and Danielle had been there by her side the whole way.
She helped her more than she knew. Olivia could see that glint in her friend’s eye, and before she even said it, she knew exactly what her friend was about to say.
“Are you suggesting I date? Because you’re giving me that look, the one you get when you’re about to say something wild, so if you are, then my answer is a hard, definite no.” Olivia shook her head. “No way.”
“It’s been a year, Liv. You need to get out again and have fun.”
“I’m well aware of how much time has passed.” Not long enough, she thought. It would feel wrong. The past twelve months had all felt so wrong.
“Look, there’s heaps of apps nowadays where you can meet people, not even for dating. Just community. Maybe that’s what you need. To find your people. Your heroine’s man. This could be it. A few online dates, and you could have your leading man before you even open your laptop.”
Olivia gnawed on her lip as she thought.
Her fingers had grown numb from the ice-filled glass of Rosé, and like her memories of him, she felt the numbness wind up her arm and clutch her heart in the same icy grip she’d had to endure many times before.
The same icy pain that stabbed her heart when she realised he was never coming back.
No, she couldn’t date. Not when it had only been a year.
A measly twelve months. Some said that it would go away, the numbness, but when she looked around and saw reminders of him, it still felt too raw.
She was scared and hated to admit it, but Danielle was right.
She could have her novel’s leading man before even sitting down to write.
That excited her and sparked something that hadn’t touched her mind for a while.
The itch to write, the incredible possibility of opening a blank Word document and writing whatever she wanted.
Three hours, two bottles of wine and nothing but an empty food container next to her later, Olivia glanced down at her phone, which lay on the coffee table.
Her eyes shifted back and forth between the device and the sad lack of writing on the Word document tab open on her dinosaur of a laptop.
Danielle had left a half hour prior with some final words of inspiration, a rushed “Good luck” before she blew her a kiss and piled herself into the back of her husband’s car.
How bad could it be? She would only do it for research.
Some would even call it science. She would download the apps, swipe to her heart’s content and see where it went.
She’d done it before, in university. Hell, she’d even walked halfway across Oxford to meet with a guy in a shabby Starbucks.
Didn’t even tell her mum or friends. No location tracking.
Nothing. She’d lived on dating apps once.
Existed in the realm of early adulthood hook-ups and online dating. She could do it again.
Think of the book. Think of him. Whoever he is. He’s obviously not going to write himself.
With a sigh of defeat, Olivia snatched her phone off the table and resigned herself to downloading every single dating app available.
“I cannot believe it’s come to this,” she admitted to herself in the dim yellow light of her living room, watching as her photos uploaded and the first possible leading man in her area appeared on her cell phone screen.
Then, she began swiping.