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more.  Maybe I was meant to die a spinster?  You couldn’t
mess with fate.
     
    Returning to my
laptop, I decided I really would type those final lines.  My characters were
waiting and they were at least something I had complete control over.
     
    It was just about
the only happy ending I could be sure of.

 
     
     
    Chapter
Three
     
     
    I’d stayed up
until gone two in the morning working on my manuscript and determined to type
the words, THE END.  I’d finally done it and I looked proudly over my total
word count of 82,314.  My heroine had nabbed her man and all the loose ends
were tied up.  Through all her dramas and conflicts, she’d remained perfect and
unruffled - how could Marco ever have resisted her?  My final chapter saw her
walking down the aisle towards a teary-eyed groom with the guests erupting into
tumultuous applause.
     
    On a final read
through, the thought occurred to me that it might be a bit corny - a bit too Barbara Cartland.  But she’d done alright from dodgy romances, hadn’t she? 
Why shouldn’t I ?
     
    Nevertheless, I
deleted a few ‘throbbing manhoods’ and a couple of ‘delighted sighs’, logged
into my Hotmail and sent it off to Mia.  She’d be honest with me and tell me if
I should begin to approach agents.
     
    I wouldn’t start
investing in ‘Cartlandesque’ feather boas or a chaise longue until I knew if my
writing career was set for success or failure.  And besides, my bank account
wasn’t up to it.
     
    So I was facing
yet another morning of trawling the web for vacancies and dreading what the day
held for me - an interview at two o’clock for a desperate last ditch attempt as
a receptionist in a local hairdressing salon and then a date with Mia’s mystery
man.  I could cry off but I knew that Mia and James would give me a bollocking. 
It was easier just to go along with it and keep the peace.
     
    I dressed in a
smart black trouser suit, ready for my interview, laying out a dressy top to
replace the white shirt for dinner that night.  Mia would no doubt send endless
texts, begging me to wear a dress but she wouldn’t win me over - the trousers
were well cut and made my legs look good, the top was slightly fitted and with
a bit of sparkle.  It was the closest thing to feminine that I was likely to
get.
     
    I studied myself
in the mirror after I’d applied a hasty coat of mascara and lip gloss.  Did I
look too straight and boring to greet the customers in a trendy hair salon? 
The answer was a very clear ‘Yes’!   I’d seen the girls who worked in
there and they all wore leggings or tiny mini skirts with biker boots and
little crop tops.  I looked like I should be doing the accounts for the Women’s
Institute - not only were my clothes wrong but my hair was just too safe . 
Oh, it was healthy enough, and a good strong shade of glossy chestnut brown,
but the chin length bob just hung there doing its own thing.  No matter how
many products I plied it with or how hard I tried to blow dry it into some
action, it just remained defiant and flopped.
     
    With a final
ineffectual flick of my hair and a squirt of equally useless hairspray, I
puckered my lips and blew myself a kiss.  Going through my usual pre-interview
pep talk, I smiled brightly at myself and stood tall with my shoulders back. 
‘Go get ‘em girl!  This could be the one!’
     
    But the smile
switched off and the shoulders slumped again as I grabbed my bag and left the
flat. 
     
    Would I ever find my dream job and would my dream man everfind me ?
     
     
    *****
     
     
    At least Eduardo,
the owner of ‘Funky Fringes’, was honest and to the point.
     
    ‘Oh, lovie,
you’re a darling girl but I just don’t think this is the job for you, is it?’ 
     
    He must have
sensed my disappointment, or maybe I was wearing my state of constant rejection
like a cloak for all to see, because the minute the words which declared me unemployable
once more had left his lips, he dropped