Rose Appleby

Rose Appleby

A Chapter by Sasha

 

1 Rose Appleby

 

The woman has her back to us. We can see the flute of pink champagne held in her steady hand. We can see the dangerously low cut of her beautiful dress. We can hear her melodic laughter like tiny bells tinkling. She is talking in a girlie, flirtatious voice to a charming, older man. Her voice is not always like that. She can alter her tone depending on who she is talking to. It’s not said, but we just know she is an elegant, successful and intelligent woman. She is vulnerable and strong, witty with an acidic tongue for anyone who tries to put her down. She is a modern woman…

 

Rose’s eyes snap open. She had that same ridiculous dream last night about a woman she doesn’t know that causes her to feel inadequate. It does not take much to make her feel inadequate though. Her attitude is that if she can attack herself first then it will not make any difference what anyone else says. She has already put herself down to a much greater degree than anyone else ever could. The strong sunlight is painful, so she vainly uses her hand to shield her eyes. Her mum has evidently pulled the curtains open so the sun will act as the alarm clock she keeps forgetting to set. Rose takes a deep breath readying herself to deal with the new day she already knows will be awful beyond expression. She fumbles with her hand for the notebook she is vaguely aware is on her sideboard. There it is and the pen with the gnawed end she uses to write in it is wedged in the notebooks spine. She scrawls in a fat, untidy hand her dream and thrusts the notebook back onto the sideboard. She now jumps out of bed. The rushed activity means she is out of bed before she knows it. If she paused to think about it she might never bother to get out of bed. She is hastily brushing her teeth now as she crams pens, pencils and paper into her rucksack. “‘Disorganisation’ should be your middle name, Rose Appleby!” as her mum likes to say, and as she likes to ignore. She is using a face cloth to attempt to scourge the dark circles and blemishes off her dull skin. As usual it does not work. She looks closely into the cloudy bathroom mirror. Looking sadly back at her is a small, slight eighteen year old with lank, black hair that hangs like a dead rag down her bony back. Her skin is ghostly-pale except for a shock off freckles on each cheek. Eventually she looks away in disgust.

She was a mediocre student throughout most of her school life until she hit sixteen. At sixteen she got the opportunity to really express herself. She took up Art something her parents had always dissuaded her from doing. Her palette was mostly blues, blacks and whites, colours that swirled together to create something depressing and pessimistic. That encapsulated her personality, she thought. Her teachers raved about her paintings, saying she had ‘a good eye’ and ‘an innate talent’ to each other and to her parents. This pleased Rose well enough, but really she would rather have not had the talent. She would rather have been unimaginative and dull-witted, but happier and more attractive than what she was now. It was the autumn term and the sixth-form was buzzing with talk of a fantastic university-life to come the next year. They would drink, sleep-around, get high on drugs and generally have a good time. Rose tried to imagine herself in the setting they proposed, but couldn’t. Where was her life going? She would drift gloomily around the school playground, the backdrop to the majority of her life thus far and mull it all over. The dream diary that recorded her recurring dream of this perfect, confident woman, almost Amazonian in her splendour, represented who and what she wanted to be. There was only one obstacle to all this-how was she going to get there?

Rose was sauntering home with her best and only friend Beth. Beth was clinging onto Rose’s unresponsive arm, a huge smile plastered on her face. Rose’s shoulders were sagging and her face was turned slightly toward the ground, so her sadness would not rub enough on her evidently ecstatic friend.

I was reading the prospectus, you know, for Manchester. It just looks great, especially the history course! The guidance councillor happened to be in the library at the same time and she comes over. She says ‘Are you interested in attending Manchester University?’ I’m like ‘Of course, it’s meant to be one of the best’. She asks my predicted grades, I tell her and she replies that I should have no problem getting in. Isn’t that brilliant?”

Rose considers what it would be like if her lifelong friend and sole confidant moved to the other side of the country. The prospect does not seem all that brilliant. “Why are we always talking about universities these days? It’s dull.” Rose snaps bitterly.

Beth steps back, as if Rose has physically hit her. Rose opens her mouth to apologise, but is so ashamed she cannot speak. They walk on in silence for awhile; Beth is no longer linking arms with Rose. It is after school and as they have done since they were little they are walking home together. Beth is blond, petite and curvaceous; with a natural enthusiasm and perkiness that endears her to others. Her optimism is something Rose generally admires and likes to be around, but at the moment as she is so confused and low herself it can be a little irritating. She hadn’t meant to attack Beth its just so easy to be mean to those you are close to as you know they will not run away so fast.

You’ve been under this black cloud for ages, Rose. What’s the matter?” Beth stops walking and turns to her friend, her face a picture of concern.

Its Seasonal Effective Disorder, you know the cold, the rain, being back at school and everything.”

Don’t give me that. I’ve know you for what? 13 or 14 years it must be. You can’t lie to me.”

Rose takes a deep breath and exhales it, watching the cloud it makes in the freezing air. “I feel so lost, Beth. I don’t know what the right direction for me is.”

Hence you hitting out at me for constantly going on about universities.”

Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”

It’s okay. I forgive you.” Beth beams warmly and resumes hugging Rose’s arm as they casually make their way home. The silence between becomes comfortable.

On their way home they see a familiar shop front. Rose becomes almost giddy as she sees it. It’s mock Tudor, with white-washed bricks and exposed black beams. The door has been painted black and is obviously regularly varnished as it shimmers in the pale, winter light. A heavy, silver knock is moulded onto the door.

Can we go in there, Beth? Pretty please.”

Oh, now you’re happy!” Beth plants her hands on her hips and pretends to be annoyed and full of resentment.

Rose drags her friend through the threshold of the shop and into its interior. A wind chime whistles as they enter. The warmth from a real wood fire hits them like a blast of the cold air they have been getting used to all day. The shop’s interior is dark, the windows hung with heavy, scarlet drapes that have been pulled tightly shut. Bookshelves full of tomes of every shape, size and genre line all the walls. The floor has a set of three platforms, which make it appear slightly unusual and kitsch. The cash register is on the left hand side on the highest level. The cash register is of the oldest sort, highly unreliable and with rusty buttons and hinges. The middle level is opposite to the front entrance and it is here that the book shelves have been arranged to raise up-and-over the fireplace. The lowest level is at the right hand side of the shop. A small reading table on uneven legs is set here with a small chair beside it. An imitation Tiffany lamp sits on the table casting dim green light onto whatever the reader happens to be reading. There is an elderly man behind the cash register. The girls have known him their entire lives. They make for the cash register immediately.

Well if it isn’t the two most beautiful young ladies I have ever seen and then there’s you two.”

Ha, ha. That joke never gets old, Mr Burckley.” Rose remarked sarcastically.

Don’t be rotten, Rose.” Beth howled.

It’s okay. If I can give it, then I can take it. The girl doesn’t seem to be in a very good mood today anyway.” Mr Burckley observed.

Rose sighed dramatically. “I don’t want to talk about that anymore. I was wondering if you have any interesting books in at the moment.”

Rose is upset because she doesn’t know what to do with her life.” Beth informed Mr Burckley.

Well, you could always work here, Rose. You love books; I need a hand now I’m getting on as it were. It’s perfect.”

I’ll…think about it.”

It’s a solution, Rose. You shouldn’t dismiss it.” Beth laughed good-heartedly.

You can think about my job offer. Meanwhile all the new stock is at the back.” He pointed with his long, slender finger to the right-hand side of the shop. Rose thanked him. She could not help, but worry about him, as Beth and she crossed the shop floor. The funny, old man the neighbourhood kids threw garbage at was really very dear to her. She had noticed the way his hands were shaking, his back was bent and paining him more that usual and he was worryingly pale.

Beth sat at the crooked table drawing love hearts on her planner in pink biro, whilst Rose rummaged the shelves. She perused a few pages of a Tolstoy and an Austin lack-lustily, but she either found she had already read them or that she did not feel in the mood for drama or romance. It was a good half an hour before she saw it. It was an enormous, leather bound volume buried inside an unopened box. It had been sneaky of her to open it without Mr Burckley’s say-so but there had been nothing that suited her present tastes and she knew he trusted her. So, there it was in the palm of her hands. Beth was looking at its front cover and was gushing over the book. It was covered in worn green leather with a red leather spine stitched on, with yellow thread. The book creaked as Rose opened and a cloud of thick dust flew into her face. She waved it away with her hand. The text had been written on in elaborate, flourished hand-writing with a black quill. There were beautiful, detailed images painted in oil. Rose knew the book was unique and valuable in every sense of the word. The pages were the thickest she had ever seen, nearly as thick as her finger. Beth soon got bored of looking at it, but Rose held it with reverence. She spent another half an hour gazing at the pictures and reading-and-re-reading the text. She found the book was not just visually breath-taking, but that the author had wrote something incredibly imaginative and poetic. She had to have it.

Aside from art, books were what Rose engrossed herself in to escape from the reality of her dull, empty, pointless life. Her imagination could run away from itself in books, whereas her art tended to reflect her thoughts and feelings. In books she could become the characters and enter their thoughts and feelings. For this reason fantasy had a particular appeal to Rose and when she felt low she would not read anything else. It was her comfort food, witchcraft, lands where humans and magical entities lived side-by-side and places where even the puniest could feel brave and strong in the end. She could read a volume of the ‘Lord of the Rings’ in one night, as she wouldn’t put it down. The captivating book she had found in Mr Burckley’s bookshop was thus of course a fantasy book. She drew her purse out of her bag and looked into its every inch. All she had was a fiver. That would never be enough for a book like this, she thought. She instinctively checked if anyone was watching her and seeing that no-one was she thrust it into the belly of her bag. Her heart was racing and her palms had become wet with sweat.

Come on, Beth. There’s nothing that I want here, so let’s go.” Rose heard herself say.

After all this time you haven’t found anything. Well I suppose if it makes you feel better…”

They went to exit the shop and its cosy warmth, when Mr Burckley called after them “Bye girls. Rose, consider my offer.” Beth strolled out of the shop and was holding the door open for Rose to follow her. Rose however was frozen with shock and horror. Mr Burckley’s tone and face had appeared friendly enough, but there was a hardness to his eyes that suggested he some how knew she had taken the book. She forced herself to move though, as how could Mr Burckley know. He was at the other end of the shop. It was nearly impossible for him to see what she was doing exactly even if he had wanted to. She scurried out of the door before she could give herself away completely.

 

 

 



© 2008 Sasha


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I am not surprised that there has only been one review of your story. Many others, like me, when confronted with large solid blocks of prose simply move onto the next story in line...

Please edit your story into a more manageable format, principally shorter paragraphs. You might be surprised at what a difference it'll make to the readers and the comments you will get...

Posted 7 Years Ago


Nice Job. Very realistic. I can relate to her being self-conscious and I'm sure many other girls will, too.

Posted 13 Years Ago



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Added on October 29, 2008


Author

Sasha
Sasha

London, England



Writing
Rose Appleby Rose Appleby

A Book by Sasha