a sneak chapter to the novel I'm pursuing to write. Comment if you think it's worth writing more on.
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Chapter 1.
Gingerly.

The Sunday Domestic wasn't particularly busy one Sunday, and you'd think it would be, especially on the day it's named after. Dawson Heller was the only one scuttling about the office, ruffling papers around his desk, wailing his pen around frantically.
Dawson was a man with a head on his shoulders at the age of 25, and the best reporter The Domestic had seen in 25 years. Having made The Sunday the most bought newspaper in their half of London, Dawson was at the top of his game, and still playing it.
You'd think it'd be hard being a reporter at his age, for a booming particularity such as The Sunday, but not for Mr. Heller. Favoured by most, though stubborn as he could be, he'd get the job done with charisma, and passiveness. He didn't like to pressure his interviewees, but none-the-less had his way of bargaining through every answer, personal or non-personal.
Dawson rarely had his hair combed, because he always seemed to be in a rush, that it would blow all over the place anyway. He kept his tie loose, and his blazer unbuttoned. He never wore hats, and he fastened a belt because suspenders took too much time. His wristwatch, tattered as it seemed now, was still highly reliable in the life of Dawson Heller, from when he woke up, to the time he put the last punctuation in his daily story.
Another factor in the young man's life, was the women, inevitably. As hurried as he looked, he always seemed to catch the eye of every girl his age. All but one, and that was Gladys. But then again, that's before he interviewed her, and before they were married.
Gladys never really saw the “hype” of Dawson, whilst any desk sitter in The Domestic would bend over backwards to grab him a coffee, or take him out for one. Gladys kept to her work, as a gardener for the city. She was passionate about her job, tending the flowers and trees all around the local parks, and outside the stores, and the odd job for the old locals who couldn't take care of them themselves. Again, it would bring about a wondering as to how you'd think such a job could be as worthy of an interview as a gardener. She'd always had a flare for plants and wildlife, watering plants 11 hours of the day, watching birds and squirrels prance about for 1. This is what kept her from such a social life as being worried about the opposite sex. But such a position as being the head gardener for the west of London, there were quite the few questions Dawson had been invited to ask, but not by Gladys.
Dawson was always tempted to take a few of his precious minutes out of his busy life to stop and smell the flowers she might be watering at the time, in order to exchange a few words, but never did, never would, or at least he'd always thought that for the few years he worked for The Sunday. Any other time, he'd only see her on his morning coffee run outside the Bin Café, while she watered the lilacs outside of it, not paying much attention. It wasn't really until he was asked by The Domestic to ask her a few questions about the life she so easily sustains around the residence, that he took an interest to her.
Now don't think he'd been asked recently. He'd been prodded again and again for the past 2 years, and was turned down an interview every time consecutively once every month. That brings us to 24 times a requested interview, each time with the same answer, in a slightly different way. The first time he ever asked her, she completely disregarded his existence, which carried on for the next 5 times until she began to notice the pattern. The 6th request, she actually timed it perfectly, that he'd be walking around the corner near the hotel like every other time, around noon, on the 25th of every month, and it went something like this:
“Good morning, Miss.” Dawson would approach. “Can I have a word?” Expecting no answer at all, he would start to already slip his notepad into his back pocket like the 3 times prior. Until this time she surprised him with a:
“You look so unprofessional approaching me without a notepad you know. You could at least pretend like I'm about to accept an interview.” She then took a look at him for the first time in a long time. He stood with his regular attire on, shirt untucked, tie loose, hair barely combed, the whole bit. At least he smelt good for his sake. She scanned him once, then went back to watering the hanging pots beside the hotel sign.
Completely unprepared for that answer, he quickly poked for his notepad again, yanking it out and throwing his pen onto the first line. “Well, Miss...”
“Gladys.” She replied, looking over at him again with a slight sarcastic smile. “Gladys Plum.”
“Miss Plum,” He would then begin, a struggled smile on his face as well, “Can I have a word?”
“Could you have a word? What type of word exactly? I don't have time for coffee if that's what you're asking.”
“Miss Plum, I've been trying to interview you for the last 5 months, all which attempts have failed. Do you think you could possibly give me a chance?” He felt stupid after saying that. So unprofessional, so casual. What was he thinking? She was pretty but, he'd never been flustered by an interviewee before. She laughed in her throat a bit, shaking her head, continuing her work. After a few moments of silence, she picked up her things, waved him off, and left him alone in front of the hotel once again.
This arrangement carried on for the next 12 days of the 365 available with slightly different reactions every time. Eventually, after the 2 year mark, after so many other interviews he was granted, after he'd been given a new office in The Sunday Domestic, and cleared of his duty of prodding away at Miss Gladys Plum, he went about his life as if the past 24 tries never occurred. That was until the phone at his desk rang. Not that it didn't ring regularly, but who was on the other line he never quite expected. Picking up the clunky, curved, wooden ear piece, he answered with a routine, “Hello. The Sunday Domestic.”
“Hello,” replied the voice, “I'd like to speak with Mr. Heller.” It was a woman's voice, a familiar woman.
“Hello,” He would respond a little more casually, “this is him speaking.”
“Hello Dawson. This is Gladys.”
For some reason, Dawson's heart danced around his chest and his face flushed. Clumsily grasping the phone around his other ear and swirling about in his chair, he inquired. “What a surprise, how can I help you?”
“I was wondering if maybe I still have a spot for that interview you've been so desperate about giving me.” She answered calmly, yet somehow still with a tinge of annoyance in her tone. He sat pondering what exactly, after so many countless tries, after so many shattering moments of utter embarrassment and the like, after the annoyance, the waves off, the ignorance, what could have possibly changed her mind. And he pondered about it more, “Yes, of course, Gladys, anytime you'd like. As a matter of fact I'm free right now,” he lied. “How about the Bin for a coffee?”
“I don't have time for coffee.” She bluntly stated. “But I will meet you at the Bin. Be there as soon as you can.”
He agreed, and hung up the phone gently. Sitting for a few moments, he relished. It'd been 2 years today, the 25th of the month, since the first interview inquiry. He gazed up at the ceiling, not caring if he looked ridiculous as he reached upward to the tiles in glory, clenching his fists and grinning widely.
Jumping from his seat, he whisked his notepad and pen off his desk and hurried out the door. He figured he'd tell the boss about his absence later. Rushing across the street, jaywalking more than once and not getting caught, he stumbled around, attempting to keep his notepad in his hand, and his pen in his mouth, while he shuffled the paper binder under his arm.
Sooner than later, after a few corners and unintended meetings with a few not-so-rushed folk among the streets, he reach the Bin, hair everywhere but in place. Scuttling past the counter line, he spotted Miss Plum at a table near the back window. She looked rather stunning that day, her blond hair put back, her makeup just right, her blue eyes glistening in the sunlight that poured in. It wasn't everyday Mr. Heller landed upon such a woman that blew his mind, though it seemed to be every girl's dream. Pushing his brown hair away from his face, placing his pen in his pocket, folding his notebook carefully and holding his binder to his chest, he approached Miss Plum calmly. That was until, whilst being full of his own presence, did he happen to bump an older gentlemen with a coffee in his hand, spilling it all down his beige dress shirt. It missed everything else, but oh, it be such a pain to get that stain out.
Blushing, after handing the man a note to pay for another coffee, he sat down across from Gladys, smiling slightly, nodding a welcome. She nodded back accordingly, placing a gloved hand under her soft chin. She gazed at him for a moment. She couldn't quite tell you if you asked her why she wanted to spend time with such a sloppy looking rookie, but if every other girl saw something in him she supposed so could she. She hadn't yet, but she supposed she could.
Dawson gazed across the table now and then whilst preparing his spot for the interview, scanning the lovely lady before him. Her lightly coloured outfit looked floral, and defined her in many aspects. It was stunning, yet subtle, and spoke of character but was stubborn enough to come off as ignorant at times, though it looked nice which she could be. The “v” in the chest line just barely flaunted her breasts, also giving off a daring flare to the rest of what she was wearing. A thin veil hung over her hat, which she removed while he prepared.
“Good afternoon, Miss.” He would then say, completely ready to start asking questions.
“Let me start.” She said, leaning over to put a soft gloved finger over his lips. This was a bit shocking, but she knew she had him under her spell. “Why are you so persistent?”
“I'm a reporter, Miss--”
“Gladys, you can call me Gladys, I don't mind.” She said, leaning back into her seat intently.
“Gladys,” he then began, “I report for The Sunday Domestic as you more than likely know. I've noticed you're wonderous work around the city and the Boss man wants a good story about your daring dedication to such beauty you portray.”
“Thank you, Mr. Heller.”
“Dawson, I don't mind.” He played on words. She smiled and nodded accordingly, taking a sip of...wait. “I thought you didn't have time for coffee?” He asked rather sarcastically.
“It's a cappuccino.” She replied, taking another sip. “I wasn't being specific for a reason.” Dawson laughed; completely out of order, completely unprofessional. “Very good then, let's continue.”
A while went by, a good hour anyway, into the noon whilst the sun rose high in the sky, people bustling by in the street out front of the Bin. The interview went smoothly, with a few situations which would be considered unprofessional to Dawson, where there was laughter, smiling, a connection. Gladys began to realize what an interesting character the man before him was panning out to be, and he, likewise, with the woman he'd been waiting so long to chat with.
Soon, the interview would be over, and Dawson's wristwatch screamed his leave, which he ignored, as the two continued talking over a few cups of hot, whatever it is they fancied, being coffee or cappuccino.
Now, with another good hour gone by, Gladys decided it would be a good time to leak the original reason she'd arranged an interview after so long. Reaching for her purse, she opened it and pulled out a tattered, tea-stained, burnt piece of rolled paper. A red, wax seal kept it in a rather tight roll. The symbol pressed into it marked an “S,” which neither of the two at the table knew why. Removing the wax, and unrolling the paper carefully, she handed it to Dawson. He gingerly grasped it between 2 fingers, gently unrolling it while it was persistent enough to try and keep closed.
Upon viewing, the two hunched over the wooden table, keeping their drinks far from it, they scanned the very essence of the paper. It was an advertisement, for a city. A city known as Lillidale.

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