Not That Impossible: MM Romantic Comedy by Isabel Murray

Author:Isabel Murray [Murray, Isabel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-04-24T16:00:00+00:00

16

I sat in my car, fumbling desperately at my phone.

I hadn’t realised how late it was. Charlie didn’t let me go until lunchtime, and I was beginning to have doubts about whether or not I was going to be able to make it.

Yes!

Yes, I was. No quitter talk. Dig deep. You can do it!

I gritted my teeth and thumbed in another few words.

There were people out there—and this boggled my mind—who wrote entire books on their phones.

Books.

Tens of thousands of words upon words.

With their thumbs.

I couldn’t do it. Call me a size queen, but when it came to a screen, I needed more than two inches. And as for typing? I’m a physical man. I yearned for the rattle and clack of a keyboard. I needed the feedback, I wanted to feel the words exiting my body.

iPhone keyboards were not made for the likes of me.

No matter how careful I was or how slowly I typed, autocorrect got right up in my business every third word. The first draft of my article was an underwhelming one hundred and fifty words long, and I’d been pecking it out laboriously for the last twenty minutes. I’d fogged up the windows. It looked like I was having way more fun in here than I actually was.

I wasn’t having any fun at all.

Being a journalist was turning out to be way harder than I’d imagined—and this was with a killer story.

Okay, fuck the phone.

I tossed it onto the passenger seat and switched on the ignition, blasting warm air through the vents to clear the windows. The phone bounced, landed in the footwell, and skittered out of sight under the seat.

“And fucking stay there,” I muttered at it. I leaned forward and swiped a clear patch on the windscreen. It was probably enough to see out of, but I was a nervous driver on the best of days. “Come on, come on.” The moment it was properly de-misted, I was off.

I had two options here.

I could go home, bang out a first draft, shoot it over to Ralph, and hope he opened his email when he saw it was from me, or…

I flipped on my indicator.

Or I could swing by his office before I wrote the article, and talk him into it first.

Ralph’s office was in the centre of town. His wife ran one of those shabby-chic shops that folk from London love so much, full of charming old wooden buckets, dainty ornamental stone benches, dove cotes and the like. The Chipping Fairford Inquirer’s newsroom was above it.

The closer to the centre of town you got, the harder it was to park, especially during lunchtime and the early afternoon. I made an executive decision. Would Ralph be angry if I noodled my car down into the tiny carpark at the back of his wife’s shop? He had been in the past, so, yes.

But he’d have to look out the window and see me to be angry. I was willing to take the risk.

I waited for a florist’s van to stop blocking the turn, and nipped down the narrow road.

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