Meeting Strangers: Starting Over Novels

By T M Goble

In the heartfelt novel "Meeting Strangers," Harriet finds herself trapped within the confines of a room that has been her sanctuary for an entire year. The comfort of solitude and self-contemplation has become her world, shielding her from the outside world and the painful memories that haunt her.

As Harriet's self-imposed isolation continues, she is gently prodded by well-meaning voices urging her to rejoin the real world. Among those voices is her loving father, who, in her darkest days, cared for her selflessly and without question. Now, with her father desperately ill and in need of her support, Harriet faces a momentous decision—to break free from her self-imposed exile and repay her father's unwavering love and care.

But the fear of stepping beyond the familiar walls of her room and into the unknown grips Harriet's heart. The spectre of those dark days looms, threatening to pull her back into the abyss of her past.

"Meeting Strangers" is a moving and emotionally charged story of reconnection and the power of second chances. Join Harriet as she navigates the treacherous path of starting over, grappling with her own fears and uncertainties, and ultimately finding the strength to step into the light once more. Will she be able to leave her self-imposed exile behind and embrace the world beyond, or will the shadows of her past prove too formidable to overcome?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Creative Peak
• Release date: Feb 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224562602

Book preview

01

Everyone tells me how pretty and elegant I am, but the mirror doesn’t lie. My face shows pain and is a grotesque distortion of my younger days. The skin is weak and pallid, my eyes have lost their sparkle, my lips are dry and cracked. The overlarge navy trousers are devoid of fashion. The drab blue blouse comes from gran’s era. Why wear a colour I don’t like?

Should I practice smiling into the mirror? No, as with other natural actions, it is foreign to me. My frozen lips do not want to turn. Why would I smile? Smiling denotes happiness, pleasure and laughter. I have no reason to enjoy life so my lips rest in a flat, pinched shape. Plump lips, lovingly painted with shades of red or pink, have become history.

Filling my lungs with air has become a habit. Deep breathing has been recommended, but it degenerates into a chorus of sighs echoing through my empty soulless room.

The long white blonde hair has remained but should I have coloured my pride and joy. Short, mundane, brown hair I could have hidden behind. The blonde shine has vanished, only the dull, listless hair with split ends remains. There! A quick twist with a scrunchie and it sits as a hidden bun on the back of my head so the split ends can’t jump out at me. But my bared pinched face shrinks from the exposure with mute wretchedness emphasising its deathly pallor in the fading light. The hollow cheeks are a haunting unmoving mask carved from stone.

A straight back. I need to practice as it is expected of a young woman, but it accentuates my thin body in these drab clothes. Rolling the shoulders forces my body to conform. The chin rises a fraction in the pretence of appearing poised. I look like a shapeless coat hanger.

Why am I so thin? Because I haven’t returned to eating as a normal adult. Cardboard food, each mouthful is a Herculean task. Thinking about eating causes a suffocation in my tightened throat as though a hand closes and I struggle to breathe. Eating three square meals a day can wait.

Change. Such a horrible word. The mundane pattern of repetition should win. No conscious effort is needed. No agonising questions or decisions. Simple steps taken without people are the best. Repeating the familiar is comfortable.

How many hours will I stand despising myself in this mirror? It’s so difficult to see a pleasing aspect. Why do I stand here?

Damn! I’m crying again. Throughout the day not one tear. It’s the mirror’s fault. I can’t look anymore. The mirror exposes the inner thoughts of the poor shabby person in front of me. Why can’t I ignore the mirror? That’s easy, it’s a magnet to my personality, so I cannot resist its draw.

Be positive. The landlord of the house invited me to decorate, but why paint and wallpaper a prison? The azure curtains once matched the walls, but they have faded as they ticked through the years untouched.

I’m too lazy to tidy the books and clothes in my bedroom. The bed is unmade, the sheets and duvet crumpled from restless sleep, the night’s dark hours have been long and hard.

Dad won’t be home for several weeks so normal social standards can wait as no one knows where I live.

The mirror is losing its grip. The window will be better, my limited view of the world where I once spread my wings. From the mirror to the window is significant, this morning my future world changed.

Although expected, the words shocked me. My return to the normal world has begun. She left me with no alternative. Pleading for more time would not have worked. Why throw me to the bear pit of modern living?

The routine of every Wednesday’s trip into town has been difficult. The three-mile journey would have been quicker by bus, but the little old ladies, with their retirement passes, love to talk. I couldn’t cope, so walking has been the only way.

The stout mud coloured flat shoes did not rub this morning, but it rained. Gone are the days where I nipped to avoid getting wet. I never take an umbrella so the downpour drenches me. Strange, but the rain is less wet these days. Soothing, it mingles with the tears. Rain is cool and predictable, while tears are hot and uncontrolled.

The tears are coming faster at the thought of the future but I will fight. No more throwing myself on to the bed, despite the overwhelming desire to bury my head under the pillow. ‘No! No!’

The shaking must stop. The empty house is telling me to go to bed, but I won’t. The silence envelops with a strangling hold, crushing, forcing the air from my lungs. The tears drip from my chin onto the drab blouse in a pattern of dark blobs. A scream forms inside my head. Not a small scream of surprise but a deep full-bodied scream of anguish and despair. I clamp my lips together and clench my teeth. It must not be allowed to escape. Deep breathing will control the shaking, ‘I will win!’

More control, only slow movements to keep my equilibrium. Time for action.

The wardrobe. Why lock it? My greatest wish is a lock around me. The metal key is cold. The effort needed to look inside the door makes the shaking worse and my stomach clenches. The sight that greets me is what I expected but is so full of memories. The rows of shoes taunt me. The days I loved vivid high-heeled shoes have passed. Each pair had been my favourite. When did I last wear high heels? A sudden shiver. They creep up on me. Too many of them. The red shiny slingbacks. I wore those the second time he proposed.

I must stop looking at the shoes as they bring pitiful memories. My need is in the dark recess hidden behind the shoe racks. It has been so precious to me since it happened. Would I have survived without it? Will I still make it through to a normal life? The telling question. Why won’t the mirror give me the answer?

The solid rosewood box, too small for shoes, has been my friend and saviour. The shaking hands will not steady. The clutch of the box relieves the visceral agony. The sharp corners dig into my skinny frame but the hurt is insignificant compared to a constant companion of pain. Opening it at the dressing table will be best. I’ll pull the curtains, so intruders cannot see. The key resting on the top of the pelmet welcomes my touch and slithers to my hand at the edge.

There is no rush, I have no one to meet. No one waits for me. The lock in the rosewood box clicks, the lid opens without a sound. The silence of the house remains intact. What a relief.

The solitary item nestles in the box. The stroking of the leather is soothing. The repetition every day that I crave. Will it end? Why will it end? The forces gather against me. Can I resist?

‘It’s time.’ The next step will be daunting but the future must be confronted. The dark blue stained leather stares back at me but this should be easy, the repeated pattern of every day. She told me it was essential. She must be obeyed. I cannot question her words. Just like a robot I follow her commands. Her demands are always hard. It’s been a struggle to comply. Giving up would have been easier but she wouldn’t allow it. Her voice fills my head. Her monotonous upper-class accent will be ingrained in my mind for ever.

Why do my fingers tremble when I touch the diary? The urge comes to start at the beginning. But can I? The first page. I didn’t write many words. Just three in large capital letters. The words pierce like a sharp dagger in my chest.

I must die.

Bitten fingernails trace the lines of the words and the dark despair that lived in my head. The shuddering breath draws me back to that dark day. What a bleak world I inhabited.

My trembling fingers grasp the diary as I struggle to hide the words. Jump to today. Blank. The pen hovers but I need the words to flow. Another tear. Ignoring it will help compose the critical entry. Extraneous thoughts must go. Concentration is needed. The words are coming, the despair of my body shape and old clothes are fading.

This will be my last diary entry.

Jane’s job is finished.

It’s down to me.

She said I knew the coping strategies and I am ready to re-join the world.

The fear those words caused when she uttered them. Sat in her usual leather chair her face unsmiling, she wore the scruffy clothes of an overlarge sweater and workman’s jeans. The words hit hard.

I must write those words again.

I am ready to re-join the world.

‘That is not all.’

The sentence needs more, from which I was cruelly torn.

The last entry. Tears and shakes will not win. Every thought today must be entered.

He’s been dead for over a year, but the hurt will live on forever.

Love turned sour by obsession.

Do I have the capacity for love? Will I ever love again? Loving has been ripped from my body leaving an empty void of blackness. She had said it is cathartic to write. I’ve never been convinced, but this entry has eased my shoulders and arms, so why stop?

My father is a broken man.

In those few short weeks, he lost the woman he so dearly loved to another man and believed that I had been destroyed.

Without him, I would have given up.

I would be dead.

My writing is jerking because of the sobbing.

Body spasms make no noise but they will not win.

Sobbing is silent.

No one can hear my torment.

I must become calm to continue.

My father’s eyes show such sorrow.

I fear for his future.

It will be a slow recovery from his heart attack.

But does he want to live?

I must be a burden.

The page is wet through watery eyes. The tears drip onto the page.

The cold twilight of the outside world covers the room.

I’ve been feeling so sorry for myself.

I must be positive. There is no other option.

I must support my poor father, who has been so dedicated to me.

I’ve come to hate that leather chair she sits in. Today she has abandoned me to my fate. Did she enjoy the moment when she uttered the words? Was she glad to be rid of me? Perhaps she waited for me to say the words, but I didn’t, because I couldn’t. Her manner has been cold and clinical when I wanted love and tenderness. Her last words came as a shock. Give me a call when you’ve taken your first job.

Did she expect me to leave her office and visit the Job Centre? Dad and I have no money. I need to work, but can I?

The pen hovers in the gathering gloom. She is right. The real dark days have gone. It’s a big step, but I will do it for my dad.

What else shall I enter?

Will I have sex again?

I’m not frightened of men as the therapy has convinced me.

The hour’s meeting lasted no time. Two words. Jobs and sex. Jobs are normal. Sex is normal. Be brave, mix with people.

My father will never earn again, I need to be the breadwinner.

The time has come. The bleach of the white page is visible in the gloom. My slow methodical writing is at an end. It’s haste and purpose from now.

I’m twenty-four years old next week.

Life will not be worth living unless I make changes.

Diary, you contain my innermost thoughts for the last year, but it’s time to move on.

Wish me luck.

02

Nic Friar closed his eyes and held his breath hoping Connie wouldn’t hit the wall, but her driving, never good at the best of times, deteriorated when her temper flared.

The tyres squealed on Nic’s silver grey BMW Cabriolet as it accelerated across the car park and screeched to a halt, missing the lined bay in the hotel car park. The breath slowly left his body as the chittering of birds replaced the engine’s roar. Opening his eyes, only eight inches had preserved the front of his car from the limestone wall.

Flinging open the door the slim figure bounced from the driver’s seat. The bright blue dress exposed her thighs. The red temper tantrum face matched the colour of her hair which flowed over her shoulders in a gust of wind.

Grimacing as her bare feet hit the gravel, she grabbed the red six-inch high heels from behind the driver’s seat and threw them on to the ground. The driver’s door slammed, Nic still in the passenger seat jumped from the violence of the shaking car.

‘You pathetic wimp! You’d never survive in my world!’

Curling his top lip, he closed his eyes hoping her fury would subside. She’d lost it at the motorway services but insisted on her share of the driving. He shuddered at the hundred miles an hour in the fast lane.

Time to calm her. Flicking the door handle, he jumped out facing her across the car. ‘Connie! Connie!’

She drew in her breath for the next verbal onslaught ignoring his calm pleading voice. ‘You’ve no bloody drive or ambition.’ The words disappeared down the side of the car as she struggled to strap on her shoes.

Nic flicked at the travel creases on his new brown chinos with an audible sigh. Connie leaned into the car to scrabble for her handbag on the back seat. He nipped around the car and grabbed her hands, but she snatched them away. Why the long spell of anger?

‘Just because I don’t agree with you, there’s no need for the temper tantrum, you’re such a pain-in-the-arse. Calm down, otherwise you will make a fool of yourself again. Why won’t you ever learn?’ The sneering glare with bared teeth showed no descent from the fury that still engulfed her.

Connie pushed him out of the way and opening the boot of the car, grabbed at the large rucksack, but struggled to lift it. Nic moved to help, but she stood in his way. With a pull born of frustration and a groan, she lifted it over the sill and dumped it on the gravel at his feet.

He kicked it aside and stepping forward pinned her arms to her side and pulled her close. She struggled, but he tightened the hold. Her eyes widened as she stamped her feet so he held firm until the sinewy muscles softened, but he still would not let her go. Another burst of invective could start within seconds.

‘Let’s not part during an argument.’ The weight of her arms dropped allowing him to hold her, the temper would drain within a few minutes. Nic couldn’t remember which trivial incident had triggered the outburst at the motorway services, but the cause would have been as insignificant as usual.

Connie sighed with tears of frustration in her eyes. It had become the familiar sign that her outburst had run its course. He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. He loved her but what could he do about her temper? Relaxing his shoulders his breath faltered as the tears streamed down her face.

Connie scowled at the derelict mill and cheap pound store on the opposite side of the road to the hotel. She would not like Leek, too rural, run down and away from the bright lights and glamour of the capital which she loved.

‘Let me check in and then we can say goodbye.’ He picked up his rucksack and crossed to the main ivy-clad building of the Leek Hotel. ‘Looks reasonable,’ he nodded approval as he approached the old limestone building with recently painted leaded window frames. Connie trailed along behind without a word.

The slow queue at the reception desk would annoy her. Connie yawned but didn’t speak and stared aimlessly ahead. Nic would have to discover the reason for the sullenness so he could return her to an even temper before she left.

‘Nic Friar, can I check in,’ he winked at the petite raven-haired girl behind the smooth oak reception desk. His shoulders relaxed but his eyes stayed on her face as he stroked her fingers as she returned the credit card. The instant twitch on her lips disappeared as she looked down at the computer screen.

Connie gazed at the reception hall chandelier.

‘Let’s find the room,’ he bounded up the stairs. Since the outburst, Connie hadn’t spoken but followed him. Entering his room, he left the door open for her.

03

Nic wondered why Connie remained silent at check-in? She hated waiting; her VIP actress status allowed her preferential treatment but not today. What could be the matter with her? The temper tantrum wasn’t unusual but quiet and patient had never been part of her character.

A curled lip and distasteful look came to Connie’s face as she entered the room. By her standards, too small and dark. Nic preferred modern hotels, but they would be few and far between in this area.

Nic dumped his rucksack on the bed, ‘Calmer now?’

She flung her arms around him, ‘Sorry Nic, I’m always losing it and you’re so patient with me.’

Nic kissed her. The warmth and softness of her body moulded into him. The feel of her through the thin summer dress, and her perfume, made him slide his hand down her back and draw her hips to him.

She broke the