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| (Still working on the cover!) |
The Neighbour on Post Office Lane isn’t quite who they seem. Rosie soon learns you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. Writing my hero felt like peeling back layers... some tender, some unsettling, all deliciously human.Here's a sneaky peak...
A squeak across the patio window made her jump with fright. A man, wearing a dirty boiler suit with the sleeves cut off, was cleaning the window. Rosie realised it was the scruffy guy who’d dropped off John’s parcel earlier. His face and arms were dirty, and the water running down his arms left black streaks. If John hadn’t mentioned his name, Rosie would have thought he was a homeless guy Margot had taken pity on. So, he was Daryl? He spotted Rosie, and with an expression of surprise having arrived on his face, promptly dropped the wiper blade into the bucket and entered via the patio door, opening it with a swoosh, letting cooler air into the room. He did at least take off his well-worn leather boots and leave them outside, so not completely lacking in manners.
‘Margot said nothing about a window cleaner,’ Rosie blurted at him, hating immediately that she sounded defensive and abrupt. Her heart was still pounding in her chest from the fright.
‘Oh, I’m not a window cleaner…’ he said. There was that gruff voice again, like he smoked twenty cigarettes a day, but gentle too. It unnerved Rosie. ‘I clean Margot’s when I’m doing mine.’
‘So, you must be the granddaughter.’ He scratched his unshaven jaw. ‘If I’d realised earlier, I’d have introduced myself. I thought you were arriving tomorrow.’
So had Rosie but when Abigail had asked if she could start Friday, the hire car was loaded, and so she thought why the hell not just go. She couldn’t face Anthony turning up with her father at the house for a work meeting.
‘Yes, sorry, I changed my plans. I arrived yesterday evening.’ For a moment they both stood there awkwardly. ‘So, if you’re not really the window cleaner, who are you and how did you get in?’ She frowned, folding her arms. Parcel or no parcel, she wasn’t sure she liked that he could just walk in whenever he wanted. Admittedly, she hadn’t checked if she’d locked the patio doors this morning…
‘Yeah, sorry,’ he conceded, ‘I’m Daryl.’
‘Yes. I know,’ she said tersely.
‘I’m Margot’s neighbour.’
I am working on the paperback too.
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