Missy's Point of View = MPOV

Doctor's Point of View = DPOV

MPOV

Twenty minutes. Twenty bloody minutes late. I could be doing something else, probably more productive than sitting in a room waiting for some superstar journalist to throw away my self-esteem. It's one article. It's not like I'm writing 'War and Peace'. I don't need help from some snob that's only got a spot on a top journalist team because he knows the editor. Just please God don't let it be like the last "helper" that I had in. She was just so posh and wooden, she literally pronounced every syllable in her sentences. As you can imagine, not very interesting to talk to, but at least she wasn't late. Casually, I fiddle with my notes in front of me and all they really do is remind me how much I hate my job. I loved writing when I was young. The small idea blossoming into a story was just the greatest feeling. I used to write about Ayr, the place I grew up, and the people there. But then reality kicked in and I started to give it up. Taking a job at the local council at the age of eighteen, I spent four years typing out boring letters. That's when I started to be reabsorbed into my stories. I suppose it was an alternative to the real world. So back to the job websites I went, but with no luck. Then I was picked-up by a local newspaper, quite small, but was good money. I was writing gossip columns for a living, until now. Finally they actually gave me an article to write: on the growth of social media in workplaces. Ugh. I had no interest in it whatsoever, but my boss mistook that for writer's block and sent me here. Where I am sitting waiting for some uptight posh-o that'll just tell me what I already know.

I sit there in silence, watching the surface of the table glisten in the light. Right, that's it. I am now so bored I am finding a table interesting. Let's go. I can come tomorrow, reschedule, my boss will understand. Slowly I get up from the uncomfortable wooden chair that was obviously made for a six year old, and make my way out. The whole building is grey. There is a simple corridor with a few doors on each side and a cabinet in the corner. I take a deep breath and just walk away. But then the door at the other end opens to reveal a worn-out man panting. He is wearing a three piece black suit with a crisp white shirt underneath and smart shoes. His hair is close-cropped, crinkled in places and is a magnificent sterling silver colour. He turns towards me and immediately sees my look of curiousity. In his hand he carries a burgundy notebook with a blue pen rammed in the side.

"Ah, um, I'm looking for um..." a surprisingly familiar Scottish accent echoes through the hall. "Oh yes, um, Marsaili Saxon".

DOPV

I'm feeling so awkward standing here. She's just so gorgeous. The model cheekbones and the striking analytical eyes darting across the corridors, just... Wow. She's wearing the Hell out of that dress, the corseted purple top pulling in her waist and then billiowing out into a long skirt. I'm just standing in the view of those piercing eyes and I feel absolutely terrified like a rabbit in the headlights. Her dark chocolate brown hair is knotted into a messy bun and shows off her soft jawline. She gives a soft smile and swiftly rubs a smudge of ruby red lipstick from the side of her lip.
"That'll be me", a voice answers. She speaks with an accent that instantly catupults me back to my childhood. Ahh, the memories of growing up an orphan in Glasgow. My father worked in the army when my mother was pregnant with me. And he was the most bravest man I knew, but he on the inside he was terrified of dying. Of leaving my mother alone. As Franklin P. Jones said, "Bravery is being the only one who knows you're afraid". And God he did a good job of hiding his fear. But it all went to pot when my mother went into labour. My father was on the battlefield when he heard the news and ran straight into enemy fire. My mother gave birth without any knowledge of my father's death and when she heard she went and left me with my grandmother. Four day later her body was found in the nearby river.
I soon resurfaced to reality to see her staring at me with worry woven into her eyes.
"Ah, sorry for the lateness", I said looking at my watch, "Okay, very late. I got very lost, just moved to London".
"Oh, it's okay. Come in", she answered beckoning me into a grey box room. She sent shivers down my spine just with her voice, so lilted but strong. Quickly, I followed her in. Marsaili Saxon was going to be my hardest client to advise.

MPOV

Well, I suppose it's not completely evil that he's late. It's only a few minutes, wasn't like we were going to do anything anywhere. Just smile and take in what he says. I sit down opposite him and he starts to flick through his clipboard full of raggedy papers.

"So, you're a journalist?" I say, trying to fill the awkward silence.

"Yes", he answers.

"Do you... like it?"

"It's okay".

"Look, are you going give me some advice or something, because I have other things to do if you don't want to", I ask, getting rather impatient.

"I don't really see why you need advice", he replies, his head deep in a newspaper article.

"What?" I say, grabbing the paper from his hands. "Hang on is this mine?".

"Yes, your supervisor sent it over. A first draft of your article you're writing. To be totally honest with you, I don't see a problem with it. You're a brilliant writer".

"Well... thanks. Nobody's ever said that about me", I whisper, rather flattered. "Um, so if you have no advice for me, what do you fancy doing?"

"I thought you said you had 'other things to do'", he proclaimed.

"Christmas shopping can wait. Fancy getting a drink? I'm parched".

"Sure. Sounds great. I know a lovely little place not far from here".

Well, Missy, you've changed your tune. First he's a stuck-up posh-o and now he's taking you for coffee. What's next, dinner date? Meeting the parents? It's just a coffee. Just go in there and knock his socks off.

DPOV

Worrying, panicking. Totally and utterly terrified is what I'm feeling right now. What if she hates the coffee there? What if it's really cheap? I don't want to come across as a cheapskate, but then again, I don't really want to seem like a horrible toff that gives them a coffee and never calls back. Wait, what am I talking about? We're not in a relationship, we're not even friends. We're just two writers that want to share some inspiration. So, who cares if I never see her again, who cares what she thinks, she doesn't matter. But, deep down, I kinda wish we could be friends. Maybe we can. You never know...

We head down the corridors, rather silent, and head out the door. Good riddance too, I've only been here five minutes and I can already see the cabinets are caked in dust. I hate dust. I hate anything dust-like in that matter. My grandmother always said I had OCD. When she brought me my eleven o'clock shortbread, I used to line them up and when I had a hot chocolate, the marshmallows had to be symmetrical. Maybe she was right. The bitter Autumn air bites my face and the dim lights of London shine down on us. Wait, she's looking a me. Those majestic eyes as blue as the bluest sapphires glistening at the bottom of the clearest ocean, dancing among the sand. She's just... beautiful.

"Oh, sorry, in my own world. The café's just over here", I say gesturing over to a little cottage-like coffee shop. It's at least four-floors high, with the café on the bottom and three lively flats above. Tinted teal windows are peppered across the beige brick wall and have terracotta red window boxes underneath. Multicoloured flowers bob their heads in rhythm with the soft jazz music drifting from the doors of our destination. A striped canopy shades the chattering people underneath, sipping from china mugs filled with steaming hot coffee. Well, here we go, time to take on the great Marsaili Saxon again.