Page 2 of Fangirl
Except I do.Very much.
And I’ll probably be drafting a strongly worded email to everyone I can think of, starting with Melinda James, the author ofThe Chronicles of Persefia.
A strongly worded email…
I roll my eyes at my own screen.Wow, Amy Sinclair. True badass.
I refocus on my fanfic for the rest of my lunch break.
At least here, in this world, Anlon realizes the truth—that the maid, Celandine, is the one for him. Not Princess Kataryn.
Because this is a world where the underdog wins. Where kindness, bravery, and intelligence beat out glamor, beauty, and power.
No wonder I’m addicted toPersefia.
I reread every volume, year after year, disappearing into its perfect dystopia. A place where I can lose myself for as long as there are words on a page or for however long I can keep writing my own fantasies.
An hour at lunch. That’s all I get.
And then it’s back to spreadsheets, supplier accounts, invoices, reconciliation balance sheets, and the dull, grayreality of the real world.
It’s alreadydark outside when I step onto the Overground.
To be honest, at this time of year, I live like a vampire. Leaving for work in the dark and coming home in the dark.
Audit season. As the only single and childless accountant on the team, I keep getting “voluntold” for every out-of-hours project.
I sigh, sinking into the scratchy seat, my favorite podcast playing in my ears, a balm after a chaotic day.
Twenty-five minutes to unwind, escape reality, and not think about spreadsheets.
I’m just starting to exhale the stress of the day when my phone vibrates in my hand.Mumflashes across the screen.
I groan. “Nope. Not doing that on public transport again.” I hit decline.
It’s too late, and I’m too damn tired.
Instead, I take the opportunity to message the Indian takeaway under my flat, placing my usual order—vindaloo and naan.
It’s been a long day. I deserve it.
Even if it’s a little sad that I’m now on a first-name, texting basis with my local takeaway.
Mum: 999 emergency call me.
I sigh, glancing at my phone. I’m only two stops from home.
The problem with my mother is that a “999 emergency” couldmean anything from an actual death to Tesco running out of green milk.
Whatever it is, it can wait until I’m back in my flat.
When the train arrives, I’m greeted by a thin drizzle because, of course! The day that keeps on giving.
I rush to the takeaway, my order already waiting on the pickup counter.A little too convenient. Maybe I order from here too often.
Grabbing the bag, I dial my mother as soon as I step outside.
“What took you so long?” she demands, not even trying to hide her annoyance.
